A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 01

She saw no white light, she saw no angels waiting for her. There was no holy comforter to caress and usher her soul to the next world. All the conventions she had learned in church were absent, replaced by a hot torment that pulled at every fiber of her being. She was pulled away, ripped towards that dark place where the heart of the dream killer, the creature that wanted children more than anything else in the world, waited for her. And in that darkness were his designs for her, twisted and devoid of any mercy.

The darkness swallowed her whole, and she was gone.

***

Quantico, Virginia

FBI Academy Guest Accommodations

Saturday, August 14th 2005

In dreams, they say, there is truth. In dreams, they say, there is sight. In the dreams of Matthew Loomis, he often found both. In this particular dream, one he had experienced many times before, he found himself walking alone under heavy, steel blue clouds as the scent of rain blew across the unknown valley beneath his feet. The grass was always a dulled green and wet, the air humid and muggy. Displaced leaves fluttered around his feet and circled in a non-existent wind, wafting to and fro before being carried away into the recesses of his subconscious. It was the valley he often remembered from his childhood, a place he had been before but could not remember when.

The sky flashed with silent lightning in the distance, followed moments later by a roll of bass-burdened thunder. He looked up, his face beaded with sweat and bald scalp shiny in the subdued light. He could hear birds in the distance chirping, busily chatting with each other despite the fact there neither a tree to roost in nor a feather to be seen. Small raindrops began falling, rolling off his baldhead and then falling to his white shirt.

"Matthew," came a voice from behind him, to the left.

He spun around and saw his father standing quietly, looking at him with such love and pride that it broke his heart. Sam Loomis looked as he had just before he was murdered. Old and slightly over weight, bald as could be and a genial smile framed by a graying beard. His face was only slightly scarred, the wounds of his past having been corrected through cosmetic surgery. He looked healthy and strong. The elder Loomis smiled at his boy, hands planted in the pockets of his tanned trench coat. The tail of the coat caught the phantom wind and billowed for a moment as father and son regarded each other.

"Dad," Matthew smiled, tears in his eyes. God he missed him. He missed him so much.

"I am proud of you," Sam said, his blue eyes fixed on Matthew with wonder, "You've done so well."

"I miss you Dad," Matthew breathed, his throat choked and face hot. Tears threatened to birth from his eyes as his father walked to him and placed at hand on his shoulder.

"I don't want your fate to be mine," his father's fingers trembled, his skin tone, once vibrant now dulling slightly, "There is nothing to be gained by dying."

"I can catch him," Matthew said, "I know I can. I almost had him, Dad."

"Michael will never die," Sam said, "He won't die until the evil inside him is ready to leave."

"The Thorn?"

"Yes," his father replied, "Go now. Leave the crusade. There are things fouler beyond the curse of Michael Myers. And they are coming."

"I don't understand."

"I would hope you'd never have to," Sam Loomis said, his eyes glassy and distant, "I've seen things..."

Matthew took his father's hand in his own. They were cold. He said, "Dad, I've seen things too."

Sam focused on his son after a moment, "No, not like this. There is an evil beyond anything you can imagine coming for you and your friends. It is already happening."

Matthew stood there for a moment as the dream began to grow dark. And then his father squeezed his hand and let go of him. Matthew went to reach for him, but he might as well have been a million miles away. His father was a mere few feet away, and yet too far to touch. Matthew felt the tears streaming down his cheeks as he reached out, rain rolling off his fingertips. He whispered, "Dad, please. Don't go."

"I'm sorry, Matthew," Sam smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes, "I am truly sorry."

"I never got to say good-bye to you, Dad," Matthew said suddenly. The rain was falling now in a soundless torrent.

"Be careful, son," his father said.

Matthew looked up into the sky, searching for anything, anything at all to say that would make his father stay with him for one more minute. He looked back and saw his father was gone and in his place was the white, bleached out face of Michael Myers. The killer gazed down on him in the shadowing dream world, the eyes of a doll so impartial and unsympathetic. His wild, brown hair was matted and wet, the eye sockets weeping dark blood. The mouth of the mask was emotionless and cool. Michael cocked his head to one side and regarded Matthew solemnly.

