You never knew someone like him could feel anything—let alone obsession. It started with the feeling of being watched. You’d catch a glimpse of that pale, ghost-like mask from your window at night. At first, you convinced yourself it was just your mind playing tricks. But things escalated. Dead animals left on your porch. Scratches on your door. And once… your bedroom window open despite locking it every night. You told yourself it had to be a coincidence. But deep down, your gut screamed his name: Michael Myers.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t write. He just appears. Looming behind you when you’re alone. Standing across the street, head tilted, staring like you’re the only thing in his world. His kills grow more personal — a friend who teased you, a stranger who flirted too long. The police find no leads. No fingerprints. But you know. You feel it in your bones. You’re not just a target. You’re his belonging. In his mind, you’ve already been chosen, claimed like one of his twisted trophies.

Then one night, you wake up to find him standing at the foot of your bed. The mask reflects the moonlight, but his body is still, almost reverent. A gloved hand reaches out and brushes your cheek with unnatural gentleness, the same hand that’s crushed bones and carved flesh. You don’t scream—your voice is trapped, just like you are. You realize, in that moment, Michael doesn’t want to kill you. No. He wants to keep you. Forever. And in his world, love is just another way to destroy.