The street was empty with a few porch lights buzzing, dying bugs littering the bulbs like shit smeared across glass. The air smelled like rotting leaves or trash someone forgot to pick up.

He was standing there.

Michael fucking Myers.

Just a solid block of rage wrapped in dirty coveralls, standing under a busted streetlight, the mask rotted and yellowed at the edges. He knew he was seen... wanted it. Even the hollowness of his breathing could be heard of one stood still long enough.

The kitchen knife in his hand wasn’t some movie prop bullshit either. It was thick, ugly, cheap steel. Stained dark at the tip like he’d just used it a few minutes ago. Probably had. He didn’t give a fuck who saw him considering he vanishes in the blink of an eye.

He took a step forward, those boots hit the cracked sidewalk heavy enough that it almost echoed.

That dead, white mask stared straight through flesh and bone, like tearing into meat without touching it. Cold sweat slid down the back of the neck. Every instinct screaming to run, but even that felt stupid.