"Michael," he breathed.

The blade Michael had been holding, a simple kitchen carving knife, cut through the flesh of his stomach and destroyed the surrounding innards as though he had been made of butter. Matthew cringed, his abdomen on screaming in pain as white-hot sensation ripped through his body. He cried out as the rain became blood and the world was red.

"No," he wheezed and then was jerked up violently, the blade embedded in his body. He heard a wet squishing sound and then a crack as something penetrated his spine.

"Michael!"

The blade punched through his back, severing his spine.

"No!"

.... And then Loomis woke up in his bed, sheets soaked and screaming. His legs flailed and kicked the sheets off his trembling body. His heart thundered in his chest, blood pumping furiously through his veins and adrenaline lighting up every single muscle in his body. He gasped for air and immediately felt his stomach. All he found was 20 pounds of extra weight and a fine covering of dark hair. There was no blood, no wound and no Michael Myers.

"Jesus," he put his hands to his face and fell back to the bed. A weak laugh worked its way out of his trembling lips as he breathed deep, calming himself. Matthew swung his feet over the side of the bed and hugged himself. The laughing was that of relief and ever-present fear. After a few minutes he found, to his surprise, that he was sobbing. He was sobbing as he had when his father had been killed. It was the same uncontrollable grief that haunted him over his failure to catch Michael and that of what had happened in Springwood not too long ago.

"Please God," he whispered in between breaths, "Please help me."

The phone rang.

Matthew looked to his bedside clock and found it was three in the morning. He rubbed his eyes and composed himself, the ringing of the phone acting as an alarm to get his act together. Even as he found his footing again, he knew there was something on the end of that call, someone that had some bad news in store for him. The dream had been too prophetic for Matthew Loomis's taste, and after all he had seen since taking up the life and career of his father, he had learned not to ignore those kinds of signs.

The phone rang for the tenth time.

"Alright," he said quietly.

He picked up the phone, cleared his throat and said, "Hello?"

"Dr. Loomis?" came a female voice.

"Yes," he replied, "May I ask who is calling so early in the morning?"

"Alexis Rowan," his caller said, "I'm sorry to wake you."

"No, please don't apologize," he said, "I was already awake."

"Can't sleep?" his former student asked.

"Bad dreams."

"In our line of work, bad dreams can kill you," she said.

"What's gone wrong?" he asked.

"How'd you know?"

"Call it intuition."

"There's something new happening in the Voorhees case," Rowan said, "Something that, well, is out of the ordinary."

"You speak as though Voorhees is ordinary in some capacity."

"Doctor, we need you here."

Loomis took a deep breath, "Is it Michael?"

"No, thank God," she said.

"What is it then?"

"Are you sitting down?" Rowan asked.

"Yes."

"Brace yourself."

Loomis listened and suddenly wished that he hadn't answered the phone. When Rowan was done, he hung up the phone, got up and went into the bathroom where promptly vomited. He puked until he had nothing but the reflexive dry heaves of an unsettled stomach. After a few moments, the spastic contractions stopped and he put his face to the toilet seat, taking comfort in the cool porcelain. The toilet flushed and he returned to the bedroom after a good five minutes of down time.

Once more he picked up the phone. He paged the front desk and after a few rings, the attendant on duty picked up the line. Loomis said, "I apologize for calling you at such an ungodly hour, but I will need a taxi in twenty minutes."

"Destination, sir?"

"The airport," he closed his eyes, "And please hurry."

"Of course doctor."

"Thank you."

The line went dead and after a few eternal moments, he opened his eyes.

"Time to go," he whispered, pulling his suitcase out from under the bed.

Indeed, the time had come.

***

New York City, New York

Saturday, August 14th 2005

Lori Rollins stood at the stove in her kitchen, barefoot and relaxed in simple gray sweats and a t-shirt. Her once long blonde had had been cut short, almost to the middle of her neck. She had pulled the thick hair back into a stumped ponytail from her face in an effort to better focus on the task at hand. A mild mist of sweat had broken out over her countenance and neck, giving her a luminescence in the fiery afternoon fade that made her shine.

