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minx067 · 2 years

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Chapter 8 of GOH. All chapters currently released and up to date on my AO3! 🥰

Thank you again for your continued love and support and I hope you enjoy the chapter and all others to come! If you didn't catch it before, I painted a portrait of our lovely Michael without that pesky mask to hide his sweet face. Go check that out if you haven't already, it's the 📌 post at the top.

Michael's headed for the one place that calls to him, but not before he decicdes to make a quick stop along the way for something that we all know he loves to use on his victims and some unfortunate soul will pay for such a visit.

Taglist: @megafrost4 @dead-bxtch @sugarstarxoxo @ireallyhateithere2 @necas7325 @michaels-orange-mask @vapurrrrwave @myers-meadow @goosecadet @liv-victoriano @mz-bats @myersobsessed @chaotic-am @utena-akashiya @macabrecakes @eldaryan Ask to be added to the taglist 💜

Universe/Fandom: Halloween 1978 (Non-RZ) Rating: Mature/Adult. Minors keep your distance. Chapters: 8/? Chapter Triggers/Warnings: Strong language, Strong depictions of violence/gore, angst, knifeplay, blood-play/consumption, masochism/sadism, marking, possessive behaviour. Overall themes: Tension, Drama, Slow burn, Abuse, Strong Language, Past trauma, Manipulation, Strong depictions of Violence/Gore, Phsycological/ Physical trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Mental Illness, Murder, Romance, Angst, Loss, Death, Comfort, Mild humour, Romance, Friendship, Fluff, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, mild Non-con themes, Knifeplay, Stalking, Marking, Obsessive/Posessive behaviour, Choking, Explicit Sexual content. Reader details: Female, first-person perspective. Characters: Female reader, Michael Myers (Non-RZ), Samuel Loomis, Laurie Strode, Jed Perkins (Non-canon OC), Jamie Harris (Non-canon OC), Parker Reed (Non-canon OC), Josh Hewit (Non-canon OC), Erin White (Non-canon OC)

Ghost of Haddonfield: Chapter eight

Night has fallen. The streets are quiet and empty, lit by the subtle white-orange glow of street lamps steadily growing brighter the darker the velvety black sky turns, dusted with bright glimmering white stars. Although, it's just a typical night for Michael Myers. There's one thing on his mind and he's headed straight for it, one single place, and he's known its comfort his entire life even from the solidarity of a small yet clean white cell. To him, it's home. To everyone else, it's just a rundown and abandoned old house now that once held a lively and bustling young family, cut short by the twisted mind of a sick young boy. It's the place where he ended his sister's life, the place he would forever become known as Haddonfield's most infamous psychopath.

Legends would say the heart of such beings died in their chest cavities long ago, that they putrefied and made a heavy slime about their lungs as thick as underworld tar. That's how they became killers and perhaps why. Some say their emptiness is their madness, that they take life over and over as if they may possess the hearts and souls, yet never so, and to be healed someone pure has to love each of them, to reform their heart as if it was the finest of clay, then set it to beating with pure nature's essence. So until they find such a being to forgive all that they have done and all that they might do, to break the universal scales and set them free to begin anew, the killing goes on and on and on. True evil has no mortality though, no weakness. It has no feeling, no emotion, no limit and no shame. Nobody knows what fuels it though, just as Loomis could not understand nor explain what sick pleasure Michael derived from such savage and uncontrolled bloodlust.

Samuel Loomis. He remembers that name and face so vividly. How could he forget? He spent years assessing and observing him, listening with deaf ears and a gaze as dead and emotionless as one could remain in the presence of an obsessed old man who could not fathom the inner workings of Michael's mind. Nobody can. Nobody ever will and it will always remain so because he likes it that way. When the time comes, the crazed doctor will meet his end at the hands of his sole obsession; on his knees with a stomach full of blood, but not before he makes Loomis his human pin-cushion first.

