Archive of Our Own

You were moving into a neighborhood in which you did not want to move into. But it was your husband's choice, and when it came down to him and his decisions, you had very little say in what he decided to do. But that didn't mean that you couldn't detest the nature of the neighborhood in general when he wasn't looking. Behind his back you would pout and snicker at the big houses decorating the clean streets, despising how it made you yearn for freedom and silence. 

But you were stuck here, stuck with him.

"Hey, (y/n), I'm going for a drive. Finish unpacking by the time I get back, got it?" You're husband asked as he kept his face locked on his phone.

You tilted your head to the side and nod, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. You've already had to wave at a few friendly neighborhood pedestrians as they saw you unloading your truck. You waved back, obviously, but you really didn't want anyone to witness the shows your husband might openly put on if triggered.

"Hey, bitch," You flinched at the tone of his voice, shoulders tensing at every stomping beat of his footsteps. He stopped behind you, taller, bigger and meaner. "I said 'you got it?'"

"Yes, (h/n)," You reply weakly, not willing to look up into his cold, demanding eyes. You tried gazing at the sidewalk instead, like it was a different dimension with all good qualities life had to offer except it was out of your reach.

You could hear your husband's disapproving growl and the huff he made, and tensed even more in fear that he may shove or hit you for the simple reason of not being good enough. However, shock washed over you when you felt nothing, looking up behind you to see what your husband was doing. Your eyes squint in confusion as you see how he was glaring at something on down the sidewalk. Following his stare, your eyes widened slightly at what you saw.

There, standing beside the bushes in the unkempt yard beside yours, was a man. A tall man. He wore a dark blue jumpsuit and some type of pale white mask that was obviously very used and worn looking.

At first you had raised a brow, but simply shook your head and said once you thought there wasn't really much to worry about, "It's just a neighbor."

The scuff your husband made caused you to frown, eyes fluttering back to the ground where the invisible dimensions you waited to swallow you away never came. He turned towards you, and you wait silently for his abuse to start in on you.

"Just a neighbor?" he asked as if he hadn't heard you correctly, taking a step closer and raising his voice, "Just a neighbor? It's a fucking stranger in a god damn halloween mask staring at us from across the yard. My yard, (y/n), and you say it's just a neighbor?"

You kept your eyes casted down to the side as you softly admit, "A lot of people wear masks, (h/n)... He could just be a little shy to show himself..."

It was what you truly believed. After all, people of all kinds had been staring at you and your husband since you showed up. They were only curious. You would be too if you had new neighbors. Sure, some people could be a little odd and maybe even a little overboard with the staring, but the fact was mutual. And there were just some people who preferred not to be seen and that could be because of several reasons; all very personal.

Of course, you wouldn't expect a person like your husband to understand. Instead of listening, he insisted on pointing a strong finger in your face, teeth clenching as he oozed in front of your tense body.

"You are such a fucking idiot," He grounded out furiously, breathing in sharply and scowling at you.

You waited for something to happen, anything; a slap, another cruel name, a shove or even to be spat on. But none of that happened. What he did instead was a lot worse.

"Hey asshole!" he shouted from where he stood, balling his fists in the masked man's direction.

You gasped, jerking your head up and looking across the yard. The man looked as if he had been in the midst of walking in the opposite direction until he heard your husband's aggressive shout and stopped. Panicking, you covered your mouth and looked around, hoping that he hadn't drawn any attention to yourselfs.

Before you could talk him down, your husband shouted again, "Why don't you go back to the freak show where you belong?!"

"(h/n)!" You gasped loudly and stepped forward to grab his arm and try and pull him back, "Stop it, he's just a neighbor. He's not-ah!"

You shouted in pain when your husband shoved you away and slapped you so hard across the face that it made you fall back onto the solid concrete sidewalk. Crying out, you tumbled back from the harsh landing, clutching your cheek as quickly as you could as immediate tears appeared and your face stung. Everything felt dizzy for a few seconds as you sat there and tried to recall what just happened.

A stinging filled your heart as pain emerged from your swelling red face that you held tightly with your shaking palms. You breath in little shaky breaths as you sit up, eyes watery as you gazed up at your husband who held no remorse and no empathy in his eyes. He just stood there, towering over you with a glare that burned the words "I hate you" into your soul.