With a metal spatula she pushed and prodded the chicken breasts cooking in the large, silver pan. The steam caressed her and the aroma of lemon, pepper and garlic graced her nose. The sizzle of the meat against the searing metal pan was the only sound she could really hear. When she cooked, she lost herself in the activity. It was here that she could block out the world and think.

Today, as with the day before and the day before that she spent her time grieving for her husband, dead now for four months and yet still very much alive in the place they had called home together. She had wanted to leave the apartment behind and get a smaller place, maybe a studio in Greenwich Village. Money wasn't an issue. Between the insurance from Will's policy and her own success as an accountant, she was as financially well off as any 25-year-old widow could be.

Still, she could not leave. There were memories here that she needed, or rather memories that she couldn't let go of. She felt like a drug addict, somehow trying to rationalize a habit that she knew was no good for her and still necessary all the same. Every room had seen an expression of their love for one another, from the intimately sexual to the mundane arguments. And they had gone through quite a few arguments together, but none so bad that in the end he couldn't look at her with his powerful brown eyes (as he always did, the proverbial ace-in-the-hole for one Mr. Will Rollins) and melt her defenses.

Lori wasn't ready to move on, nor did she think she ever would be. Will had been the man she had been waiting for since she had first met him at the age of fourteen. A suffocating schoolgirl crush became something real for her when she discovered he felt the same. That something real grew into a deep love when they came together and made love for the first time. When Will came back to her during the last year of high school that was all it took. They were inseparable and a perfect match for each, a balance and counterpoint that equalized everything out effortlessly.

"Jesus," she whispered, stifling back the lump in her throat. Like any bad habit, dwelling on Will too much was dangerous and eventually painful.

The chicken had browned in the pan for a few moments before she began adding conservative splashes of lemon juice. The juice sizzled and steamed as she flavored the meat. A minute later, she shut the burner off and sat the pan on the marbled counter. The glass of wine she had poured (fourth one today, and all by three in the afternoon no less, thank you very much) was still sitting by the phone, waiting for her with the promise of comfort. Lori took it and sipped, pacing herself as best she could. It wasn't like when she downed tequila (Te-Kill-Ya, as Will had always joked). With the wine, she felt more in control. She could sip it or drink it or down it or pour it down the fucking sinkhole if she liked. Either way, she was in control.

As the chicken cooled, Lori walked through her spacious living room and to the sliding glass door. She opened it to the somewhat less than hospitable air of New York City and stepped onto the balcony. The metropolis was alive and bustling, its citizens already on their way home from work and signaling the start of rush hour. Lori found that ironic, considering it felt like rush hour at any given hour of the day or night. The city never slept, and it seemed that upon her return from Springwood, Ohio Lori Rollins adapted that label for herself.

She took another sip and sat the glass down on the balcony ledge. Her bare feet felt cold against the designer concrete of the structure, but she didn't much care. If the balcony gave way or there was a sudden fire in her apartment, the ten-story drop to the street below would make her cold feet seem a little inconsequential. Lori reached into the pocket of her sweats and pulled out a half-used pack of Camel cigarettes, lights of course as the regulars made her stomach queasy.

From the box she removed a single smoke with her lips and then lit it. The silver Zippo lighter Will had kept in his sock drawer was one of the few possessions he owned. Will had never been keen on having too many things. He was as simple as the metal case holding the lighter-fluid soaked cotton within. The lighter had belonged to Will's father, brought home from a worldwide trek in the service of the military and as such it was considered a family heirloom. He had often said it would go the firstborn of their children, the torch being passed from one Rollins to another so to speak.

Not that there would be any children.

Not now.

Not ever.

Will Rollins had died trying to save her and her friends in Springwood. The brutality of the murder was horrific enough as it was. The legendary serial killers Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers had both laid claim on his life, and they didn't stop until he was dead. Once that life was stolen, they turned on each other and fought like titans as Lori had screamed and cried until her eyes burned. She thought maybe it was a blessing that his body had burned up along with the police station where he had been slain. A funeral would have difficult, and his body could never have been viewed.