Over the dry fall leaves each of his heavy boots crackles upon, and then to the sound of crinkling grass as he stalks and weaves through the back of shaded properties, his steps equatable to someone who has not yet learnt to walk quietly or much rather has no care for it, instead relying on the verges to muffle the sound. Each footfall is evenly spaced from the last with the most perfect rhythm one after the other. Michael prefers to stick to grassy pathways where the shadows of the night may easily conceal his movements, an even wiser decision now seeing that police would be on high alert. He has no intention of returning to the wards anytime soon. His fingers coil and uncoil at his sides just from the thought of preparing for yet another killing, all the brutal ways he could discover to slaughter another living and breathing being just to feel the life drain from their body.

Michael paces onward but stops abruptly in the shaded back garden of a random house. Its back porch lights are on, dimly illuminating the back door entrance. The muffled sound of a TV playing from within can be heard even from where he stands, and it's the perfect night for some bloodshed. He stands in the darkness as a cool breeze rustles the trees and bushes around him, plucking frail leaves from their branches and whisking them through the air, so very alive and moving compared to his otherwise completely unmoving frame. After a moment of simply observing he begins to slowly approach the door, his footsteps lighter and more precise than moments ago, before silently peering into the window. His eyes search through the murky darkness, only faintly illuminated by the glow of the television from the room opposite and establishing quickly what seems to be the kitchen.

He steps away from the window to glance around stiffly as though evaluating a way inside. He reaches for the door handle in the hopes that perhaps the owner hadn't been bright enough to lock it, but upon turning it comes to find it locked. Although prying the window or door open with brute force would be a simple task for someone with his strength, it was far from quiet. Just as he turns to find another route in, something catches his eye. On the ground beside the porch steps is a small spindly, dried shrub with a red brick nestled snugly within it, yet it's placed at a strange angle and slightly raised. Upon bending down, he promptly pushes the brick aside, only to discover a silver key beneath it, which he removes before moving the brick back into place with the key, slipping it into the keyhole and twisting it. With a brisk click, the door unlocks and Michael pushes it open, enters and silently shuts it behind him. Glancing around, his eyes search the small kitchen.

Despite the absence of food, the lingering aroma of a previously cooked roast dinner drifts into the orifices of his pale mask, filling his nostrils with the delectable scent and urging him to inhale deeply, but food isn't what he's come for.

Throughout the dimly-lit kitchen, Michael paces with slow, light steps, opening and rummaging through various drawers and cabinets as he goes. Then he stops, casting his eyes to the nearby knife block on the counter to his right. The sound of the television in the lounge is loud enough to keep whoever is watching it preoccupied if they weren't otherwise somehow asleep, leaving Michael free to scour for whatever he was in search of.

His fingertips land on the first knife out of a total of six, unsheathing it from the holder to reveal a rather disappointingly short and unremarkable blade that was clearly well used before slipping it back into the cork. Taking hold of the fifth knife, he slides it from the block, as he would expect that each would be larger to a previous one. His fingers tighten around the solid black handle and proceed to rotate it in his grasp as though carefully inspecting it. It's the ideal shape and length that would prove utterly lethal without being too bulky or large. Its silver blade shimmers brilliantly, virtually untouched yet fully prepared to rip through flesh and spill rich red pools of blood-a most magnificent weapon to use to his heart's sick and twisted content. Of course Michael could be far more creative with his weapon of choice, but just as his heart and mind held an inseparable connection to his home, as did the very simple yet effective kitchen knife.

One final glance over the glimmering blade is all Michael needs before padding silently into the lounge. A few moments ago, it might have been just a little bit of noisy comedy from the television, but is now quickly replaced by the bloodcurdling, terrified screams of an old woman as Michael hacks and slashes at her without hesitation. The knife cuts cleanly through her frail arms braced so hopelessly in front of her as he stabs in swift repetitive motions over and over and over again.

Despite not being entirely calculated, each stab is controlled enough not to be fatal. It's brutal, feral even. With every stab sends the crying old woman stumbling further back, clumsily throwing items such as a vase or even the nearby telephone which Michael swats to the side aggressively before lurching at her and viciously throwing her through the antique coffee table perched beside the armchair. Michael stands idly for a moment simply savouring the sounds of yet another victim, watching her writhe and wail helplessly on the floor. His fingers remain tight around the knife handle and his masked gaze stern on her wounds, how her arms are littered with deep, bleeding gashes that had already dribbled throughout the lounge and soiled the soft woven ivory rugs, soaking through to polished pine floorboards.