"God, you're such a fucking useless bitch," he shook his head and stepped past you. Making way towards his car, he hollered, "I'm going to a friend's house. If those boxes aren't unpacked by the time I get back... You're gonna regret it."

With that, the ignition to his car started, leaving you with nothing but a smokey cloud being blown into your face as the car took off loudly down the street. You were still sitting on the ground, face still stinging and eyes still watering. A shame washed over you, along with all kinds of other self conflicting emotions that weighed down your very shoulders.

Why? Why did this happen to you? What had you done to deserve this?

You try to blame it on the being desperate, no money issue, and the fact that you had no one else to rely on, but it felt so much deeper. A part of you believed that you really were a no good, ugly, useless bitch, that you had no purpose other than being an abused servant and punching bag for a man who never cared about you and never will.

Sighing shakily, you stood up and wiped your face, looking around to see if anyone had witnessed that terrible display. Fortunately, there didn't seem to be anyone paying attention, so you simply brush it off and make way for your truck, not noticing that the masked man was still watching you from behind the bushes.

It didn't take long to unload the boxes from your truck. Most of them were fairly easy to lift and required no assistance. You were able to deposit them safely into your new house where you began to unbox them from there, revealing all their contents and putting them where they needed to be.

You enjoyed the quietness though it was difficult to accept that you'd always be alone. Just as long as your husband wasn't here, you were fine. He couldn't hurt you.

After unloading all the boxes and setting things in their rightful places, you wipe your damp forehead and sigh, looking down at the one box that you had saved for last. Your husband wouldn't be back for a while; that you could count on as you merely just stand there in the middle of the living room. Empty and full of nothing. The house had a unfamiliar smell to it. Every new house did. But you didn't complain.

Building up your determination, you reached down and picked up the box, huffing as you allowed it to fall against your chest with a hefty thud. The ordiments inside slammed and clanged together, and already you could feel the lonely tears of neglect piercing your tired eyes as you listen to the sound of your fate, ignoring the fact that it could be right behind you.

Into the kitchen you walked, rounding about the dinner table and gently setting the box down on the counter. You slid it around to face you before reaching out to tear the tape off, a look of nothing more than stoic hidden abandon on your face the whole time. You unveil the contents, pulling them out one at a time.

The mixing bowl, the tied up sets of forks and spoons, the toaster, and last but not least... The knives.

You eyed the stainless steel utensils laid out before you and think about what you were willing to do to make it all end. Your life was screwed up before you even met your husband. Even then you only married him as a getaway ticket from the repulsive life you were already living. You had no idea he'd make it worse for you.

You reached for a knife, hand not even shaking.

Constantly you were smacked or beaten for the most random reasons. You were called names, told you were useless, ugly and stupid, punished because you weren't good enough and probably never would be. Nothing good ever happened anymore. You never got anything you wanted without it being destroyed.

You lifted out your wrist, unaware of the tall figure looming in through the shadows of your living room.

You were pathetic. You knew that your husband moved houses constantly in order to spend time with whatever attractive mistress he decided was enough to treat better than you. And you were left to do everything; clean, cook, work, pay bills and wash the cars, and yet still you were never appreciated.

You held the knife over your wrist, aligning it straight with your veins.

You had no purpose here. Nothing good ever happened anyways. There was no one here on the face of the entire earth to tell you that everything would be okay, that you were special and deserved to live a good and healthy life. And if you were gone, no one would notice, no one would care. And that... That was all you had left to cling to, and sadly, it wasn't enough.

You stared down at the sharp blade pressing against your wrist and felt your head beginning to spin. What was death even like? Was it dark and cold like the nothingness you sometimes experienced during sleep? Was there a better place? What if it was a worse place? What if pain was all you managed to feel? What if it didn't work? 

Your eyes narrowed as tears began to fill them, prickeling your skin with disappointment and sadness. Your hand shakes, knuckles completely white by how hard you clutched the knife, trying with all your might to press it down and just get it over with. Anger wasn't enough to add to the pressure already applied, and neither was the shame. You sniff sharply and weld your eyes shut, teeth clenched as you internally scream at yourself.

