Zale Akula reached his motorcycle two blocks from the burning Myers house, the bagged head and mask secured in his vest. The Ducati's engine purred beneath him as he pulled out his phone, watching the orange glow of the fire paint the night sky behind him.
Two months ago, he'd been nobody special.
An accountant. Living an unremarkable life in an unremarkable city. Paying rent. Filing taxes. Existing in that comfortable purgatory of modern monotony.
Then a semi-truck had crashed through his third-story apartment wall at 2 AM—no street below, no ramp, no logical explanation for how several tons of metal had achieved flight just to kill one random person.
His last thought before impact: *This is the stupidest way to die.*
Then: darkness.
Then: light.
Then: this.
He'd woken in an alley in some nameless city, disoriented and convinced he'd suffered a complete psychotic break, until the message appeared:
***
[ASSESSMENT COMPLETE]
WELCOME TO UNIVERSE-771
DESIGNATION: AMALGAMATION-CLASS HORROR REALITY
Every horror movie, video game, and urban legend exists here.
They are all real. They are all active. They are all hunting.
Survival probability for unenhanced human: 0.003%
We have provided compensation appropriate to threat level.
***
That had been two months ago.
Two months to process that he'd been dropped into a cosmic nightmare—a reality where Freddy Krueger haunted dreams, Jason Voorhees stalked summer camps, Pyramid Head walked fog-shrouded streets, and every terror humanity had ever imagined was real and hungry.
Two months that should have ended with him dead in a ditch.
Instead, he'd thrived.
Because the "compensation package" had been extraordinary.
---
THE FOUR GIFTS
GIFT ONE: John Wick Template
Combat mastery downloaded directly into his nervous system. Not just training—perfect training. Decades of experience with forty-three weapon systems, seventeen martial arts, and the cold tactical mind of history's most efficient killer.
His hands knew how to fieldstrip a Glock in the dark. His body understood pressure points, nerve clusters, and exactly how much force it took to snap bone. His mind processed threat assessment and target prioritization faster than conscious thought.
The template also included the mindset—that unshakable calm under pressure, the ability to assess and execute without hesitation or doubt.
*GIFT TWO: Hercules Method
Biological enhancement that rewrote human limitations at the cellular level.
Strength: Punch through concrete. Snap steel like plastic.
Speed: Sprint faster than Olympic athletes. React in fractions of seconds.
Durability: Bones reinforced at the molecular level. Blunt trauma that would kill a normal human barely bruised him.
Regeneration: Minor cuts sealed in minutes. Broken bones mended in hours. Deep wounds healed in a day.
The downside? Healing hurt. The Method didn't dull pain, just ensured he survived it.
GIFT THREE: Universal Unlimited Credit Card
A matte-black card with no bank logo, no name, no expiration date, and no limit.
Whatever had a price tag was his.
Military-grade hardware? Approved. Warehouse rentals? Approved. Rare occult texts from underground dealers? Approved.
Better yet, the card came with some kind of reality distortion field. Store clerks didn't ask questions. Banks didn't flag transactions. Background checks came back clean even though "Zale Akula" hadn't existed in this world two months ago.
GIFT FOUR: Codex Umbrae
The living grimoire that currently hummed with satisfaction somewhere in its pocket dimension, digesting the essence of Michael Myers.
When Zale killed something supernatural, the book could absorb its essence and create a new entry—complete with tactical data, documented weaknesses, and most importantly, extractable powers he could use.
But it required payment: his blood to activate the absorption process.
Over the past month, he'd filled three pages before tonight:
Page One - Poltergeist: Granted telekinesis—manipulate objects up to twenty pounds at thirty feet.
Page Two - Arsonist Ghost: Granted FlameWard (five-minute fire barrier), Ember Step (short-range teleportation through flames), and the Firefighter's Axe (spectral weapon with superheated blade that could harm both physical and incorporeal entities and return to his hand when called).
Page Three - Cursed Mirror: Granted TrueSight (see through illusions and detect curses) and Reflection (bounce one curse or hex back to its source per day).
Three warm-up hunts. Useful abilities.
Michael Myers—eighty-seven confirmed kills, forty years of documented terror—had been the real test.
And now he was Page Four.
***
With his powers understood and survival secured, Zale had done the practical thing: he'd opened a business.
Akula Supernatural Solutions operated out of a repurposed storage unit in downtown Haddonfield. Armed detective agency specializing in unusual problems.
In a world where horror was constant and everywhere, there was excellent money in making it go away.
Haunted houses. Poltergeist activity. Possessions. Cursed objects. Creatures that shouldn't exist but did.
For every famous monster, there were a hundred minor entities killing quietly.
Those were his cases. The problems that fell through the cracks.
He handled them. Quietly. Efficiently. Permanently.
Word spread fast. Within a month: If you have a problem normal methods can't solve, call the man with the book.
***
THE CONTRACT
The phone rang at 11 PM on a Tuesday. Zale had been cleaning his Glock, reviewing a case file on a suspected wendigo.
"Akula."
A pause. Then a woman's voice—tired, strained, carrying decades of trauma.
"Mr. Akula? My name is Laurie Strode. I was told you might be able to help with something unconventional."
