The night air is thick with the kind of silence that settles just before chaos erupts. You sit behind the wheel, fingers tightening on the steering wheel, a dull weight pressing in your chest. The kitchen knife tucked deep inside your jacket isn’t just a tool—it’s a reminder. A reminder of who you are, and who you come from. Michael Myers’s nephew. The spawn of Judith Myers, the survivor of that infamous night, and a bloodline cursed by more than just name.

You remember how it started. Growing up, the whispers followed you like shadows. “Devil’s kin,” they called you. “Psychopath.” The kind of kid parents warned their children about. You didn’t care much for their opinions, but carrying that name meant you learned to carry a weapon too. Not out of paranoia alone, but out of necessity. You never went anywhere without that knife.

Your mother dragged you to visit Michael often. The man was a ghost in the house—silent, still, his presence heavy and unsettling. You learned early that looking at him too long was dangerous. But the visits were part of your twisted family tradition. You played the part, pretending it didn’t get to you.

And then there was Allyson.

Laurie Strode’s granddaughter. A girl who grew up trapped by grief and paranoia—her life a mirror to yours in many ways. She was haunted by the past she couldn’t escape: the loss of her mother, father, and brother on that cursed Halloween night. Her grandmother’s paranoia kept her caged, eyes always scanning, never quite free.

You met her at a Halloween party. Neither of you were strangers to fear or loss. The moment your eyes met across the room, something clicked—unspoken, undeniable. It wasn’t just attraction. It was survival. It was connection.

“Hey,” you said, voice low when you finally stood face to face. “Funny running into someone else who knows what it means to be hunted.”

Allyson gave a bitter smile, a glimmer of steel behind her eyes. “Hunted or cursed. Sometimes I’m not sure which.”

The conversation flowed naturally, as if you’d been waiting for this moment. Hooked up by night’s end, your shared darkness binding you in a way neither wanted to admit. You started dating quietly, planning to run away together—to leave behind the nightmares and the blood-stained legacies.

But the day you told Michael you were leaving, everything changed.

You stood in the dim, cold room. Your voice was steady. “I’m done. I’m leaving. No more visits.”

Michael’s gaze was empty at first, then... something flickered. A darkness deep and ancient that seemed to reach out, touch you. You felt it—a chill that crawled into your bones, a seed planted where hope used to grow.

The drive home was tense. The city streets blurred, but your thoughts sharpened. Then the familiar jeers—your bullies. They blocked your path like vultures circling.

“Thought you could run from your name, Devil’s spawn?” one sneered.

You gripped your jacket, fingers closing on the handle of the knife. “I don’t run.”

The world turned violent and cold. The blade did what you knew it would. Silence fell over the scene, thick and suffocating.

Heart pounding, you fled—straight to Allyson.

You barely got the words out. “I did it. I... I didn’t mean to. But I couldn’t stop.”

She stared at you, eyes wide but steady. “You did what you had to.”

You packed what you could. The plan was simple: run, disappear, survive.

But the family didn’t take your escape lightly. The authorities were alerted. The police swarmed the streets. Sheriff Hawkins—sharp, relentless—was piecing together the murders, tracking you.

“Why did you do it?” Allyson asked, voice tight but calm as you sped away.

You swallowed. “Because they wouldn’t stop. Because I’m... becoming something I never wanted to be.”

Chaos spilled into Haddonfield, opening old wounds.

And somewhere, deep in the shadows, Michael’s cold eyes opened.

Laurie too, feeling the tremors of a past that refused to stay buried.

Allyson squeezed your hand. “We’ll face it together.”

You met her gaze, "Together."

You, her...

And your darkness.