Back within the depths of the closet, the dog’s low growls were forever stifled; it now lay in a bloody heap, its neck broken and its head hanging loosely over blood-stained rag dolls silent, unmoving, its unseeing eyes gazing out into the horror it last beheld.
Forever gazing.
Chapter Thirteen
Jack Sayer brought Sam Loomis all the way into Haddonfield, right up to the parking lot of the police station.
Throughout wilderness and farmland and miles of empty highway, the old vagabond reverend grew all the more curious of what was behind the doctor’s desperation. It was the face of the Apocalypse, yes, that was what Loomis was searching for, and Sayer had paused many times from his sing-along anthems of old time religion to toss out a few questions.
There was much to talk about, or much not to, out on the endless open road.
The doctor’s answers were generally evasive, despite the near-empty corn whiskey bottle which remained in his hand. A sign of a good pilgrim was being a good drinker. Loomis was a good pilgrim.
Sayer had plucked a new bottle from behind his seat after having discarded the other he’d been working on, and Loomis often wondered if he would make it to Haddonfield in one piece after all.
Still, Loomis was grateful for the ride. His manners clearly revealed it. He had no intention of drinking as much as he did, but his mind remained clear and focused, and his desperation was even more heightened to reach the town in time. His mannerisms revealed that, too.
By the time they arrived in Haddonfield, Sayer had already made up his mind about a few things. He was searching for the same demon, the face of the Apocalypse, just as fervently as Loomis was, and he could tell it was the doctor’s destiny to find it.
He could see it in his eyes.
Sayer turned his pickup from the main road and pulled into the police station parking lot, swerving into rocky asphalt and u-turning to face the driveway exit.
Loomis got out, turned to face him, placed the whiskey bottle upon the seat. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness,” he said. “Good luck with yourself, my friend.”
“Send the unrighteous devil-spawn to hell,” the reverend told him.
“If only I could accomplish that,” Loomis replied, and shut the door.
Sayer looked up and into his rearview mirror, watched as the doctor hurried away past a couple of parked sheriff’s vehicles and towards the station.
“Godspeed, pilgrim,” he said to the reflection. Then he gazed about, studying his surroundings.
A library shared the police station’s parking lot beyond rows of hibiscus bushes. Down the street and in the direction he’d come from was a series of houses and a small storage building. Up the street were more houses. Directly across from him was a homey little Presbyterian church, its steeple piercing the darkening sky like a lance.
Sayer took another swig of whiskey, capped it, set it down at his side. He pulled his pickup onto the street and crossed over onto the vacant side lot of the church. He maneuvered the vehicle around to the church building’s rear, his tires kicking up pebbles and dust. He looked around for signs of life; no one was around.
Praise the Lord
, he mouthed, and found a nice spot on the other side of a garbage dumpster with a perfectly hidden view of the police station’s front door. He parked, switched off his engine.
And he waited.
Perhaps it would be a long wait, but to face the Apocalypse, challenge it, defeat it, the wait would be worth it. Loomis would lead him to it.
And besides, there was plenty of whiskey to tide him over until then.
Chapter Fourteen
The Haddonfield Sheriff’s Department wasn’t as large as it appeared to be on the outside. It was housed in a one-story beige building with a medium sized parking lot accented with dozens of rows of junipers and a flower bed shared in part by the Haddonfield Public Library next door.
There was no such thing as sophistication when it came to a small town like Haddonfield, and small towns have small police forces. Of course, if anything unusual occurred, other departments would be notified, firstly the state police. But nothing unusual ever happened. For the most part.
The inside of the building was as bland as the outside, displaying such average sights as a copy machine (which was out of order for the time being, the employees having to go to the library next door for copies), bulletin boards, a gun rack situated near the back wall, a water cooler expecting a refill, desks and phones and a dart board near the back between the time clock and the single restroom. To complete the atmosphere, there was a threesome of deputies behind the desks, one of which was conversing with his wife over the telephone---something about a hamster and a liquid cleanser and how a girl named Marsha should be spanked.
At the front desk, the deputy was occupying his own time by reading his favorite section from
Reader’s Digest
, chuckling at the humorous anecdotes.
Suddenly, his attentions were distracted by a man who stormed into the building through the front glass double doors. The fellow appeared to be quite flustered, serious determined, and immediately the deputy knew that this was definitely going to be
one of those nights
. The balding man, wearing a dark overcoat and a dusty outfit beneath, marched directly up to his desk.
“I need to see Sheriff Bracket,” Doctor Loomis demanded.
The deputy set the open magazine face down on the green blotter before him, leaned back casually in his seat, and gave a hearty laugh.
Of course, this guy couldn’t be serious
.
He told the man, “Then you need to travel ‘bout three thousand miles south’a here.”
Loomis was suddenly confused. “What?”
“Brackett retired in ‘81,” the deputy informed him. “Up and moves to St. Petersburg. We get a postcard every Christmas.”
“
Well, who the hell
is
the new sheriff?”
