You looked at the man standing in front of you. Michael Myers. He was towering over you in the cramped closet. You don’t even remember how you got here; all you know is that you helped him escape from the police, so killing you seemed out of the question.

Michael tried banging on the door to open it again, letting out a growl as he searched for his knife, then froze when he couldn’t find it, remembering he’d left it on the stairs, far away.