Coming back to his senses, Michael finally lowered his leg from the ridiculous stance he had struck, feeling the cold-water drum against his back. The adrenaline drained, leaving him with only the creeping realization of how utterly absurd he had looked just moments ago. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he let out a groan.
"Why the fuck did I do that? Of all things a nigga could have done, I did the gayest thing possible…" he muttered inwardly, dragging a hand down his face. The water kept falling, rinsing away his sweat and fear, but not the cringe that clung to his soul like tar.
Ttk Ttk Ttk
Michael froze, head snapping toward the bathroom door. His heart thudded against his ribs.
"Yh?" he called out, forcing his voice lower than usual, trying to sound like a man who had his shit together.
"Um… I brought you a towel." Jessica's voice came, muffled but clear.
"Ok… leave it by the door."
The door creaked open just slightly, enough for a slender hand to slip in and hook a folded towel over the inside knob. Michael's paranoia flared for a moment—half-expecting something monstrous to grab that hand and yank it into the darkness. But then the door shut, a little too quickly, and hurried footsteps pounded away.
"Thanks," he called, though he wasn't sure she even heard.
Sigh
He let out a long breath, relief washing over him, then turned back to the shower.
His eyes fell on the temperature knob, and they practically glittered. "Don't mind if I do…" he whispered with mock drama, twisting the regulator. Instantly, steam hissed into the room as warm water poured down his body. The tension seeped from his shoulders; the icy grip of fear loosened, replaced by comfort.
Hhhhhaaahhh
He leaned against the tiled wall, eyes closing as the warmth caressed him. This is what heaven feels like… he thought.
Still, one nagging thought wormed into his mind. Should've locked the damn door.
Minutes bled together. Eventually, Michael turned off the shower, stepped out dripping wet, and dried himself in record time. Soon, he was back in his costume—the cheap, scratchy thing clinging to his damp skin. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.
Downstairs, the scent of food greeted him before the sight did. A small dining table had been set, a steaming plate waiting in the center. Jessica was nowhere to be seen.
"Jessica?" he called, his voice echoing softly. No answer.
Suspicion tugged at him. He moved back upstairs, footsteps cautious against the creaking floorboards. He passed one closed door, then another. From the second came faint, muffled vibrations—like something buzzing.
He tilted his head, pressing an ear to the door. "You asleep or something?" he asked.
No reply. Just the quiet, rhythmic hum. His brow furrowed. After a moment, he shook his head and retreated, muttering, "Weird."
Back at the kitchen table, he sat and uncovered the meal. The smell hit him instantly: cheap, reheated leftovers, microwaved within an inch of their life. Mac and cheese, maybe some soggy chicken tenders… His mouth watered regardless.
Grabbing the spoon, he dug in. "Not bad," he said aloud, scarfing it down. He hadn't realized how starved he was until now. The adrenaline, the paranoia, the constant fear—it had kept his stomach knotted tight. But here, at least for a moment, his guard slipped. He ate like a man possessed, finishing the plate in under a minute.
When he was done, he stood and carried the dish to the counter, loading it into the dishwasher. He wasn't about to freeload.
Back upstairs, he stopped outside the vibrating door again and knocked.
ttk ttk ttk
The hum inside ceased. A pause. Then the door cracked open, revealing Jessica. Her face looked flushed, hair slightly disheveled.
"Hi, uh… I was wondering if the other room is mine?" Michael asked. He already knew the answer, but politeness demanded the question.
"Yh, feel free. I'm a bit sleepy now… good night," she mumbled, closing the door almost immediately.
Michael stood there blinking. "…Ok." He frowned. Something about her behavior was off, but he shook his head. Whatever. Not my business.
He moved into the adjacent room, locking the door behind him. It was modest: a neatly made bed, a nightstand, nothing extravagant. He inspected every corner, checking under the bed, behind the curtains—paranoia in full swing. Satisfied, he collapsed onto the mattress, tugged off his shoes, and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep wasn't supposed to come easy. Not tonight. Not with the thought of a supernatural serial killer out there. He promised himself he'd stay sharp, alert, ready to move at the faintest sound.
Seconds became minutes. Minutes became hours. His eyelids grew heavy. And against all his promises—Michael was out cold within the first hour.
Krrssshhhht!
Michael's eyes snapped open. His body bolted upright like he had just been revived from the dead.
Creeeak… THUD… creeeak… THUD.
The wooden stairs outside groaned beneath the weight of slow, heavy boots, dragging the silence into something unbearable
Each step was deliberate, steady. Blood pounded like a war drum in his skull.
Michael crept to the door, pressing his ear against it. Silence.
Then—
CRRRAAACK!
A sharp, tearing crash rang out, the wood splitting open as though some monstrous strength had punched straight through.
The door across the hall—Jessica's door—was being hacked apart. A chilling scream pierced the night, high and terrified.
Michael's blood ran cold. Jessica.
He yanked open his door and stumbled into the hall. His eyes widened at the sight: Jessica's door was reduced to jagged splinters, and in the broken frame stood a shadow. It stepped forward slowly, revealing itself.
A white mask, scarred with burn marks along one side. Dark blue coveralls. In one hand, a bloody knife glistened.
Michael Myers.
"Michael!" Jessica's voice shrieked from inside her room. She somehow had a kitchen knife , she hurled it. The blade struck the killer's chest with a solid thud.
The masked figure looked down at it, tilting his head with eerie calm. Slowly, he reached up, ripped it out, and tossed it aside. Blood welled, but he didn't flinch.
He advanced toward Jessica.
Jessica screamed, her voice cracking.
Michael—the other Michael—reacted instinctively. He charged, trying to shoulder the killer aside. It was like ramming a statue. The Bogeyman barely shifted.
The knife in his hand swung.
Anticipating it, Michael ducked, rolling across the floor and springing to his feet by Jessica's side in the room. He grabbed for her hand. "Come on!"
But before they could move, a hand clamped onto Michael's shoulder. The grip was like an iron thong.
Panic surged through him.
Shit.
He turned and swung a desperate punch.
THWACK—CRUNCH!
Pain exploded through his hand. "Argh!" he cried, staggering back. It was like punching a brick wall.
Michael Myers stared at him, expressionless beneath the mask. Then the knife rose.
It came down with terrifying speed.
SHRRIP—SKRRCH!
The steel buried deep into the left side of Michael's neck. His eyes widened, a strangled gurgle escaping as blood poured down his chest.
with a sharp pull, he ripped the blade free with a savage twist through his throat.
SPLSHHHKK!
Blood poured out in a hot rush, splattering across the wood, then dripping steadily in uneven beats.
THUD!!
Michael collapsed, his body convulsing as crimson spread beneath him.
"NOOO!—AAAHHHHHH!"
Jessica's voice cracked as the scream tore free, ragged and broken with horror.
The world dimmed around Micheal. His vision tunneled, the masked figure looming above him like death itself. The last sound Michael heard before the darkness swallowed him whole was Jessica's voice, crying out in terror.
And then—nothing.