The floorboards squeak and bend as he paces forward with slow, heavy steps. In one fluid motion Michael's knife swiftly pierces through the woman's outstretched hand; the sheen of crimson coated metal glints in the light before it is ripped from her and elicits a horrifying scream from her lungs. He plunges the knife through her palm a second time, a third, a fourth before snatching her wrist and driving the knife through her arm. There's blood splattered all over the wall, staining the armchair, the rugs, pooling on the floor and reflecting his pale white mask.

There is no end to the screaming, and neither will it come until Michael is satisfied. The events in the institution were tame. It was simply child's play, a demonstration of what he had planned. This was just the beginning of the havoc he would wreak, and he'll gladly contribute to watching each and every one of these people drop like flies until there's noone left.

Michael's coming home and Haddonfield is simply his playground for a bloody massacre.

#michael x reader #michael myers dbd #michael audrey myers #michael #og michael myers #michael myers #michael my beloved #daddy myers #micheal myers x reader #myers #reader pov #horror slashers #horror fiction #samuel loomis #halloween 1978 #halloween 2021 #halloween #Ghost of Haddonfield

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minx067 · 2 years

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Hi guys! It's me again. I know Ive been away for a long goddamn time. I'm sorry, I got really burnt out on my writing and painting and took a bunch of time away from social media to focus on myself and my relationship. But I've got Chapter 7 and 8 of GOH already released on my AO3 so you can go and read all my current chapters to date in order. But I might as well post them both here as well for those who dont have an AO3 account 😊

Thank you again for your continued love, patience and support and I hope you enjoy the chapter and all others to come! If you didn't catch it before, I painted a portrait of our lovely Michael without that pesky mask to hide his sweet face. Go check that out if you haven't already, it's the 📌 post near the top somewhere.

Michael has left his marks and given you warnings and yet you still refuse to heed his wordless advice. Pick yourself up, understand the situation and follow the rules. It's that simple...Right?

Universe/Fandom: Halloween 1978 (Non-RZ) Rating: Mature/Adult. Minors keep your distance. Chapters: 7/? Chapter Triggers/Warnings: Strong language, Strong depictions of violence/gore, angst, knifeplay, blood-play/consumption, masochism/sadism, marking, possessive behaviour. Overall themes: Tension, Drama, Slow burn, Abuse, Strong Language, Past trauma, Manipulation, Strong depictions of Violence/Gore, Phsycological/ Physical trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Mental Illness, Murder, Romance, Angst, Loss, Death, Comfort, Mild humour, Romance, Friendship, Fluff, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, mild Non-con themes, Knifeplay, Stalking, Marking, Obsessive/Posessive behaviour, Choking, Explicit Sexual content. Reader details: Female, first-person perspective. Characters: Female reader, Michael Myers (Non-RZ), Samuel Loomis, Laurie Strode, Jed Perkins (Non-canon OC), Jamie Harris (Non-canon OC), Parker Reed (Non-canon OC), Josh Hewit (Non-canon OC), Erin White (Non-canon OC)

Ghost of Haddonfield: Chapter seven

Much of the afternoon and start to the evening had been spent tending to the fresh wound Michael had so graciously given you, though this was just the beginning and it absolutely would not be the last scar he incurred. Undoubtedly, it too would serve as yet another mark of his newly established control. When you'd asked life to offer you something different for a change, this is not what you meant. Now, you're just a captive of your own home.

He'd followed you into the bathroom and simply stood in the doorway, silently watching your shaken form fumble around clumsily in the medicine cabinet for a first aid kit, something you always kept handy for situations more or less like these. It made you uneasy how motionless he remained as he observed you tending to yourself, occasionally hissing a quiet string of curses when the searing bite of alcohol kissed every grotesque tooth incision and spilled little red rivers of crimson infused fluids down your trembling arm and into the sink to stain it in splotches of watery blood before being washed away. When you glance back up from tearing off a fresh strip of bandage, he's gone.