There was a figure standing in the door way, watching you, but you were too choked up with your own problems to notice.

You suck in air, keep your eyes closed and brace yourself. You were going to do it this time. Pressing the knife tightly against you, waiting and waiting. It was like there was some magical resistance there, some force that locked your bones up and made you immobile.

You growled, the sound turning into a angry, throaty scream as you tear your hands apart and step away until your back hit the wall. From there you slid down its surface, still clutching the knife though very loosely. Tears spilled from your eyes as you bury your face in your knees, crying brokenly, oblivious to the figure in which was now turning away from you, exiting the house like it had never been there to begin with.

And you... You'd try again. Soon enough.

The next day when you woke up on the couch, you noticed that your husband still was not home. It wasn't so much of a surprise to you as it was a great relief. As you sat up, you saw the kitchen knife sitting on the coffee table and wilted. Of course you couldn't do it. Several attempts before told you that, but still you tried.

Looking around the empty house, you sighed and got up to take a shower, get some clean clothes and get something decent to eat. Considering how wealthy your husband was, there was never any food at home. He always preferred going out to eat at some expensive, fancy diner.

The whole time you never noticed the shadows looming in through your windows, or the fact that the doors were unlocked. You didn't care. There had been times in the past where your husband hit you because you locked the doors thus leaving him to wait for you to answer because he was too irresponsible to carry his own keys. You decided to stop caring, because honestly, it might actually be easier if some typical house robbers did barge in and kill you instead of you trying to do it yourself.

After getting something to drink, you grabbed your keys and walked through the living room, pausing when you saw the kitchen knife out of the corner of your eye. Your shoulders sagged as you looked at it, cursing your insignificance to just get it over with.

Not wanting your husband to make a fuss, you took the knife back to the kitchen and put it in it's rightful place before finally exiting the thing you lived in called a house. Once you stepped off your porch, the morning wind hit you and sent a comforting cascade of waves through you. Leaves sprinkled down from the ground in the cool wind, and you wished that you could feel the admiration for their beauty like you used to. Instead, all you could feel was guilt, disappointment and sadness. A solid cloud of gray.

You made it to your truck with your head down, too a shamed to look at the neighbors in case they saw what happened yesterday. You slipped into the driver's side and started the vehicle, slumping against the seat for a moment as you felt another wave of nothingness rush through you.

"Take me," You said to your steering wheel, thinking about how easy one quick turn of tires on asphalt could take out a light. Sighing, you roughly tear the gear shift up to drive and take off down the sun lit road.

The drive through town was rather casual and uneventful. Nothing exciting or dangerous happened, and no one really talked to you as you had walked through the store, head down, silently picking out things that you wanted. Then you left with a few small bag fulls, getting into your truck and driving back home.

When you arrived, putting the truck in park, you sigh and shake your head at the empty driveway and dark house, wondering how long your husband decided to stay gone this time. Maybe this was it. Maybe he had found the right mistress. Maybe now you'll be set loose on a poor, lonely road of rejection.

Eyes closing for a moment, you hurried up and got out of your truck before drawing any unwanted attention to yourself, going inside the house as quickly as possible. From there your tasks resumed like they always did. You stored up the few groceries you had bought, cooked something small and cleaned up a little bit before getting ready to go upstairs and take a nap.

By the time you got half way up the stairs, you heard something coming from the kitchen and froze. Looking back down the stairs, you took a couple steps down and squinted your eyes in confusion. "(h/n)?" you hollered out loud, tensing slightly at the silence that followed after.

Was he mad? You frown in worry. Your husband always went miraculously silent before he got extremely angry. Maybe you had done something wrong again....

"(h/n)?" You say again, but this time your voice was lower, timid, more afraid as you descended back down the stairs, "Is that you?"

You looked around the living room, checking over the furniture to make sure none of it was occupied as you went. The front door was closed, you realized hesitantly, thinking about how reckless your husband usually was when he came barging in through the house sometimes. If it was him... you would have heard it.

After staring blindly at the door for some time, you emitted the smallest gasp when you heard something coming from the kitchen. It sounded like a piece of silverware being skidded across the counter or floor. The quiet sharpness of the sound sending a shudder through your chest as you quickly walked into the kitchen to see who was there.

