"I thought we were scheduled to see the house tomorrow?"
"Relax, hun," Mr. Farley assured his wife. "We are in the area anyway so why not take our chances now? Besides, we'll beat those suckers who are itching to outbid us on the house. I can feel it in my bones just like granny used to. "
"Yeah," Mrs. Farley muttered as she ran her hand through her dark weave, a sign Charles Farley knew meant that his wife was exasperated with him. When wasn't she? "When did I last hear that? When we bought that yacht back in Boston, only to see that it had been stolen from its previous owner or when you thought you were going to meet an antique dealer in Nigeria who claimed he had Wakandan dollars only to be duped by fakes. Like seriously? Who falls for that crap? Need I mention that one time in Vegas you gambled the loan shark's money away-"
Mr. Farley raised a hand as he cut his wife off .
"I get it. Just chill out, okay? I ain't pulling none of those stunts. We are only buying a house with a past. Besides, I didn't rise in the music industry without taking a gamble. As David Viscott said, there is no way we can grow without taking risk-"
"No, nuh uh!" She crossed her arms. "Don't you quote some old school philosopher that you don't know the first thing about. I can tell you only parrot the things that seem relev - Goddam! Is that the house?"
Charles glanced at the blue-green house, outlined in the setting sun, that was nestled upon Mission street.
"Good catch, Anita. It seems that you got some perceptions after all."
"What's that supposed to mean?" His wife frowned and pursed her lips as they pulled up in their purple BMW and parked in the driveway. As the couple exited the vehicle, they made their way to the door, eager to check out the place they planned to call their, but when they reached the front porch, they froze. The husband and wife duo exchanged bewildered glances as they saw the message in blood adorning the glistening dark doorway. Charles was the first to speak as they took in the words STAY AWAY in dried blood.
"What kind of sick joke is this? It seems like someone is trying to dissuade us from buying this house. Well, it ain't working!"
Anita, however, seemed to have taken the message to heart, lacking her husband's resolve.
"I really think we should scram, Charles. I have a bad feeling about this place."
Charles was not to be deterred. "No, that is what they want us to do. We won't give in. No, they will have to do bett- Oh! Who the hell are you?"
Startled by her husband's uttering, Anita glanced to see who he was addressing and nearly felt her heart skip a beat as she spotted a young woman, blonde hair tucked under her dark wide brim hat, seated on the front porch of the house. She had given no indication that she heard him, keeping her gaze aimed firmly at the ground, her hat covering her eyes.
"Yo miss, I am talking to you! Who are you? If you think you can scare me away from buying this house, you are dead wrong."
Finally, the unresponsive woman glanced up at them and Anita felt a chill like artic ice stab through her as those malevolent grey eyes trained on her. A malicious smirk formed upon the woman's face as she slowly rose from her seat and strode toward the couple, her dark jacket billowing in the rising gale. Taken back by her sudden movement, the prospective buyers took several involuntary steps back from the lawn. Anita managed to glance upward and her breath caught in her throat at what she saw hanging from the roof above the balcony.
The horrified woman grabbed her husband's arm and pointed upward.
"Charles, look at that! What's that supposed to be?"
The eager house hunter's eyes swept up the house to the see the figure of a woman nailed between the second story windows, blood streaking down the side of the wall like someone stroked it with dull paint. Upon closer inspection, the terrified couple recognized the dead woman as the realtor from the placards and the sign in front of the house.
I believe it is safe to assume that the blood on the door belongs to her, whatever her name was. Martina, Marilyn, or something, Anita thought.
Charles shook his head in disbelief and shock. "No way, please tell me this is a prank of sorts, a sick one at that, to turn away rival buyers."
Before she could open her mouth to point out that he should get it in his head that this was not a cruel stunt, but something sinister they stumbled into, Anita heard the click of a gun. That was when she spotted a shadowy figure, clad in all black like his female compatriot, materialize beside Charles, pointing a silver Colt 0.38 at his head. The house hunter's eyes only widened at seeing the weapon before the muzzle flashed and a bang reverberated through the quiet street, slicing through the silence like a killer's knife.
The upper half of her body covered in her husband's gore, Anita turned and fled toward the hedge of the property they had intended to purchase. Breathing heavily, she barely had time to register seeing her husband get murdered before her eyes as she focused on evading their black-clad assailants.
"This has to be a dream. None of this can be real, that's crazy. I will wake up any moment in a blanket on a warm beach in the Bahamas - Augh!"
As soon as the panic-stricken survivor made it to the other side of the house, she tripped over an object that was concealed in the dirt.
"Crud! My ankle hurts like hell. I sure hope it ain't broken or twisted."
As she steadily tried to unsuccessfully get back on her feet to find a safe area and call for help, she noticed that the object that resulted in the current pain in her left ankle was the placard that was supposed to hang in the front of the home, advertising that it was for sale. Only the sign looked like it was torn forcibly from the post, judging by the jagged tears, and the bloody X crossing the agent's face failed to make it look less ominous. Terrified, Anita tried to move away, only to bump into something. Hearing heavy breathing, she glanced up to see a tall man, over 6 feet, donning blue mechanic garb and a creepy white Halloween mask stare down at her. What made her freeze in place like a deer in the headlights was the bloody butcher he was wielding, dripping onto the dirt and grass.
"No...no...no."
The wounded victim tried to desperately crawl away from the masked man, but she felt her hair being yanked up roughly. Soon, she was staring at the sharp blade, the silver glinting in the waning sunlight while the red half was coated in vermillion, that was pointed at her throat. She now knew what fate had in store for her.
"Oh hell no!"