It'd become common practice tending to patients with injuries be it from harming themselves or even being attacked by another patient, though not once had you needed to treat yourself, especially for something as brutal and obscene as a human bite.

Once you finish treating your wound and packing away the mess of medical supplies scattered along the edge of the bathtub and in the sink, you leave the bathroom and slowly creep back to the kitchen but stiffen as your eyes meet Michael's broad back, stopping for a moment before continuing to wordlessly seat yourself at the round wooden dining table behind him and rest your hands within your lap. Standing at the kitchen counter, a scrunched up wad of blood-soaked paper towels lies in his hand whilst he stares out of the window into the darkening streets, watching as mid-evening begins to swallow up the warm colours of the day and replace everything in inky cold shadows illuminated by the friendly glow of carved pumpkins and street lamps.

You aren't certain whether he noticed you entering, seeing as though he didn't even so much as acknowledge your presence when you came in. Although, part of you doubts that he’s even paying attention to what's outside, moreso simply staring at his own faint reflection. Perhaps he knows that you're no longer likely to be a threat and unlikely to act out under his brooding sense of authority. In spite of Michael's total lack of words during the second confrontation, his actions from the very start were extremely intentional. He'd made it abundantly clear from the very first moment he found you at his mercy how the situation was going to be. As far as he was concerned, it was an easy concept-'Don't do anything against my wishes and you won't get hurt.'

Your tired eyes flick back and forth from your lap to the back of his head, unsure of what to say if anything. For someone who has so many questions and so much to say, you find yourself unable to come to terms with speaking. There's a sense of being trapped within one of your nightmares, but inside you know this is as real as it is obscure and yet you still fail to find one singular person to pin the blame on for this mess. Doctor Loomis offered you the job knowing full well that none of the nurses, yourself included, knew entirely who exactly it was they were caring for and what consequences it would reap, only that the pay was substantial. When you're buried six feet under the soil, money means nothing though. It's worthless if you're buried there because someone supposedly trustworthy knowingly misled you into thinking you were secure under the promise of safety and healthy pay just to meet staffing targets. Who becomes the real monster then? The doctors who swept their failings under the carpet to save face, the management who exploit their employees knowing any gullible person would jump at the opportunity of a big payday, or the patient who took advantage of obvious weaknesses for the chance of freedom?

Michael finally turns his head towards you, seemingly slipping out of his near trance-like state, unmoving and almost unbreathing. He expects you to be watching him with wide, apprehensive eyes when he faces you but only finds that your gaze is fixed to the table with an expression that balances on a bizarrely fine line between resentment and indifference, though he suspects that you're still fully aware of him watching you. From behind the mask that obscures any sign of his vaguely piqued interest, he silently observes you from the other side of the kitchen before approaching you at the table with slow footfalls, leaving the screwed up pile of towels on the counter.

You blink after a moment, gritting your teeth together as the words finally find you again after searching for what felt like forever. "I didn't fully understand at first,-I still don't, but...You're here because you think it's the last place the authorities would think to search. Well, you're wrong , you made one massive error," you pause and cast a glare in Michael's direction, noticing how his hands slowly curl into fists and each knuckle pales. If there's one thing he can't stand it's being told that he was wrong. "There are security cameras all throughout Smith's Grove. They would've caught everything. You're not safe and they'll put you away again ." The last few words roll off your tongue bitterly.

The tension suddenly snaps like a rubber band at its limit in Michael's head, grunting and then slamming an enraged first down against the table that shakes the entire unit with the force, finding your reaction vaguely comparable to the deafening shot of a gun directly beside your head. You flinch from the abrupt outburst only to offer him a spiteful scowl when shoving yourself to your feet fiercely and listening as the chair screeches out from beneath you and nearly topples backwards. Michael huffs deeply as his breathing becomes slightly strained; his way of showing his disapproval. It's short-lived, however, as he slowly paces around the edge of the table to stand in front of you and take your chin between his fingers, roughly lifting your head up to look at him. The light tilt of his head leaves you with the distinct impression that he's smirking even as you pierce through the mask's dark eyeholes.