The sight you saw making your mouth fall open.

Nothing. Nothing was there. Nobody. Your eyes narrowed and you quickly walked past the counter table and into the dining room, searching for anyone who might be hiding. But there was no one.

Confused, you look around at the ground like the answer had been written in magical stone, trying to remember what exactly you heard. A piece of silverware being dragged across the counter... On it's own accord, your head lifted and guided you in the direction of your kitchen, placing you before the drawer all your forks and spoons were in.

Slowly, you took one out, a fork, and drug it across the polished marble of the counter, grimacing at the sound it made. Too raggedy. You tried a different way, only to get the same sound in return for your efforts, slumping at how stupid you must look; dragging a fork across the counter in order of mimicking some dumb noise you thought you heard. Obviously you were just losing your mind.

Tossing the fork back in the drawer, you were about to resume your position going back upstairs until you noticed something missing, something strange. Your head turned and your eyes looked at the knife set, narrowing at the sight of the empty slot down in the bottom row. It was easy to guess which knife was missing. Anyone who owned a steak knife would know that it's missing, especially when they tried to kill their selves with it.

You jerked back, confused and suspicious, heart drumming with alarm. If the knife wasn't there then where could it be?

You ran to check the sink, your coffee table and even the bathrooms, but found the steak cutter no where. Your mind instantly swam with ideas, scrambled memories and panic as you try to remember some place you could have put the knife, somewhere probably stupid and unintentional. But everything swarmed back to this morning when you put the knife back in its slot, and heard the strange metallic noise not too long after you got home.

Now fully alarmed, you ran to get your phone, quickly calling your husband and pressing the device tightly against your ear, constantly looking around as you waited. As you paced, you went ahead and locked all the doors and checked to make sure that the windows were shut and locked as well. When all was done, you nearly whined when your husband didn't answer.

After another couple failed attempts trying to reach him, you started to text him, sending quick, rushed messages about it being an emergency and that you thought there was someone in the house with a knife. In desperate hopes that he'd answer or come home soon, you waited by the front door, eyes constantly keeping track of the room in case someone really was here and intended to hurt you. All the while you listened for the sound of engines pulling into the driveway.

As time went by, you had slid to the ground in front of the door, leaning against the wall as you listened to nothing but silence. The worry was still weighing deeply inside your heart, and you couldn't get over the fact that you heard someone in your kitchen, someone who clearly had a knife and was probably not too far away. You kept yourself ready, twitching every now and then when you thought you heard a sound even if it was the lightest tree branch tapping the window from outside. Sometimes you'd stand up because it got too silent and the simple gusts of wind from outside were not nearly enough to keep you calm.

You still hadn't gotten an answer from your husband, but after almost an hour and a half, you heard the obnoxious rumble of his car and sprang up from the ground. Reaching for the door knob, you unlocked it and slammed it open, running outside and meeting your husband a little over half way through the yard.

It was evening, almost completely dark. Your husband looked angry, his hands clenched at his sides and his head lowered. At any other time it would have terrified you, make you shrink and whimper, but right now you were too in panic to care.

"This had better be good or you're going to fucking regret it, you little bitch," He said through grinding teeth.

It almost made you flinch as you struggled to quickly explain, "I-I think there's someone in the house. W-one of the knifes in the kitchen is missing a-and I think I heard them grab it while I was going upstairs, and I..."

You paused, eyes shrinking at the look on your husband's face. His hands were on his hips and he was scowling, biting his lower lip and looking down at you with those impossibly sharp, furious eyes.

"That's it?" He asked, taking a big, foreboding step forward, raising his arms out like this was some sick joke, "That's what you call me for? Some damn, stupid knife is missing and you immediately assume someones in the house? Do you know how fucking long I've been waiting to get here?"

"But... but..." Your lips wobbled as you took a step back, fear for any missing knives or strangers taken away and replaced by the mortifying nature of your husband's building temper. He was slowly approaching you, that frightening, deadly look in his eyes as he glared at you. "I-I know... I heard it. The knife... it's missing."

"Yeah, well it probably fell out somewhere during the ride," he said sharply, voice raising.

