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“You’re lucky I like you so much.”
That’s what Ash wanted to say when Kate brought up the idea of him going to Haddonfield to get any info he could on Michael and he almost did say it. But it was too bold, too straightforward, even for him. He loved flirting with her, sure, but saying that? He might as well have confessed to her.
Instead, he went with something a little more him:
“Well, it only makes sense for one alone wolf to scope out another alone wolf. If it were you, you’d have no clue what to be on the lookout for. But me...I know this lifestyle all too well.”
Before Kate could ask how his and Michael’s lives were in any way similar to each other, she stopped herself. He already agreed to help, so there was no use in pushing it. Her annoyed grimace changed into a smile as he thanked him. She knew she was asking a lot of him and wasn’t even sure if he’d agree at all. She wouldn’t have really blamed him if he didn’t want to. It wouldn’t at all be like when Kate entered Coldwind for the first time, that’s for sure. Even without any hooks to impale survivors on, it probably wouldn’t stop Michael from stabbing anyone who dared to enter his domain.
Even with all of that in mind, Ash wore a cheesy smile as he ventured out on the wingman mission of the lifetime, not wanting to waste any time getting right to it.
“Operation ‘see if Myers feels the same way for our favorite cannibal’ has now begun.” Before disappearing into the fog, he made sure to shoot Kate one last wink. “Catch ya on the flip-flop.”
Finding Haddonfield took him longer than he’d care to admit.
In his defense, he had never gone out into the fog with the intention of ending up anywhere other than in the regular spooky forest that he’d sadly grown used to. At first, he tried simply thinking of the realm as he walked since this place clearly didn’t work in any normal linear way and he thought it actually worked when he eventually found himself outside a gate. However, when he entered, his senses were quickly assaulted by the painfully strong stench combination of rotten meat and iron. He didn’t even need to look up and see the hanging cages of bodies to know that he stepped foot in Midwich. He knew that smell all too well.
The next few attempts were also met with failure.
The Backwater Swamp surrounded Ash in sour air that reeked of mud and carried with it the distant sound of crickets.
A sun stuck in the middle of setting, bathing the dry ghost town of Glenvale in an eternal orange light only reminded Ash of how Bubba wanted to one day meet the Deathslinger.
Snow being crushed beneath his feet at both Mount Ormond and outside of Léry’s Memorial Institute.
He fully expected the next gate to take him to Macmillan or Springwood or anywhere other than Haddonfield.
But, as he stepped through the gate and found himself standing in the backyard of a suburban house, white picket fence and all, he knew he was in the right place and how much danger he was about to throw himself into.
It always unnerved him with just how normal and unassuming this neighborhood appeared to be, especially now that there wasn’t a single hook or generator to be seen. If he passed through it while out in the normal world, he knew he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Why would he? After all, it was just a plain neighborhood with plain houses that all looked the same.
All but one, of course.
The old Myers house with its signature Jack-O-Lantern displayed on the front porch.
If Ash was going to find anything, he’d find it there. He just knew it.
Treating this like yet another trial, he crouches low to the ground as he maneuvers through the semi-connected backyards behind the barebones houses. Well, he thought they were barebones until his eyes flickered up at the window of one of the residences that didn’t have boarded up doors. Inside, he was shocked to see actual furniture and not just the stray couch that looked like it was haphazardly thrown into the room. He could see a couch (in a much less awkward spot), a coffee table, shelves, chairs and in place of the lockers in the small kitchen, wooden cupboards. So that meant that it wasn’t just the generators and hooks that changed when the neighborhood wasn’t being used in a trial. It had him wondering whether or not if he went upstairs, he’d find beds and wardrobes too. He’d have to save that experiment for the Myers house since he shouldn’t be wasting any unnecessary time in the miscellaneous houses.
All the while, the lack of popping generators and cries of pain in the air actually had Ash feeling shockingly tense. He knew what to expect from trials, but not from something like this. All he had to listen to were the rustling of bushes on his part, the vague sounds one hears at night and his own breathing.