Michael knows something that you don't, or at least haven't yet realised. He stares at you for a long moment simply eyeing you trying to burn holes through him with your searing glare, and then...It hits you, and when it does, it's not hard for him to pinpoint the exact moment. Something wicked within him stirs when watching that misplaced confidence gradually melt from your complexion, gripping your chin tighter as he hungers to watch that horrible, gut-punch realisation leak into and pool within your ever hopeless gaze, like striking the last match from the box only to have it swiftly extinguished by some unseen and foreboding entity knowing full well that it was your only way to see in the long, dark path ahead.

That camera footage would only have played up to a certain point, assuming it was saved and backed up on computers. Michael cut the power to the entire facility right before he'd found you-Undoubtedly a calculated decision. He knew exactly what he was doing. How long had he been planning this for?

You wrench your chin from his grip and utter the phrase 'bastard' under your breath still loud enough for Michael to hear, who subsequently lets out a low snort of twisted amusement. Swivelling on your heel you glare at him once more before going to storm out of the kitchen only for Michael to catch your wrist in his monstrous grasp again, something you've evidently grown tired of when whipping your head back around to glare at him. "Stop. Touching. Me," You snarl venomously, jerking your hand back in an attempt to free yourself from him, but the retaliation only fuels Michael to squeeze the frail joints tighter and tighter, lusting over the pained whimpers that tumble from your lips time and time again. He doesn't stop squeezing, however, not until he hears that one delicate, sweet phrase that fuels that ever sadistic streak. Michael leans forward, tilting his head just enough to let you know he was listening–waiting.

"F-fuck! Stop!" You cry out as the squeezing becomes overwhelming. No response. He isn't letting go. "Please!"

As quickly as his grasp on you had appeared, disappeared. Releasing you, he shoves you away and watches how you stumble back into the chair, almost on the verge of tears. Your fingers knead at the cruel ring of bruising that is already forming and for what feels like the hundredth time today, Michael swiftly reminded you that disrespect won’t be tolerated. Still rubbing at your tender wrist, you apprehensively turn to him again. "You know you can't keep me a prisoner in my own home. People will sense something is off, especially when the police are already beginning to question my involvement, no thanks to Jed."

Michael watches you as silent as ever, yet you know he's listening. He's not always a completely unreasonable man, no. He is completely capable of listening before making decisions, despite choosing not to be vocal about it. He peers down at the table momentarily as though considering your words before one hand disappears into a hip pocket and reemerges with a small silver key; the one to the door, dropping it onto the table with a light metallic clink before taking a couple of paces to the side to allow you passage to the front door. Your eyes flit to it and then back to him. For someone so silent, you were seeming to understand him frighteningly well now and it wouldn't benefit you to play games with him. Not with Michael. The wolf whom shrouds its twisted intentions behind a mask is offering the freedom the rabbit seeks, though that mask could never truly conceal the deceitful Cheshire grin lurking beneath it. You aren't shackled by your home, nor are you bound by those cold metal chains that chewed into your wrists just nights ago. You can walk out that door and go running and screaming to the police that this utter psychopath broke into your home, abused you, had his way with you. But you won't, you can't. Michael might have freed you from one nightmare, but in doing so he's pulled you straight into another, one he created, one he controls and one you’re bound to. Wherever you go, he’ll go, he will see, he will hear and he will always know.

"I understand...I think."

Michael remains motionless, simply staring at you with his hands hanging loosely by his sides before swiping his still-bleeding palm across the table and snatching up the key which leaves a dark streak of red across the light coloured wood and then moving over to the door where he promptly proceeds to unlock it then turns around and effortlessly tosses the key onto the kitchen counter. You’re free to go, but you’re not free . With one final lingering glance from him, he yanks the door open and leaves, allowing it to slam shut loudly.