Zale set down the gun oil. The name was instantly recognizable. Haddonfield's most famous survivor.
"I specialize in unconventional, Ms. Strode. What's the problem?"
"Michael Myers."
The name came out like a wound that had never healed.
"He's coming back. He always comes back. Every Halloween for forty years, and I can't do this again. I can't spend another year waiting for him to break into my house and try to kill me."
Zale was already pulling up files on his laptop. Michael Myers. The Shape. Eighty-seven confirmed kills. Multiple documented "deaths" that hadn't stuck. Alpha-class threat.
"I'm sixty-two years old. I sleep with a gun under my pillow and bars on my windows and I still wake up screaming three nights a week. I've tried everything. Police. FBI. I've shot him, stabbed him, set him on fire, cut his head off. He always comes back."
She took a breath.
"The Warrens gave me your number. Ed said Michael wasn't demonic, just cursed. But Lorraine said there was someone new operating in the area. Someone who specialized in permanent solutions. That's you, isn't it?"
"It is," Zale confirmed.
"Then I want to hire you to kill him. Not stop him. Not contain him. Kill him. So dead that he can never come back. Whatever it costs. Whatever it takes."
Zale ran calculations. Equipment costs. Time investment. Risk assessment for hunting something that had killed eighty-seven people and survived everything Haddonfield had thrown at it.
"Five million dollars," he said. "Two-point-five up front. Two-point-five on confirmed permanent neutralization."
Long silence.
Then: "I'll pay it."
No hesitation. No negotiation.
"I've been saving for forty years, Mr. Akula. Waiting for him. Preparing. I have the money. It's yours. All of it. Just please—end this. End him."
"Alright," he said. "But I'll need proof for the second half of the payment. Something you can verify personally. I'm thinking his mask—"
"I want his head."
Zale blinked. "Excuse me?"
"His head. I've watched him 'die' before. I've seen him shot, stabbed, burned. He always comes back. Always. The only way I'll believe he's really gone is if you bring me proof that cannot be faked. Bring me his head. Let me see it with my own eyes."
A pause, then quieter:
"After forty years, I think I've earned that much. Don't you?"
Zale leaned back, considering. It was macabre as hell, but reasonable. After decades of trauma, she needed absolute proof.
"I can do that," he said. "His head and his mask. Physical proof you can verify. And for what it's worth, Ms. Strode? When I kill things, they stay dead. That's what I do."
"Thank you."* The emotion in those two words was overwhelming. *"The money will be in your account within the hour."
"One more thing. Halloween is in three weeks. That's when he'll return, right? To his childhood home?"
"He always does. 45 Lampkin Lane. Like he's drawn there."
"Then that's where I'll kill him. Stay home that night, Ms. Strode. Lock your doors. By morning, your nightmare will be over."
"I hope you're right, Mr. Akula."
"I am. I've killed things worse than Michael Myers. The only difference is he's famous. By Halloween night, he'll just be another page in my book."
Two-point-five million dollars appeared in his account forty-three minutes later.
Time to work.
***
PREPARATION
October 29th – Two Days Before Halloween
The Myers house looked worse in daylight than in photos.
Zale stood on the cracked sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets, studying the condemned structure with the critical eye of someone planning an execution.
He moved through the interior with tactical precision, his mind cataloging everything:
Living room: primary engagement zone. Open space. Excellent for explosives.
Kitchen: narrow. Perfect funnel point.
Hallway: ideal for tripwires.
Second floor: high ground if needed. Can collapse stairs to cut off retreat.
Two hours of measurements, photos, notes. By sunset, he had a complete tactical map.
This wasn't going to be a fight.
This was going to be an ambush.
***
October 30th – The Night Before Halloween
The warehouse held enough military-grade hardware to make federal agents have strokes.
Zale had spent two weeks acquiring it all using his unlimited credit card and a network of underground dealers who asked no questions.
Benelli M4 Tactical Shotgun - Semi-automatic, twelve-gauge, loaded with custom slugs designed to shatter bone.
Glock 19 - Modified with extended magazine. Hollow points.
The Firefighter's Axe - Spectral weapon. Superheated blade that could harm both physical and incorporeal entities.
Seventeen explosive charges - Shaped to maximize damage while controlling blast radius.
Nine tripwires - Connected to flashbangs, incendiaries, and claymore loaded with iron pellets and blessed salt.
Military-grade accelerants - Burned hot enough to melt steel.
He made three trips to the Myers house after dark. By 2 AM, the real work began:
Living room: Three pressure-plate charges beneath the floorboards.
Kitchen: Tripwire connected to flashbang cluster.
Hallway: Accelerant-treated netting rigged to drop and ignite.
Stairs: Collapse charges on support beams.
Judith's bedroom: Modified claymore at ankle height. Poetic—Michael's first kill happened here.
By dawn, the Myers house was seventeen different ways to die, all waiting for one very specific target.
Zale set up his nest in the kitchen: ammunition crates for cover, water, energy bars, the Benelli within reach, Glock ready, fire axe across his lap.
He pulled out the book. It hummed with anticipation.