Usually, when he took up the role of wingman, the most he had to do was talk with the person of interest, find out what they liked and spin over the top and obviously fake tales about how amazing and perfect the other person was. Sneaking into their house and hoping they don’t catch you rummaging around their stuff? That was certainly a first for him but he sure as shit was preparing to do just that as he inched closer to Michael’s old house. Paying close attention to any irregularities to his heartbeat, he slowly began to walk up onto the back porch and carefully opened a door that was never there during trials.
Peeking inside, it’s like he was glimpsing into the past. The rather tacky looking furniture in the living room would be better suited in a home in the 60’s. He supposed that made sense since his first kill was during that time. He fully stepped inside and closed the door behind him, hoping he didn’t just seal his fate by doing so. The eerily still air made every step Ash took seem almost deafening to him as he looked around the bottom floor, ready to bolt out at a moment’s notice if needed to. As he walked around, it was becoming increasingly more obvious that what he was looking for wouldn’t be on the ground floor with him. He’d have to go upstairs if he wanted to actually find anything.
Any amount of pressure placed on the stairs seemed like way too much. Even as he lowered his foot just barely against the wood, the creak that emitted from it, as subtle as it sounded, was still noticeable with how silent the house stood. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out that it had taken him an hour to climb those stairs with how careful he was being. He knew how uncharacteristic it was of him, but he had never been attacked by a killer outside of a trial so he had no idea what would happen. Therefore, he’d simply just try not to get caught in the first place.
Another reason for him trying so hard was, of course, Kate. What better way to get on her good side than to help her new friend get some? It also helps that he was warming up to the big guy himself. How could he not after he’s proven himself to be such a great host the last few times Ash has joined Kate in visiting him? He even made him and Kate chili before one of their visits and though the obvious thought of what exactly it was made of loomed over his head, he tried his best to ignore it because of how damn good it tasted. He still had no idea why a guy like that would be into a guy like Michael, but love works in mysterious ways.
When he made it to the top of the stairs, he was met with more doors that were previously not there in past trials. No turning back now.
The first room was empty, which was surprising considering how the downstairs looked. If the other room looked the same, Ash would have no clue what to do next. Actually try talking to him? As if he’d listen to him and even if he did, what then? Could he even speak?
Shaking the thought from his head, Ash quietly shut the door to the empty room and began inching his way to the only other room.
When he opened the door and peered inside, he nearly let out a sigh of relief when his eyes landed on a desk and chair. Looking further inside, he could also see a bed and wardrobe on the other side of the room. Though a bed was an obvious requirement for any bedroom, Ash couldn’t exactly imagine this one being used much. Did Michael even sleep? After walking inside, making sure to close the door behind him, he worked up enough courage to lay a hand on the neatly made bed. The stiffness of it and the layer of dust answered his question regarding Michael’s relationship with sleep. His attention then shifted to the wardrobe. As he expected, not a single article of clothing resided within it, though a part of him wished he just had a handful of the same exact jumpsuit he always wore. Instead, a couple cardboard boxes sat at his feet. His imagination quickly went buck wild as he stared down at them, but despite everything he thought up, none of it would come close to what the boxes actually contained:
Countless stacks of plain white paper and writing utensils.
“What?” The word barely had time to linger on the air before he slapped his hand over his mouth and swiftly looked over his shoulder.
No one else was with him.
After hesitantly looking back, he slowly and methodically began flipping through the stacks in the first box.
Nothing. Not a single word or marking on any of them.
Opening up the next box, he was greeted with another single stack of paper. However, through the blank sheet that sat atop the stack, he could see markings. A dry gulp swam down his throat as he reached down with a shaky hand, catching the bottom of the sheet between his index and middle fingers. Pulling, he allowed the top piece to slide off the stack and besides it.
Once he realized what he was looking at, his lips parted in shock as the color drained from his face, hand falling to his side in disbelief.
