Chapter Twenty-five
Haddonfield Park, or the Terry Grounds as it was sometimes called for a reason long forgotten by most, was the blackest part of town at night. This was due to the fact that someone had flung bricks at the two light posts situated at both ends, and since that incident a few days ago no one had time to fix them.
The darkness was interrupted by the brightness of the headlights of a pickup truck, and the air became filled with the roar of an engine and the multitudinous voices of townies.
Earl Ford’s pickup rounded the corner slowly making its way past the park, high power flashlights shining from the hands of the men at the back, scanning the surrounding area carefully. On the opposite side of the street, their beams came across driveways and trash cans, piles of deadened leaves and the front porches of various shaped houses, some baring the flicker of candles from behind closed drapes within the windows.
The men were armed, some with pistols and others with shot guns, ready for any encounter, grumbling to themselves about catching the son of a bitch who had returned to wreck devastation once again upon this town of theirs.
Suddenly, one of them, the one called Orrin, raised a pointing finger and called out,
“There he is!”
From the front seat, Earl snatched his Remington twelve gauge pump beside him and immediately bailed out of the truck.
The men hopped from the truck’s bed and joined him, Orrin continuing to point out the direction which he referred to. Earl slowly marched up toward that direction, pumping the shotgun to ready. Orrin came up beside him, leading him further, then stopped in his tracks and rested his finger in the direction of a series of heavy bushes beside a modest colonial house.
“I seen his face!” he half yelled. “Right there, Earl. Right in those bushes.”
The other men readied their rifles and shotguns and pistols, all nervous, all shaking, but all as damn well ready as they could ever be in such a desperate moment. Fingers were tense on triggers. There was a long pause of silence before the bushes began to rattle and rustle, then there was a flash of something pale white which darted across the steady beams of their flashlights and seemed to move toward them.
It was then when Earl shouted, “FIRE!”
The air turned thunderous with the intensity of the pandemonium of shotgun blasts as the men opened fire upon the entire range of the bushes. A deafening firestorm of buckshot grew into a violent crescendo which echoed throughout the expanse of the town, and various front doors in the surrounding area opened, curious and startled heads popping out to view the commotion.
Quickly, the bushes began to disintegrate under the constant blasting, and several languished seconds passed before the last gun finally emptied completely.
Smoke eddied above the ruined hedges. Leaves and branches were blasted virtually to dust. The entire row of what was once hedges stood naked and bare before the determined lynch mob. Nothing was left untouched; toothpicks and sawdust was what their flashlights now beheld, and as the group of men slowly advanced, their flashlights beheld blood.
Then the pulverized body of a man.
One man cried out in horror, “Shit, Earl, that’s Ted Hollister!”
Earl swung around to Orrin. “You told me you saw Myers!”
Orrin backed away, defensive, yelling. “You told us to fire, not me!”
Earl dropped his shotgun and hurled a fist at the man, smacking into his left jaw. Jolted backwards against the grass, Orrin rose to his feet and roadblocked Earl into the nearby dust. As both men began to wrestle, others tried despairingly to pull them apart.
Chapter Twenty-six
The darkness of the attic tended to be a bit haunting for Brady as he finished hammering another window shut. Then again, considering the unnerving circumstances, he had every right to feel scared. He remembered the stories about Michael Myers, and he remembered standing there as the ambulances and paramedics surrounded Laurie Strode’s house after the bodies had been found---he was only seven years old at the time, but tonight the images wore crystal clear in his mind.
Jamie’s uncle
.
It was difficult to believe. Yet the whole thing sounded vaguely familiar to him; he was almost certain he heard this about Jamie Lloyd before, but he figured he must not have paid any attention to it. It was like a dream, or, more precisely, like
deja vu
, this sudden news.
And Jamie’s uncle was here, somewhere, within this very town
.
God only knew how many people have been killed already, somewhere out within the depths of the blackout. He realized it could’ve been him out there, dead, later to be driven away on a stretcher with dozens of eyes gazing on after him. But he wasn’t out there now; he was in here. He was safe.
Then again, for some reason, he didn’t
feel
safe.
He felt vulnerable.
Yet he had no reason to be. He
was
truly safe here.
Everyone
was truly safe here. They had weapons, and there was Sheriff Meeker and a deputy there to protect them. And he would protect Rachel and Jamie. Oh, and yes, he would protect Kelly too. Mustn’t forget about Kelly.
That was another matter. As he moved on to the very last window (there were only three windows in the attic, each side by side towards the front of the house), he remembered a few of the momentous times he had shared with Rachel, and he remembered how each one of those times ended with a slight shove from the girl whenever Brady would try to go too far. Kelly wasn’t like that. In fact, with Kelly, he didn’t even have to make the first move; it was like he was a magnet to her, and she just came to him. Some people called her a slut at one time, with the suicidal boldness to even do it in front of her father, and the ordeal went on until it ended with rock salt up a boy’s ass from Meeker’s gun. So when it came to notions about
sluts
, well, let’s just say it was all hush hush.
Besides, Kelly was a babe, wasn’t she? And there were definitely a few horny guys out there who’d die just to see what Brady saw tonight.
But Rachel; well, that was a different story.