"But I used it this morning and-"

"So what? You fucking drag me away from having a good time because you can't find a stupid knife?" He asked rhetorically, but his voice still sounded dangerous as he cocked his head at you and raised a fist, "Do you have any god damn idea how fucking mad that makes me?"

You felt your heart crumbling into a million more of the million pieces it was already in, regret not even close to explaining how truly bad you felt at the moment as your angered husband towered over you. "I-I'm sorry, I-I was just..."

Were you really scared? Was that what that was? Fear? No. No you didn't think so. That feeling was nothing compared to the true horror in which you felt solidifying your veins right now, turning your blood into an empty, freezing ice land with painfully blistering wind. You weren't scared of the missing knife or the possibility of a stranger being inside the house. Panicked, yes, but not scared.

Because being scared is how you felt now as you stare pleadingly up at your husband, knowing what was going to happen and silently begging that it didn't. Your body was stiff as a brick and your head throbbed. Eyes stinging with tears.

"You're just a little fucking baby; that's what you are," Your husband spat hatefully, reaching out and grabbing your arm in a painfully tight grip.

You cried out, stumbling forward and catching yourself on unstable feet, body shaky madly. Pushing on the rough fingers on your arm with your free hand, you gasp and whisper through your teeth, "Please..."

Your husband yanked your face up to eye level, his expression colder and more dangerous than you had ever seen it. "I'm so fucking tired of taking care of your little stupid ass," he growled and jerked you back by your hair.

You barely had enough time to garble a cry when a large, hard fist met the side of your face, sending you flying to the ground. You landed on your side, left palm scraping on the scratchy sidewalk as your head joined its outrageous pain. The sound you made could have been considered a shout if it hadn't been for the broken, sobbed cries between stolen breaths.

You trembled, trying to push yourself up as the garden grass and nearby bushes became your only view in the excruciating time of pain. But another hand grabbed you by the scruff of your long sleeved t-shirt and yanked you up just enough to where another punch could be delivered to your face again, this time sending a little bit of blood spewing onto the ground.

The force sent your neck swinging to the left, cheek splitting back against the hard ground. Your nose closed and your chest heaved causing you to cough harshly in need for oxygen and a way to subdue the pain. It hurt. It stung. You felt like your head was spinning. You couldn't even tell if your eyes were open or not; everything just looked black as your good arm reached out weakly in reach for something, anything, but fell exhaustedly back against the sidewalk.

You whimper and groan, blurry eyes widening at the sound of a familiar ignition blasting to life, but you clenched them shut in force of the pain pounding all throughout your head. Your nose was bleeding, probably broke, and your left eye wouldn't fully open.

You try to move your arms, try to sit up, but they shook too badly during the attempt and sent you plopping back against the ground where you whined in pain. All your body parts felt like they weren't even attached anymore. Everything felt completely detached, still, not there. The only thing that you could manage was a little bow of your head in which gave you the slightest amount of room to be able to see the taillights of your husband's car fading further and further away until you couldn't see them anymore.

If you could you would cry, would scream and curl up into the smallest ball you could make. But at this point, all you could do was drift off into a painful cloud of black. Your eyes, feeling as if they hadn't rested in years, closed on their own will, your overwhelmed brain shutting down.

For a few moments time drifted on. The wind dragged across your unconscious body as the darkness of night settled above you. No one noticed you laying there in the yard, bleeding, hurting and unmoving. 

No one... except the large, dark form lurking behind the trees. 

It came out, standing tall and motionless, slowly making way for you, but you had no way of being aware of its true danger. It stood above you, staring at your body in which was left stuck in twisted pain, looking over your swollen, bloody face. 

A few more moments dragged on before it happened. The large figure bent over, leaving you completely oblivious to the arms moving in underneath you, lifting your body up against a big, heavy chest. The only sound you made was a small noise of pain in your unconscious state as you were carried back up the wooden steps into your house. 

From there you were sat down on the couch, the figure kneeling before you. Fingers touched your wounded face, brushing away some of the blood below your eye, but you remain completely unaware. It stayed for a while, just staring at your beaten form, not leaving until your head turned, lips gapped and exposing the full extent of damage your face had taken. 