“Holy shit.” This time, he couldn’t work up the energy to fruitlessly cover his mouth as if that’d push the sound back in.
Leatherface.
It must’ve been written hundreds of times in small lettering up and down the page.
Slowly fingering through the stack, every page looked the same.
Front to back, walls of text made up of a single word.
Some lines were neat. Others looked more frantic and messy. The several broken pencils alluded to the sheer amount of pressure he must’ve been using at times.
Unease clouded his vision as he continued to flick through the pages so quickly that he nearly gave himself a papercut in the process.
What did this mean? Was it an obsessive hatred akin to pinning someone’s picture to a dartboard and treating their face like the target? Or, god forbid, was it closer to a tween girl writing her crush’s name in her diary? If it was the latter, which he hoped it was for Bubba’s sake, Ash guessed it made sense considering his stalker-ish behavior that it would look like this. Didn’t make it any less creepy.
There was still one box left to open and Ash’s dread had never felt heavier in his life.
Opening it, more stacks of paper were there to greet him and more blank pages veiled what laid below them. Removing the first sheet, he was surprised to see art and not more writing.
All the pieces were most likely made using pencils and maybe even charcoal with just how dark and rough it all looked.
As for the topics and scenes being depicted…
It ranged from hauntingly beautiful to unrelentingly violent.
The claws of the Entity lifting a body up into the sky from the streets of Haddonfield.
A pair of severed hands strangling the life out of a vaguely humanoid figure.
Skeletal branches belonging to the trees in the fog framed around the moon.
A knife rammed snuggly into a bleeding ribcage.
The style was also strangely realistic, if a bit uncanny too.
As he looked through the disturbing artwork, he froze when he came across a piece depicting Michael himself. The lack of a hem on his mask gave it the illusion that it was literally a part of him. His true face. In the drawing, Michael was plunging a knife into his own chest, a black blood stain blossoming through his jumpsuit. He slowly continued to flip through the stack again, trying his best to wrap his head around what he just witnessed, but stopped again when faced with more pictures just like it. Stab wounds littering Michael’s body, preparing to add more while the knife still dripped with blood. Him sliding the knife through his chest and connecting the two punctures, creating one long gash. Tears of blood rolling down his masked face being caught on his fingers and smeared across his cheek. The dread in Ash evolved into full disgust and terror as he could feel his stomach beginning to reject the images before him. Managing to keep anything from coming up, he pressed on.
His stomach opened up with curtains of intestines and bones framing his bleeding insides.
Him laying in a pool of his own blood, several knives sticking out of his body.
Being pinned to a wall with a knife keeping him in place, hands coated in blood attempting to free himself.
A ringing in Ash’s ears only quickened the pace of his flipping.
In between the violent pictures, more sheets of paper sprawled with “Leatherface” were found by Ash.
His heartbeat pulsed harshly throughout his body, especially in his ears. However, this wasn’t thanks to his fear alone.
As he flipped through more and more pages, his eyes were suddenly assaulted by a large splash of color and his fingers stopped.
On this particular page, Michael was violently ripping his heart out, veins and muscle tissue either snapping during the process or somehow still clinging to his heart for dear life. The explosion of blood that came as a result from this revolting self-inflicted execution wasn’t black.
Every color of the rainbow erupted from his chest and splattered and dripped down the wall behind him.
The creaking of wood pierced through the ringing and pulsating and brought his heart to a sudden stop. The papers slipped from his grip and back into the box when he snapped his head around.
There, Michael Myers stood in the open doorway, gripping a knife by his side.
The speed at which Ash stood up should’ve been enough to knock the wind out of him and cause him to crumble back down. The only reason why he didn’t could be thanks to unwillingness to die during a damn wingman mission.
“Uh huh- h-heyyyyy, Mikey.” He sounded like he was greeting an old friend or something. Michael didn’t move an inch. “Funny seeing you here. I was just, uh- see, I was in the neighborhood and, uh- y’know, to see if the houses were vacant. It’s such a nice lil’ area and- and...I’m sorry, is this your place?”