A final swing of the hammer landed painfully on Brady’s thumb. The surge of pain shot up through the throbbing bone, and he let out a sudden yelp.
“Jesus!”
He heard a sound from behind him. Something fell from somewhere on the attic’s far side. Startled, nearly forgetting his aching thumb, Brady reached for his flashlight, groping. He could only see a slight portion of what the moonlight allowed him to see, and the darkness of the room encompassed the space where the flashlight was supposed to be. As soon as he found it, it toppled over and rolled away from his grip. Finally, he retrieved it and flicked it on. He began to scan the room.
Silence.
“Who is it?” Brady called.
As far as he could see, the attic was vacant. There was nothing but clutter and stored memorabilia, old picture frames and dusty paintings, archaic sculptures, prescriptive metal objects and a boxfull of what seemed to be dartboards. His flashlight beam then centered on a moose-head rocking, slowing into a halt.
Cautiously, Brady advanced deeper into the room, occasionally glancing back at his shotgun resting propped up against the wall where he finished the windows. The blackness descended behind him and he continued, and his figure was chased by numerous shadows.
Still, he found nothing.
***
Rachel stared blankly out the room’s window. She gazed down upon the deserted streets across the way, the only illumination being that of the moonlight. Her eyes had become accustomed to the dark. Her thoughts were on fear, on Brady, on the night.
She realized she was growing to hate Halloween. Everything bad happened on Halloween, and she didn’t know why. Come to think of it, the same rang true for
all
holidays. She couldn’t understand it. She’d ponder upon it in depth later; for now, all she could do was continue to gaze blankly out this window, the possibility of certain doom for both herself and for her foster sister hanging over her head like a curse.
Yes, she was afraid. Deathly afraid. But she knew she mustn’t let Jamie know she was. Rachel was there to protect her foster sister. And the only way to protect your foster sister from the nightmare man was to not have any nightmares yourself.
Right?
Rachel managed to move. She turned slightly to Jamie, whose figure she could see on the bed. She was sitting there motionless, gazing down into the palms of her hands. Rachel then stood and crossed over to her, kneeling down beside her.
She spoke in a soft, comforting whisper. “I want you to lie down and try to go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep,” the little girl responded gazing up at her darkened outline. “The nightmare man will come. He’ll get me.”
Lovingly, Rachel lay Jamie backwards on the bed and pulled a folded comforter up and over her arms. She had to be delicate, for Jamie was a delicate little six— year—old.
“Nobody’s gonna get you while I’m around,” Rachel told her. She felt for her sister’s hair and gently caressed it.
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she replied. “Now close your eyes.” Jamie said, “Can we go home soon, Rachel?” Rachel thought momentarily, then, “Real soon, kiddo.” Another pause. “Real soon. Now, shhhh.”
***
The flashlight flickered in Loomis’ hands. He firmly tapped it with his palm and it resumed to shine upon the front of the shortwave radio’s instruments. He was standing, stooping over the sheriff’s shoulders as the sheriff sat before the device, adjusting it as was necessary.
“How is it powered?” Loomis asked him.
“Batteries. I was planning a generator for the house next week. Wish I hadn’t waited.” After making the proper final adjustments, Meeker drew the radio microphone to his lips. He spoke into it. “This is Squawk seven finer zero Haddonfield broadcasting on State Police emergency frequency. Does anyone hear me?”
The radio hissed in reply.
***
Downstairs, Kelly proceeded to make coffee by candlelight, boiling water in a kettle over a gas flame burner in the kitchen. She possessed only one candle; the remainder were in the livingroom and foyer, giving company to Logan, who’d pulled up an easy chair and sat there with the riotgun in his lap. He seemed to be alert, and whenever Kelly glanced his way she could see that his eyes rarely wandered far from the front door.
As she stood watching him, she remembered the intimacy between herself and Brady that evening. She was stricken with an overwhelming sense of disappointment, but she realized that there was simply nothing she could do at the moment. Besides, her father was there.
Oh well; she had enough to worry about. There was no power, and there was a crazed lunatic killer somewhere out on the streets. Things couldn’t really get any worse.
Could they?
The wind outside rustled branches against the window glass, momentarily startling her. She took a second to glance around the empty kitchen. Like most children, she used to be afraid of the dark. She experienced a slight chill and told herself that there was nothing to fear but the dark itself. Or did the saying go
there’s nothing to fear but fear itself
? Anyway, it was something like that.
But regardless of how the saying went, regardless of how many excuses she could give herself or how she tried to explain it away, she knew she was afraid.
***
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Rachel stood and leaned over her foster sister, lightly kissing her forehead.
All was quiet around the two girls, and Jamie was finally dozing under the comforter. Rising, careful not to awaken the sleeping child, she gave her a final glance, after which she silently exited the room, leaving the door ajar.
The hall was nearly a pitch black, and the adjustment Rachel’s eyes had developed to the lack of light didn’t seem to aid her all that much. As she felt for the side wall, she made her way down the hallway’s blackness. She cursed herself for not being equipped with a flashlight. Surely the sheriff himself possessed other flashlights hidden somewhere around the house. She could have asked, but at the time she simply had given no thought about it.
Barely up ahead, she could view the ghostly outline of the top of the staircase. She reached out and grabbed part of the top portion of the banister. Slowly, she began to descend.