I'm Your Boogeyman

October 6, 2013

A/N: I seriously love your guys' comments. There isn't many on this book, but a good majority of the comments I get make me smile. From people saying how much they love the book(s) to someone saying that they're defecating Samsung fridges, it never fails to make me happy. 

At about one P.M the next day, there was a knock at the door. You were home by yourself. All the doors were locked, windows bolted shut, curtains and blinds closed; you were as hidden as you could be. Uncle U/N was at work, along with Aunt A/N. Sam was out at Smith's Grove Sanitarium, learning all he could about Michael in the year that he'd been there since his last escape. 

Cautiously, you looked through the peephole, and was (somewhat) pleasantly surprised. 

"Jesse, hi. I thought you were going to call. Come in." You stepped to the side and allowed him inside. "What are you doing here?" 

"You said you had something you wanted to talk about, and that you thought that he-- whoever that is-- was at the funeral. I figured that it would be more private if we were behind the same walls. I don't really know what 'he' is or what 'he' did, but you looked really spooked last night." He explained, sitting down on the couch.

"Okay, that's fair." You sat down across from him. "I got a letter, and it's from the man who killed your parents." 

"Right. And, remind me who the man is?" 

Hesitance. 

"Michael Myers." 

Jesse looked bored. "Okay, well. If you're going to make fun of my brother, than you can go-" 

"I have proof. Look, I- I put the letter in my pocket so I could read it to you, but you can just look at it, since you're here." You handed him the letter from Michael, and he looked distastefully at it. 

"How do I know you didn't write it?" Jesse interrogated, dropping his hand. 

"Look. Here's a picture of my homework. I sent it to my friend, she can confirm it's mine, if it's not enough." You pulled out your phone and showed him a picture of your math homework from some weeks ago. 

Jesse took the phone and analyzed both the picture and the letter. 

"Alright, I believe you. I'll read it, it's clearly not your handwriting." Jesse lifted up his wrist again and you watched him pale as he got deeper into the letter. 

"I'm sorry for asking, but how long ago did your parents' die?" 

"Two months ago, almost to the date." 

Jesse sighed deeply and looked at you. "So, you're aware that he's been watching you for two months?" 

"...I know. And, I wish I didn't." 

"So, what do we do?" 

You thought for a moment before replying. "Sam's already read the letter, so maybe what we do is we find an agent. We can find an agent, hand it over as evidence, and maybe they'll figure out the next step." 

"What do you mean, 'agent'?" 

"You didn't know? They called the F.B.I in. I don't know why they're only doing it now, but I guess better late than never." 

"Well, I can guarantee they're hanging out at the police station. Let's go." Jesse stood up and opened the door. 

"Hey, wait." You called out, stopping Jesse dead in his tracks. 

"What?" 

"They won't believe me. I'm just some kid. They-" 

"Aren't you the one who had a head delivered to her?" 

"Yes, but-" 

"Well, then, they'll believe that you are being harassed by Mich-" 

Blood began to spill from Jesse's mouth. His eyes widened before falling onto his knees, and then onto his face. Speak of the devil, Michael Myers was standing right behind him, a bloody knife in his left hand. 

You emitted the loudest scream that was probably never recorded in the history of screams. You turned and ran out the back door, practically kicking open the door (Derek Morgan style) and running out back. 

You were never that good at escaping. Tag was a least-favorite game of yours, and you never intended to be chased by a bear, so running and jumping was not a favorite hobby of yours. However, the way that you jumped the fence and pulled yourself over would have impressed every officer on Cops. 

You screamed bloody murder all the way to the police station, fearing to look behind you. Once you were there, you collapsed onto the floor, dry-heaving and sobbing. 

"Hey, kid, what happened? Come on, sit up. You're okay. Willy, go get her some water." Sherriff Morgan had to physically pick you up and set you down at one of the desks. He took off his official-looking coat and draped it over your shoulders as Deputy Willy returned with a paper cup filled with water. 

"What happened?" 

As you explained to Sherriff Morgan what happened, a man in a blue jumpsuit holding a mask burst through the door. 

"I'll kill you!" He screamed over and over again. "You killed my son!" 

It was so clear that this was Tommy Brandyn's father that tap-water looked foggy. 

"Willy, take him back. I don't care where, just get him out of here." Sherriff Morgan tossed Deputy Willy a pair of handcuffs, and Mr. Brandyn did not go quietly. He was too busy screaming obscenities and threatening you to resist Willy, though. 

"Call Sam. Call Sam, please. Get him down here." You sniffed, shuddering. 

"Hey, Officer Rossi! Get Doctor Samuel Loomis on the phone!" Sherriff Morgan called to an older, greying man, who picked up his desk phone immediately. 

"Wait, why do we need Sam? I mean, besides the obvious?" Sherriff Morgan asked. 

"I need to know what Michael's dominant hand is." 

"Well, I can call the M.E. She could judge it off of a past victim, I think." At that moment, Officer Rossi put the phone down. "Officer Rossi! Get Rosa Mertop on the phone! I need to know the dominant hand of Michael Myers!" Officer Rossi picked up the phone again. 

Rossi must have been in charge of the phone calls around this place. 

_______________

"Sherriff Morgan, I've got the answer to your oddly-specific question." Officer Rossi said. "Michael Myers is right-handed. Sherriff, if you don't mind me asking, why did you need to know?" 

"Yeah, Y/N. Why did we need to know what his dominant hand is?" 

"The man who killed Jesse used his left hand." You explained. "Is it possible to find out what hand Mr. Brandyn writes with?" 

"Officer Rossi!" 

"I'm right here, Sherriff. You don't need to yell." 

"Find out what hand Michael Brandyn writes with. Call his wife or somebody." 

"Yes, sir." 

_______________

"According to Jessica Brandyn, he is left handed." 

"Well, we can officially hold this bozo for seventy-two hours. Get the unit down here, please." 

"Yes, sir." 

"And, send somebody to tell Jessica about this. Make sure they keep her company, I don't need a lady who reminds the whole town of a Karen running around threatening to sue every officer of the law she sees."

"Why did you think that my husband is a murderer?!" A shrill voice screamed as a lady burst through the door of the station. 

"It's a bit late for that, sir." 

A/N: Anybody want to count how many people I've killed off in my three books? My moneys on between fifteen and twenty.