Will's mother had blamed Lori for her son's death. At first, she had tried to explain what happened, but really there was nothing she could say. It had been Lori who wanted to go back to Springwood and face the past; it had been her decision to stay when things began to get serious. It had been her choice to pursue the danger that Jason and Michael represented. And it had been her that Freddy Krueger singled out from the beginning. When Will's mother laid the blame at her feet, Lori picked it up and bore the burden on her back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The horizon of New York City was growing gray and thick with clouds as the first of the September rains began to arrive from the Atlantic, taking the edge off the hot August weather. She leaned against the brick and mortar wall of her apartment and took a deep drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke jet from her nostrils.

What it all came down to was Lori felt overwhelmed. She had seen more friends and loved ones die around her simply because, for reasons that she had only begun to understand, she was chosen. The word "chosen" used to imply something of great importance for her, an honor or some other sort of distinction. Now, she realized that her being "chosen" by the forces that governed the world beyond the physical as the Dream Master was more of a curse than a blessing.

During their time in Springwood, Lori and Will had met the previous bearer of the guard. Alice Johnson, beautiful and enigmatic, had gone from being a young high schooler to being a social recluse. Like Lori, her past was plagued with the losses of those she held most dear. Lori could still remember the haunted look in her eyes, and the strange sadness that seemed to permeate the air around her like an aura.

The sudden sound of her phone ringing brought Lori out of her thoughts and to the present. She stepped inside long enough to grasp the phone from its cradle in the kitchen and then return to the balcony. She clicked the phone on and said, "Hello?"

"Lori?"

"Yes."

"Hello," came a distinctly English voice, and Lori knew who it was even before he said it.

"Hello Dr. Loomis," she said, a small smile crowing across her lips. The doctor had not only seen Lori through the counseling of her first run in with Freddy Krueger, but also the second. In fact, the doctor had been with her every step of the way, as though it were fate. From New York to Springwood and back again, Matthew Loomis had been her safety net. When Will was killed, he became her rock in the middle of the storm. She asked, "How are you?"

"I'm all right," he replied, "I've been lecturing in West Virginia to some of the upcoming graduates at Quantico. Serial killers and the art of profiling and so on."

"You make it all sound so mundane," she smiled. Loomis was possessed of such a genuine modesty that she sometimes wondered if he even knew just how much intelligence he exuded or the trust he engendered.

"It's been a nightmare," he laughed and then, "So, how has your sabbatical been?"

"As relaxing as it can be," she hugged her arms to her chest and took another drag on her cigarette, "I still feel like I'm a million miles away."

"You're not smoking are you?"

Lori paused, and then, "Of course not."

"In my line of work, the simple term for what you just said is 'bullshit'."

Lori said, "Well, we all have vices."

"Some more than others," Loomis agreed, and then said, "Are you feeling any better?"

Lori breathed, "Not really. I can't get myself together."

"You were chased by two serial killers and one monster from beyond the dead," Loomis observed, "You underwent a serious psychic event and on top of that you lost your father and husband all in a matter of days. Don't be too hard on yourself. It will take time."

"I should be doing better than this," she said.

"Well, I had debated on calling you," he said quietly, changing the subject so subtly that Lori felt her heart jump.

"But?"

"Lori, there's been-" his voice paused, distressed and sincerely apologetic, "But there's been a new development."

"A development?"

"I'm sure you've been watching the news?"

Lori sighed. "They still haven't caught him?"

"Jason has eluded the authorities for four months now," Loomis said, "And his path seems to be laden north across Ohio and now into Michigan."

"He's not going back to Crystal Lake?" she asked.

"Not this time, apparently," Loomis said, "There may be a reason for it, or he may have just been forced that way by the pursuing authorities."

"The news reported seventeen people have been killed," Lori said, her mouth as dry as cotton.

"Yes," he confirmed and then after a moment said, "Lori, I know this is a trying time, and I hate even bringing this up to you."

"Doctor," she closed her eyes, her heart beginning to pound, "Matthew, we've been through too much together to beat around the bush. What is it?"

"I got a call from Alexis Rowan today. You remember her?"

"I remember."

"She is heading the investigation to recapture Jason," Loomis explained, "She requested that you and I join her in Michigan."