Practically throwing yourself from the chair you catch yourself after stumbling shakily to the kitchen window to see just where he was headed, but Michael is already gone without a trace and you dare not follow him. A hushed ‘Where the hell?’ passes your lips as you tilt your head from side to side of the window. It’s as though as soon as he’d stepped out of the door he’d simply vanished into thin air. You slap both hands down onto the counter, frustrated and frankly terrified of what’s yet to come. This is all his fault, that god damned Doctor Samuel fucking Loomis, scumbag liar that he is. None of this would have happened if he’d have just been truthful from the beginning. Telling people that Michael was simply “Dangerous” and a “Madman” was an incredible understatement.

Stomping over to the phone, you rip it from its place on the wall and furiously dial the number for Smith’s Grove head management department, since he never usually answers his own phone. It rings for a moment before a soft female voice answers.

"Smith's Grove management PA speaking, how can I-"

"Get me Loomis, now," you snarl into the speaker, cutting her off.

"I'm sorry ma'am but Doctor Samuel Loomis isn't available at the moment. Could I ask who's calling?" She asks in her sweetest, most friendly voice, although it was clear your aggression had taken her by surprise somewhat.

"Where the hell is he?" You bite.

"I'm afraid he hasn't been in for quite some time as he's away on supposed business. He should be back within a couple of days I suspect. Can I perhaps take a message?"

You fall silent briefly whilst mulling over an appropriate response that might grab his attention and make it obvious exactly who you were talking about. "Tell him death has come back to this little town, and the blood being spilt now is just the beginning," you respond and abruptly hang up before the assistant gets the chance to even respond. Loomis had every opportunity to be upfront with you and yet, he still chose silence over honesty. But why? What reason could he have had to not only keep such a man alive but to willingly hide how dangerous he truly is? There's more to this, there must be. Whatever it is, you intend to find out.

Suddenly roused from your idle state by a sharp twinge of pain, a sharp hiss leaves your mouth, shoulder throbbing painfully in slow but steady waves. Grasping your shirt and pulling it down over the bandaged and treated wound, you grimace when your eyes catch sight of the bright red, swollen flesh. The only thing you can do is hope you've treated it in time to eliminate any chance of infection. Michael surely wouldn’t trust you enough without the risk of you opening your mouth to someone, and silencing you for good would be the only punishment suitable enough for breaking his so-called trust. A long sigh passes your lips as you tiredly rub at your eyes, still worn out from the trauma your body has dealt with over the past few days. Finally having time away from the asylum would've proven to be great if it weren't for the fact that a murderous psychopath was keeping a steady eye on your every movement.

Slinking back to the wooden chair, you idly flop into it and prop both elbows on the table, burying your face in your hands and squeezing your eyes shut tightly. If you were to open your eyes again, maybe you would find that this whole nightmare was exactly that. Just a nightmare. Yet when you open your eyes, you're still greeted with the same scene: an ever-darkening sky through the kitchen window, the blood streaked table, the wad of bloody towels. They've not moved an inch. In one fluid motion, your hand lands on the nearest item it can latch onto; that of a small square drink glass, before hurling it into the nearest wall with all your might and listening as it shatters. A scattering of small, clear shards sprays in every direction, some even remaining lodged into the walls, while the rest lay strewn across the floor.

They say once you have mastered being alone, you are ready for the company of others, that doesn't make it easy though. When everyone's life journey separated from your own, when the only heart beating in this house belonged to you, it wasn't something most could take. There are days when the brain becomes a cold fire, perhaps that's just what others call panic, but when you are alone, who are you going to call? Maybe in time, after many unpleasant days, you'll eventually learn to become okay. That somehow you'll find joy again, or maybe it'll find you. But that's just a dream though now isn't it? A very distant and ever-fading dream, slowly fizzling out with every passing day. Of course, you could tell yourself you're not truly on your own when there's always going to be a set of eyes on you, but there's no soul. There's thought, but no emotion, no reason.

You can talk to ghosts and they may very well make their precense known, but this one will never talk back.

#michael x reader #michael myers dbd #og michael myers #michael audrey myers #michael myers #halloween 1978 #halloween 2021 #halloween #daddy myers #micheal myers x reader #myers #Ghost of Haddonfield #horror slashers #horror fiction #fanfic #samuel loomis

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