When you woke up, the first thing you did was flinch as pain from the light seemed to penetrate through your very aching head. Sucking in a breath, you made a little noise of pain as your entire head throbbed. Your eye felt like it was going to explode and your entire cheek felt busted in.

When you tried to open your eyes, only one would really succeed, while the other stayed welded shut. Irritation from the light above you caused you to lift your arm up, twitching as the pain there felt just as bad as the pain from everywhere else.

Blocking the light, you slowly, shakily began to force yourself to sit up, wincing and whimpering at the pain. Sight had returned at least to your good eye, and you could see that you were inside your house, lying on the couch. Not outside on the sidewalk.

Had your husband moved you here?

You couldn't really think of anything at the moment. The pain was the biggest thing on your mind right now no matter how confused and hurt you may be. Nothing else was important right now.

Raising your good arm up, you held the side of your face in one hand and groan lightly. It hurt. It really hurt. For a few moments you stay in that position, hoping that somehow your own touch would help make all the rest of the pain go away.

When you worked to open both your eyes again, your sight caught on a very peculiar item on the coffee table. An item you hadn't remembered being there.

Lowering your hand, you tilt your head and bend forward to get a closer look at the knife you swore had went missing yesterday. It was the exact same one that you had tried to use to kill yourself, except this time it was covered in blood. But... not your blood.

You tilt your head even more as if you couldn't quite grasp what was before your very eyes. The knife was covered in blood, the majority of it having been dripped onto the table like it had been sitting there for a while. But who's blood was that?

You try to think and process but there were a couple things you had yet to understand. Like the fact that you were inside now instead of out there in the yard. The knife was back, covered in blood and sitting right before you. Your head felt like it was thundering with pain because of the beating you had received however long ago.

Staring at the knife again, you still have yet to understand what was going on, and you weren't sure if you ever would.

The most you could think about was cleaning up your face and maybe getting some ice and something to dull the pain, but before you could act on it, there was a hard knock on your door.

It startled you at first, making you believe that somehow you had crawled back inside at some point during the night, accidentally locking the door, and now your husband was here. Knocking furiously.

You try to keep from falling as you yank yourself up to your weak legs, quickly walking around the furniture and over to the door, unlocking it and opening it with your head down, "(h/n), I'm sorry about yesterday, please don't be..."

When you looked up, you were thrown off by the sight of a man a little bit taller than you wearing a light brown trench coat, black work pants, and round glasses, standing on your porch, staring at you in what appeared to be suspicion and bewilderment.

And you couldn't blame him. Your impression was probably not anything for show. Your swollen lips were parted stupidly, your left eye was probably bruised and squinted near shut, and there was a possibility dry blood still smeared across your nose and cheeks.

As if sensing your shock, the man straightened his posture and adjusted his glasses. "Right, pardon me. Are you Mrs. (y/n)?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Yes," You nod, unsure about what was happening now.

"You look rather-well-umm... ill," the man said with a slight cringe directed at your crippled form, "Are you alright?"

Keeping a hold of the door, you looked down and nodded your head.

He then gave you a look of concern and curiosity, asking in the same tone of voice, "Might I ask what happened?"

You sagged and continued to look away as you quickly and bluntly say, "Fight..."

"With who?"

You sigh to yourself and shake your head before looking back up at him, "Excuse me... Who are you?"

"Oh, right," The man's face brightened and he, once again, straightened his stance, reaching up to push his glasses forward, and clear his throat, "My name is Samuel. Samuel Loomis. I work with the sheriff here in town."

You nod your head, tilting it slightly in wonder of what he was doing here. You felt unease at the way he shifted from side to side, looking around as if he was hesitating to tell you something bizarre.

"Mrs. (y/n), I'm... I'm not sure how to tell you this, but-umm... Your husband, (h/n), is dead..."

The information didn't even get to settle before your eyes went stock wide and you were asking a dumbfounded, "What?"

"Now I know this mustn't be easy," he said and cleared his throat again, "But I need you to come with me to the police station so that we can ask you some questions."

"What happened to him?" You asked, surprised. Probably a lot less mourningful than what he expected.