The doomed woman felt her head yanked back hard and soon felt the soft kiss of the steel blade on her throat. Pain erupted briefly, but soon the flash ended and darkness took over as a gift of mercy.
---
Blimey! So these buggers engaging in some ancient Celtic druid mumbo jumbo are to blame for the Halloween murders?
As he read on in the confines of the Loomis residence's bedroom, Billy Loomis started to put together the pieces of the mindset of Haddonfield's fabled boogeyman and what drove him to commit those gruesome murders. The further he perused the files his father left for him, the more unsettled he began to feel. Suddenly, the case seemed to take on whole new level of foreboding.
So you found out more than you should have that night, pops? Could there be a connection to your disappearance and these wackjobs?
Eager to find out, Billy adjusted his headphones, leaned back, and took a sip of his Monster Energy drink before flipping through the files on this mysterious cult.
"Man, these things really work wonders. No wonder most Yanks are hooked on them," Billy murmured as he glanced at the can. "When did I last eat again? How long was I here? Oh, no matter. It's time I get to the bottom of this Cult of Thorne business once and for all. Perhaps by the end of the day, I can find out what happened to Pops and find the secret to purging Haddonfield of its Boogeyman. Here goes."
The orange triangle attached to the matching line on a pitch black background greeted the psychology student's eyes once more as he perused the file on the tenebrous cult that was responsible for creating Haddonfield's monster to process what he read in addition to catching any other useful information he had failed to spot during his first read due to his astounded state at his discovery.
According to the intel his father had provided, this Cult of Thorn's origins could be traced back to the beginnings of the Gaelic celebration called Samhain, later to be known as Halloween, where the constellation of Thorn, whom the cult was named after, appeared. During this era, the Curse of Thorn was implemented by the druids who selected an individual and marked him with constellation's shape and set them on the task of annihilating their whole clan in order to prevent a cataclysmic apocalyptic event on Biblical scales from occurring.
Blimey! So they receive immunity from death and grievous injury? They are literally immortal! All by having that mark carved onto them!
As his eyes flitted past a second photo of Thorn, this time a constellation of stars glowing a bright neon blue, they landed on photos of four people. One was a young Michael Myers, recognizable with his expressionless features. Beside him was the anxious-looking blonde boy of 8 with the name Danny Strode written in on his photo. None of those pictures interested him as much as the ones of the two old men placed above and below the pictures of the two boys. The one on the bottom was recognizable as his father, Dr. Samuel Loomis, while the one on the top was an old man with sharp features and a whisper of a smirk that gave a portentous premonition about his sinister intentions. The heading above the forbidding man's picture identified him as the deceased administrator of Smith's Grove.
"Cripes! So that's Dr. Terence Wynn. You are the bloke who worked with my old man. Let's see what you have in connection with this cult and curse."
Perusing the rest of his father's file let the young Loomis know all he needed to about Dr. Wynn. Turned out the sinister quack was the reason the Boogeyman terrorized and massacred the citizens of Haddonfield in pursuit of his sister. Dr. Wynn headed the revived Cult of Thorn who chose Michael as their guinea pig to bear the mark and butcher his family. Once Michael completed his task, he was to be deposed of like an old unwanted car and the curse would pass onto Danny Strode, the kid in the picture. However, thanks to Tommy Doyle, this was averted and the Cult was supposedly massacred by Michael, who had discovered their true motives. Wynn's followers utilized a millennia old curse to clone Michael and have evil entities at their disposal to use for nefarious purposes, but ironically their lab rat put an end to that-well, supposedly.
"I am glad you and your twisted acolytes bit the dust, Wynn," Billy muttered as he took a sip of his drink, crushing the bottle once he had drained it. Tossing it aside, he lay back and sighed. "That was sick, what you tried to do, especially with using Jamie Lloyd as a host. Speaking of which, father notes that she is slain by the cult after giving birth, but who was that I seen at school the other day? Moreover, if the cult is allegedly annihilated, who were those weird people we almost ran into at Michael's home? How is my father connected to Wynn's lab mice?"
He flipped to the back of the honey-colored file to see his father's chart of all the cult members, which consisted of Wynn on top as the leader and branching out to the rest of the Smith's Grove staff as well as a sheriff, a bus depot lad, and Michael's babysitter Mrs. Blankenshemp. Not long after, Billy, having gained all the info he needed to take on Michael and his shadowy benefactors, put the files onto the mahogany dresser beside his father's bed and rose, stretching. The investigative young man was eager to confront his mysterious foes, but whereto start? That was the question he needed to resolve first.
So the Myers and the Strodes were sacrificial lambs for a long extinct hocus pocus religion? Gee, who would have thought this madness still occurs in the 21st century?
That was when a tacky noise cut through the silence. Startled, Billy glanced down at his pocket until he realized that was his new phone's ring tone. Curious, he picked it up to see who would call at this hour as rarely anyone called him on this new phone. Seeing his classmate's number, the relieved Loomis boy flipped out the phone and greeted him.
"Oi, Kev! What is it?"
"Yo! I'm at the Myers house, the place we broke and entered-"
Billy just groaned. "Yeah, I know what the Myers house is. My question is what the bloody hell are you doing over there?"
There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. "Bro, do you live under a rock? Turn on the news. I assume your pops' place has a T.V. set. Once you see what's going on, come down here. Maybe the girls will join us?"
Billy's heart sank as he picked up the remote and switched the television, nestled onto the wooden stand across from the bed, and flipped through the channels until he found the news channel. Sure enough, breaking news flashed upon the screen and an incident featuring the Myers House was airing.
"Yeah, maybe they will. I will be down in ten minutes tops. Things have taken a serious turn now."
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