"Tomorrow night. Biggest meal you've had yet."
The book pulsed. Hungry. Always hungry.
***
THE HUNT
Halloween Night – 10:47 PM
The children had gone home. The streets had emptied. Haddonfield slept.
Then Michael Myers came home.
Zale heard him before he saw him—those slow, methodical footsteps on the front porch. No hesitation. No caution. Just that inevitable, mechanical stride.
Step. Step. Step.
The door creaked open.
Michael's silhouette filled the doorway—that massive frame, the white mask catching distant jack-o'-lantern light, the kitchen knife hanging loosely in his right hand.
The Shape had returned.
Zale didn't move. Didn't breathe. His finger rested beside the Benelli's trigger guard.
Michael stepped inside.
One step. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The pressure plate clicked.
***
The room exploded.
The shaped charge detonated with a sound like God slamming a door. Fire and force erupted upward. Smoke billowed thick.
Zale was already moving—rolling out from cover with the Benelli raised.
Through the smoke, a shape emerged.
Still walking.
Michael's pants were shredded, his legs smoking and bleeding, but he was upright.
Of course.
Zale's finger found the trigger.
BOOM.
***
The slug caught Michael's right knee dead center.
The joint exploded. Michael crashed into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
Zale pumped the action.
BOOM.
Left elbow. The joint disintegrated. Michael's forearm dangled by threads of meat, the hand still clutching that kitchen knife.
He kept coming.
BOOM.
Right shoulder. Shredded.
The knife finally clattered to the floor.
Michael swayed but didn't fall.
His head tilted—slowly, deliberately—and through those eyeholes, something flickered.
Not pain.
Confusion.
This wasn't how it went. The victims ran. They screamed. They died.
They didn't win.
"I get it," Zale said, his voice utterly calm. "You don't quit. Very on-brand."
Michael took another dragging step forward.
"But here's the thing about legends. They're only scary until someone writes the ending."
BOOM.
The last slug took Michael's remaining leg at the knee.
The Shape—Haddonfield's nightmare, the unkillable evil—collapsed.
His body hit the floor with a heavy thud.
And for the first time in forty years, Michael Myers stayed down.
***
PRESENT – 11:32 PM
Zale pulled Laurie's contact up on his phone. Attached a photo: the bagged mask, scorched but intact.
Typed:
"It's done. He's not coming back. Proof attached. The rest is in a secure location when you're ready. Get some sleep tonight. You've earned it."
Response came within seconds:
"Is he really...?"
"I have his head. Dead as dead gets. The mask is yours when you're ready for it. No charge for that part."
Longer pause. Then:
"Thank you. I don't know how to say it properly. Just... thank you. For forty years I've been afraid. And now... now maybe I don't have to be anymore."
Zale stared at the message, then pocketed the phone.
One less person afraid to sleep at night.
He started the engine. The book manifested briefly on the seat beside him, humming with deep satisfaction.
"Hungry already?" Zale asked.
The book pulsed. Always. Feed me more.
"Greedy bastard," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. He dismissed the book and pulled on his helmet.
The radio crackled as he merged onto the main road:
"—breaking news from Haddonfield where a structure fire has consumed the historic Myers property—"
He switched stations.
"—continuing reports of unexplained disappearances in the Appalachian region. Local folklore speaks of a creature known as 'The Rake,' described as a pale, emaciated humanoid that hunts at night—"
Zale's hand paused on the dial.
The Rake. Pale humanoid. Nocturnal hunter.
The book hummed eagerly from its pocket dimension, practically vibrating with interest.
"Not yet," Zale said, accelerating onto the highway. "Let's see what else is out there first. Plenty of nightmares to choose from."
He opened the throttle. The Ducati's engine roared.
The October wind was cold, carrying the scent of dead leaves and distant rain. Behind him, Haddonfield's lights faded—the town sleeping peacefully for the first time in forty years.
Somewhere ahead, in the darkness beyond Haddonfield's borders, other nightmares stirred.
Freddy Krueger in Springwood.
Jason Voorhees at Crystal Lake.
Pinhead beyond the Configuration.
Pennywise in Derry.
Pyramid Head in Silent Hill.
An entire world of horror, vast and interconnected, where every legend was real and every monster was hunting.
But tonight—for the first time in this world's existence—one of those monsters was dead.
Truly. Finally. Permanently.
And Zale Akula—transmigrated accountant, supernatural detective, collector of nightmares—was just getting started.
The speedometer climbed. 80. 90. 100 mph.
The book hummed contentedly, digesting Michael Myers' essence, growing stronger, preparing for the next feast.
Zale's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—more like anticipation, like a predator that had just discovered its hunting grounds were far larger than initially believed.
"Sleep tight, nightmares," he said quietly into the wind.
"Daddy's coming."
The motorcycle disappeared into the October night, red taillights fading to pinpricks before vanishing entirely.
Behind him, Haddonfield slept peacefully.
Ahead of him, the darkness waited.
And somewhere in the space between nightmares and reality, the Codex Umbrae—Book of Shadows, Devourer of Legends—hummed with ancient, insatiable hunger.
The feast had only just begun.
[END CHAPTER 2]