"(h/n) body was found just behind the Parkins household. He had obtained multiple stab wounds to the chest..." He shifted again, as if he thought you would start sobbing at any moment.

You just stood there though, watching in complete and utter silence as you imagined what (h/n) must look like; stabbed, bloody and dead. Ditched behind the house holding the rich man's daughter he was having an affair with.

"Do... Do you have any idea what could have happened? Have you..." The man looked around before leaning in and mumbling lowly, "Have you been seeing anything strange? Anybody strange?"

In that instant, you remembered the missing kitchen knife that had been returned bloodied to your coffee table sometime in the middle of the night, and tensed. Had that been... the murder weapon? Had someone actively stolen your kitchen knife just to kill your husband? And what about waking up on the couch and all that? Had that been intentional too?

There wasn't any point trying to hide in all the lies at this point. You were confused, in pain and curious to see what all this was about.

"You see, the sheriff thinks you're the one responsible for his death considering the background check we ran and the fact that he's having an affair right behind your back," he nearly whispered, shifting again, "I, however, disagree."

"Why?" you asked, growing anxious.

The man looked left, right and then all behind him before leaning back in and whispering like it was some witch craft spell, "Michael Myers..."

You just squint your eyes at him, "Who?"

It took a full three hours before you were finally aloud to go back home. The sun had just risen in the east and was now contrasting beautifully against the dark world below. You were told to stay longer, to try and keep safe after all that had happened, but you were too busy thinking and thinking about how it all just didn't make any sense.

After helping to fix up your face and get you something to drink, the ever so eager Samuel Loomis explained to you who Michael Myers was before the sheriff came in to ask you questions about your husband, love life, difficulties in your relationship, proof of where you were last night and all that implies to solving murder. You told them all the truth and Loomis was able to postpone your jurisdiction. He also told you all about the murderous, sociopathic killer named Michael Myers.

Apparently this man used to live near the same neighborhood your house was in. He was known for causing years and years of terror and trauma all throughout the same areas. He was a former patient of the Samuel Loomis who fully believed in your knife story and that it was Michael himself who killed your husband and not you.

And when he told you about the white mask, you had nearly fainted, remembering the first day you moved in, seeing that person wearing the white mask standing just right beside your yard. And then all the missing puzzle pieces clicked together. And you had the same suspicions that it just might have been this Michael Myers guy who killed your husband. The only thing that didn't make sense to you is why he didn't kill you. By what Loomis said, Michael killed everyone who crossed his path. 

The thought stayed on your mind as you drove back home after been given the same warnings over and over again. Lock your doors, keep a weapon at your side at all times and never hide in the closet. Michael was big, powerful and relentless. He killed without reason and was merciless. You needed to avoid him at all costs.

But no matter what, you merely brushed all that to the side as you thought about what you wanted to know. You were sad, yeah, but you weren't blown to agony and tears by your husband's tragic death. The urge to know why this happened to him was stronger than the potential pain you felt for his death in the first place. If it was Michael Myers who killed him, then why? Why did he kill just him and only him? Why had he spared you? Why'd he return the knife?

When you made it to your house, you went inside and saw that the same bloody knife sat unmoved and untouched on the coffee table. You slowly walk over to it, the same questions swarming through your head like a hungry flock of birds as you stop and bend over, picking up the weapon with still hands.

Looking closely at the knife, you felt something burning inside your chest, something strong and eager. An urge, a strong desire and curiosity. It expanded everywhere, and you soon found your mind taken over by the questions that you needed answered.

Later that night, you turned off your porch light and went outside by yourself, sitting on the steps with your arms resting on your knees as you waited... and waited. For a while you laid on your back, staring up at the stars as you rested, listening closely for the sound of ruffling grass or creaking floor boards. And you weren't sure how long you actually stayed there when you felt it.

The sound of boards quietly groaning to the pressure of a powerful force, the chills racing down the right side of your body where you suspected he was looming over you, the faint sound of steady breathing and the feeling that tore through your body.

And yet you remain completely still, immobilized. The only thing that was going fast was your heart, and even that wasn't enough to change your mind about what you wanted to do as you very slowly turn your head back and look up.

And sure enough, the presence you expected to be Michael Myers was standing there, right above you, breathing right down your neck.