“I am,” spoke another voice. “Ben Meeker.”
The doctor’s gaze shot beyond the deputy and saw a husky, solid two-hundred-pound sheriff standing to the man’s left. He had inquisitive yet hardened brown eyes and a brown crew cut, and by the look of his heightened stature he appeared to be over six feet tall. If people were cartoon animals, this man would have been a grizzly bear.
The doctor wasted no time. “Sheriff Meeker, My name’s…..”
“Loomis,” Meeker finished for him. His voice was deep and commanding. “Folks around here aren’t likely to forget
your
face. At least, not cops. What the hell brings you back here after ten years?”
He sounded resentful, but there was something within his tone that the doctor detected as weariness. “Michael Myers,” he told him. “He’s escaped Ridgemont. He’s here in Haddonfield.”
“That’s impossible,” Meeker said. “He’s supposed to be an invalid.”
But there was this seriousness in his eyes. “He’s
here
, Sheriff.”
Meeker was the kind of sheriff who was known for possessing a very deep sense of humor.
Deep
, meaning that in order to be able to find it, you would have to dig
deep
into his personality. He took his job seriously, and even when the situation seemed too absurd to be true, he faithfully investigated; or he would send some deputy to do it for him, and the deputy would curse to himself for finding a dead gopher in the middle of the road instead of a dead baby, or an old man who insisted he saw The Buddah staring at him from outside his bedroom window, like two weeks ago.
“Why would he be here?” he questioned.
Loomis told him sternly, “The car crash that killed Laurie Strode and her husband left an orphan in Haddonfield.”
The Sheriff was plainly surprised. “
Jamie Lloyd?”
“Yes. Wherever that child is, she’s in
danger
.”
Meeker was still inquisitive, his interests up. “Myers’ been locked up since before she was born. He’s never laid eyes on her.”
“Seven bodies, Sheriff,” Loomis declared. “That’s what I’ve seen between here and
Ridgemont…..a filling station in flames. Michael Myers is here in this town
right now! He’s come to kill that child and whoever else stands in his way!”
Meeker’s lips drew thin. His eyes were hardened and pensive. He was contemplating.
Then, he turned to the deputy with the
Reader’s Digest
. “Call the State troopers and check this story.” He turned to Loomis, “All right, let’s assume for a minute that what you say is true ”
“It
is
true, Sheriff!” he insisted as the deputy obeyed and began to dial.
The sheriff continued, “Fine. If it’s true, then I want to know what the hell we can do to avoid a repeat often years ago.”
“We have to find the little girl,” Loomis instructed. “Get her someplace safe. Call the local television. Tell them to get everyone off the streets and behind locked doors.”
The deputy turned from the phone. “I can’t get long distance, Sheriff. Operator says the phone lines are down.”
This was cause enough for the sheriff to move. His tremendous build swerved around the convocation of desks until he came to the shotgun rack. He went immediately for a twelve gauge Ithaca pump, and pulled it down. He knew his profession well; everything was automatic, flowing like clockwork as he loaded shells and pocketed anything remaining. Then he turned to Doctor Loomis, striding back toward the front desk.
“Coming?”
“Not until I see your man make that call.”
The deputy began to dial at the sheriff’s command, and, satisfied, Loomis turned back to Meeker.
“All right,” the sheriff told him, “let’s go check on the girl.”
As they started for the front double doors, they could hear the first few sentences of the deputy as he spoke into the receiver: “Yeah, Sheriff’s office calling for Bill Miller Bill, Deputy Pierce We got an emergency situation here. We need everybody off the streets pronto…..”
Chapter Fifteen
Rachel swore to herself that she never had been as thoroughly excited about Halloween and trick-ortreating as Jamie was this night. Nearly every single time she would visit the doorstep of some cheerful neighbor who would smile and say something sweet and dropped a few pieces of candy into her plastic bag, she would politely but hurryingly blurt out a ‘thank you’ and be well on her way to the next house, half- running. To Rachel, Halloween was fun, not in a strict sense but in a sort of sense that this night wasn’t dull and ordinary. And, of course, she enjoyed the fact that Jamie was truly happy; overjoyed, even.
“Wait for me,” Rachel called out, refusing to run. “Jamie, wait....”
But the little girl was too involved with the splendor of it all; her little clown outfit, sparkling dimly under the street lights, more and more small packages of chocolate and lemon drops and bubble gum waiting to fill her bag. “This is
great
, Rachel!”
The next door revealed an overweight, t— shirted fellow who held a can of beer in one hand and a handful of candy in the other. Alcohol undoubtedly blending his thoughts into a jelly of drowsiness, he nearly plopped the half-empty can into her sack before catching his actions and withdrawing, chuckling to himself. Jamie joined in the laughter and frolicked merrily away.
“Cute kid,” the man remarked to no one, and he closed the screen door.
The next house; this time it was a grey haired elderly woman who greeted her, an orange robe covering a pink nightgown. She appeared to be delighted before the little girl, and perhaps this was the reason her handful of candy was the most generous thus far.