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Halloween: Origin of Darkness [Chapter One]
By AlanGrant5
HALLOWEEN: ORIGIN OF DARKNESS
Written by Devin Da Graca
– CHAPTER ONE –
St. Pauls Cathedral
November 4th, 2002
11:15 AM.
I had received a phone call from Darrel Harmon, one of Gwen Andersons’ Board of Directors, at around 4 o’clock on the morning of Halloween and was told that my mother was murdered. The news hadn’t shocked me as much as it had scared me. Darrel had told me a knife had been pushed into her spinal cord and was found lying on the hospitals exterior, buried in leaves. She had been pushed off the hospitals roof, with the knife already in her back.
“Michael will never die John, even when he’s dead. Michael will die once I die... understand?” she had asked me. I wasn’t sure what she meant until now. Through death, she was free of Michael Myers. He couldn’t hurt her anymore, but with her gone, the target shifted from her and onto me. With my mothers death, I had inherited the pain and fear she had lived with for the past twenty years.
That morning I went to Gwen Anderson’s to meet with Detective Brian Grimshaw, a strongly built African American who’s dedication towards his job was beyond evident. He wore a gray trench coat, with a black wardrobe beneath. He looked tired, most likely because he had gone over the case dozens of times the night previous.
I was informed by Detective Grimshaw that two other people were murdered besides my mother. They were both security guards investigating a disturbance in the hospitals basement and were both murdered in a gruesome fashion. The detective of eleven years told me traces of Michael’s blood were found on the rooftop and that it was indeed Michael Myers who was responsible. I could of told him that, but I didn’t want to make the detective give up his quest for justice on account of my instincts.
“I’ll find him,” Detective Grimshaw had said, “I give you my word.”
Now, four days after my mothers death, I find myself being embraced by family members I never even knew existed. Legions of people attended the funeral held at St. Paul’s Cathedral, with most of them belonging to the press. My father even showed up with his tacky inflatable girlfriend who offered the words of sympathy, “Like, I am so totally sorry for your loss.” Although I didn’t verbalize my disapproval, I let my father know I wasn’t okay with him bringing the life-size Barbie by giving him “the look”. I’d received that look many times before when I was younger and rightfully so because I had done a lot of stupid shit. It was that “Just what in the hell do you think your doing?” look, where you merely looked at them because if you were to say something you’d have made a scene in the publicity of people you’d wish weren’t around so that you could actually say something. I wasn’t in the mood to argue with the honorable Larry Tate, father of four, ex-husband of two.
As the funeral ceremony ensued, I stared at my mothers picture, held up by wooden stilts and smiled, ignoring everything else that was taking place. She was smiling in the picture and it had been years since I last saw her smile. Her beauty and life was captured in the photograph and the longer I stared at it, the more I longed to see her one last time. We had departed on bad terms and now I would live with the regret of treating her the way I did for the rest of my life.
“We’d like to take this time and leave it open for any family members or friends of Laurie Strode to share a few words on her behalf,” the priest concluded, closing his Bible and holding it against his chest.
When the priest made his way off the cathedral’s stage a silence fell amongst us all. It was quiet, so quiet you were able to hear one dabbing their cheek with a soft tissue, removing that single tear which blurred their vision. With no one rushing to the stage, I rose, the wooden bench creaking as I did, and walked down the isle feeling the eyes of the world piercing through me. “Poor kid,” I heard someone say as I walked up the stairs.
I cleared my throat upon reaching the podium and searched for the voice that failed to sound when first trying to speak. Then it returned, “The past three years have been a struggle. It wasn’t easy watching her slip away the way she did. My mom was always terribly stubborn and at the same time emotionally strong and to watch both of those defining characteristics vanish... I saw her disappear before my very eyes.”
“She had reassured me that she belonged at Gwen Anderson... that it was for the best and in everyone’s best interest. She always put herself last and it’s because of that notion that we’re all here today, mourning the loss of my mother. But, when it’s all said and done, her days of living in constant fear are over. She can–” I stopped. Maybe I was caught up in the moment. Maybe I was delusional and the tears filling my eyes were causing me to see things, but as I stared out into the crowd, behind the benches, behind the press stationed against the walls of the Cathedral, I saw his face. The face of Michael Myers, watching the funeral ceremony with a sense of triumphant victory. Real or not, I had to make sure.
In a senseless rage, I knocked the podium over in a mad dash towards the back of the Cathedral. People rose from their seats, disturbed and confused by my sudden outburst. Running down that isle felt as if I were running a mile, my destination furthering itself from me. My father ran after me screaming my name as if I were a rabid dog having just escaped from the pound. Of course people blocked my path and by the time I reached the area in which I had seen Michael’s face, he was gone.
“John, what are you doing?” my father asked.
Instead of answering him, I ran outside looking every which way. Michael Myers was gone. Was he even there to begin with? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know, but after years of persistent torture Laurie Strode was dead. If Michael wasn’t at the funeral, how could he have possibly missed it? This was the day he’d been waiting for, the day in which his sister would be buried six feet under, the day Michael would claim final victory.
“John, what’s a matter with you?” Larry asked, grabbing my shoulder.
“He was here... he was right here,” I protested, even checking the roof of the cathedral. Who knew where this monster was. If Michael wasn’t around, than the fear of him was and it would forever be this way. For the first time in a long while, I began to cry. My father pulled me into his arms and I couldn’t help but let out the pain bottled up within me. I put all the mistakes my father had made aside and welcomed his embrace. My mothers suffering may have come to an end, but mine were just beginning.
Comments are Appreciated
12/31/2002 3:43:43 PM
(Updated: 12/31/2002 3:44:54 PM)
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