The moment Michael took his first step into the room, knife raised up, Ash wasted no time in backing away, glancing behind and feeling at least a tinge of safety at the sight of the open window. He could run. That’s absolutely a thing he could try doing. But...what if there’s more he could do? He’s done the sneaky part of literally breaking and entering, but what if he could try talking to him too?
“W- Woah woah woah wait wait wait!” The words felt like they were being vomited out as he shot his arms out in front of him. “I- I- I know Bubba! I know Bubba- I know him, okay?!”
Though he moved at a chillingly slow pace like he always did, he still grew closer without a single stutter in his step.
Beginning to panic, he remembered the papers. “Bu- Leatherface! I- I know Leatherface! I know Leatherface! I know him!”
Only then did the stutter come. Ash couldn’t believe his own eyes as he watched Michael stop in his tracks. He even lowered his knife a smidge and tilted his head. It actually worked?!
Clearing his throat, Ash nodded and lowered his own hands a bit.
“Y- Yeah...yeah, I know him. Bubba- that’s his real name, by the way- he and I are pals- close pals even. I mean- we’re never gone out drinking, which in my book, makes you good friends but-”
He watched as Michael slowly started to raise his knife back up.
“But-! But-! But that’s besides the point, I know!” He suddenly chuckled nervously as he brought his hands back out in front of him. “Y- You don’t waste any time, huh? Heheh...well, uh, I’ll just be blunt with you then. How about that?”
Michael neither lowered or raised his knife at his words.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.” It had then occurred to him just how ridiculous he was going to sound, telling a killer that another killer had a crush on him. Despite how insane it was, he had to do it. “Soooo- yeeaaahhh, to put it simply, Bubba likes you. A lot, actually- he likes you a lot. He likes you so much that he gets all red and fidgety when he thinks and talks about you. He told us that his heart goes crazy when you’re near and- ...man, you’re really hard to read. Both for survivors and killers ‘cause Bubba has no idea how you feel about him and I sure as hell don’t either.”
Nothing...Michael was giving him absolutely nothing to work with.
“Well, uh, I just came here to talk and- nothing else. Only to talk. I didn’t do anything else- plan to do anything else, I mean.” Another nervous chuckle. “And, uh, some words of wisdom before I go: maybe ditch the whole stalking method you got going on. When it comes to romance, of course. For killing, it’s perfect- really spot on, but romance? There are better ways of going about it. Trust me.”
What did he think was going to happen once he stopped talking, truly? Michael actually letting him go on his merry way? Even Ash knew it wasn’t going to go that smoothly.
In fact, he didn’t even have time to turn towards the window before he had Michael’s hand around his throat. Putting him into a suffocating hold, he slowly lifted him up into the air, leaving Ash kicking wildly at the air around him. His words came out as choked gasps for air and once the knife slid effortlessly through his gut and into his chest, the gasps grew gurgled as blood filled his mouth.
It was over just as quickly as it started and Michael threw his corpse to the side. Just a few seconds later, fog enveloped his body and it was gone.
Finally, he was alone again.
Placing his bloodied knife on the nightstand next to his bed, he walked over to the open wardrobe. He didn’t immediately bend down to close and put away the boxes back where they belonged. Instead, he opened the box containing blank pages and grabbed one, bringing it over to the desk. After grabbing a pencil, he sat down.
He must’ve been looming over that piece of paper for a solid ten minutes before he placed the tip of the pencil against it.
Each line and curve was drawn methodically.
Each letter was written with purpose and had to be perfect.
And by the end, Michael was left with a single word. A word that made the knives stabbing at him be replaced with the constantly rotating and unrelenting blade of a chainsaw being pressed hard against his sternum. A word that brought with it a feeling, not of rage, but something just as violently passionate. A word that caused him to break his pencil in two and his already heavy breathing to deepen just reading it.
Bubba.