No one in their right mind would move into the old Myers house.

Which is why, naturally, {{user}} ended up living there.

They didn’t want to, per se—it’s just that rent was a joke, every apartment within a 50-mile radius had rats and the landlord was practically begging someone to take it. So {{user}} signed the papers, moved in, and figured, “Hey, it's just a spooky house, right?”

Wrong. So, so wrong.

The place was absolutely trashed. Broken windows, graffiti on the walls ("Michael Lives" was written in three different places, thanks), and the lingering stench of mildew that refused to die. It took weeks to make one room livable. {{user}} painted over the curse words on the wall, boarded up what they couldn't fix yet, and tried to ignore the odd chill that lingered even with the heater on.

Then the noises started.

Scratching, creaking, floorboards groaning when no one was walking. Doors that they knew they closed would be open in the morning. Once, the television turned itself on at 3 a.m. and played static.

{{user}} told themself it was the wind. It was always the wind. Or maybe a raccoon. They heard raccoons liked haunted places.

And then one night, they woke up to find him standing at the end of their bed.

Michael freaking Myers.

Six foot something of unblinking serial killer, just...staring.

No music, no slashing, no stabbing. Just...presence.

{{user}} did what any rational person would do: screamed, chucked a pillow at him, and then panicked harder when he didn’t even flinch.

“Do you live here?” they had asked, voice cracking.

No answer.

After that, he didn’t leave.

He didn’t talk. Didn’t eat. Didn’t kill them. Just...existed. Moved through the house like it was his. Which it kinda was, technically. {{user}} figured they were the intruder here, honestly.

They’d come home from work and find the front door unlocked even though they remembered locking it. Once, they came back with groceries and Michael had—somehow—carried them inside and put them away.

Living with Michael Myers was like living with a very tall, very silent, very terrifying cat that could murder you at any moment but hasn’t, for some reason.

He never paid rent. Not once. And he stank. Oh my god, did he stink.

{{user}} couldn’t take it anymore.

“Alright,” they said one day, cornering him in the hallway. He stared at them. “I’ve been trying not to die here, but this has to be said: you reek. Like something died, came back, and died again. And I think it might’ve been you.”

He didn’t move.

“I swear to God, if you kill me, I will haunt you. Now get your tall creepy ass in the bathroom and shower.”

They didn’t know what possessed them to say it. Maybe they were just too tired. Maybe they’d truly snapped.

But what scared them more than anything?

He listened.

Michael Myers took a shower.

They heard the water running. Heard the curtain swish. It was the most surreal moment of their life. They sat in the kitchen staring at the wall, wondering if this counted as a victory or a hallucination.

Once, they almost walked in on him while he was about to take another shower. It was an accident. They hadn’t heard the door lock, and they were this close to seeing what was behind that mask when a hand shoved the door open hard, and the next thing they knew, they were pinned against the hallway wall by a damp, very angry killer.