He stood in the shadow of the tall hedgerow, looking and listening. He had seen them necking in the kitchen, then Danny had come out on the porch for a minute to set the jack-o'-lantern down. When Danny returned, they had gone upstairs. A few minutes later, the light in Judy's bedroom had gone off. Now, above the rustle of the wind in the crisp leaves of the huge oaks on the front lawn, he could hear their sighs, moans, and giggles.
And they filled him with murderous hatred.
The voice in his head had become subdued for the moment as he listened to Judy and Danny, not really understanding the significance of their utterances except that it had to do with love. He had heard similar sounds coming from his mother and father's room. But he had felt warmly toward them. They were making each other happy, his father and mother, and that made him happy too.
Then why did he feel such poisonous rage against his sister and her boyfriend?
It was the voice. The voice stirred up the hatred. It had done so in his dreams, and now it was doing so in real life. It had begun with the strange pictures in his head at night, pictures of people he had never seen - oh, maybe in comic books or on television, but never in real life. People in strange costumes, animal skins, armor, leather, drinking and dancing wildly around a fire. One couple in particular. They looked like Judy and Danny, madly in love with each other, dancing in a circle around the huge bonfire, while he, Michael, stood in the crowd hating them, burning up with jealousy.
Then a voice had come into his head while he dreamt, a voice telling him to stop the dancing lovers. The voice had become louder, clearer, and more demanding lately, and its dictates more compelling. He had begun to believe that if he listened to the voice, did what it told him to do, maybe the voice would go away and leave him alone. It was no longer a dream voice. It spoke to him during the waking time too. It had spoken loudly to him tonight, even as he went from house to house begging candy, even as he played games at the party. It had directed him to return home at once.
Looking around to make certain he wasn't being observed, he slipped across the lawn past the front porch, ducking stealthily to avoid the orange glare of the jack-o'-lantem. He sidled along the shingles on the side of the house and tiptoed up the stairs of the side door. He turned the knob and opened the door. He wasn't surprised. People didn't lock their doors in Haddonfield; what was there to fear?
He slipped into the kitchen and crossed to the sink. Go ahead, the voice told him, you know what to do. He opened the drawer and reached in. His fingers enclosed the thing he was looking for, and he withdrew it from the drawer.
It was the butcher knife.
He touched the tip with the meat of his index-finger. It pricked him. He ran his thumb along the edge of the eight-inch blade. It left a thin neat trail of blood.
He glided out of the kitchen and into the parlor, where he paused, listening. He heard them talking while they dressed and straightened up. He pressed himself against the wall as footsteps creaked down the stairs.
First he saw Danny, in jeans and blue-striped polo shirt. His hair was mussed and his cheeks were flushed as if he'd been kissed with hard passion. Then Judy, a sheet wrapped around her, which she held with her thumb against the base of her spine. The intruder gazed at her bare, dimpled buttocks and slender legs, then he fingered the blade of his knife, trembling.
They were kissing, and at last she let go of the sheet, so that all that held it up was the pressure of his body against hers. "Do you have to go?"
He held his watch up behind her head. "I gotta. Your folks'll be home any second."
She ran her hand up his thigh. "How about a quick one?"
"Here? Now? Are you crazy?"
"You are such a chicken."
"I'd be a roast chicken if your parents discovered us doing it in the hall as they walked in the door." He pushed her away and the sheet fell to the floor. His eyes bulged as he took her body in one last time. "Jeez, it's tempting... No. No, I gotta go." He picked the sheet up and wrapped it around her once again. "See, chivalry is not dead."
"Too bad. Will you call me tomorrow?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Promise?"
"I'd have to be crazy not to, wouldn't I?"
They kissed one last time and parted like Romeo leaving Juliet. Judy shut the door behind him, leaned against it for a moment, and moaned in remembrance of recent ecstasies. The she trotted back up the stairs.
He stepped out of the shadows of the parlor and furtively made his way up the stairs, pausing at the landing to look and listen. Her clothes were still strewn in a trail from the top of the stairs to her bed. He followed them like a hunter tracking the spoor of his prey. He stopped outside her open door, peering inside. She sat in her red valentine bikini panties, brushing her hair before the mimor on her dresser. She hummed a tune in her pretty voice.
He stepped into the room and was halfway across when she saw him. Her eyes clouded and her eyebrows knit with puzzlement. She crossed her wrists in front of her breasts. She recognized him through his mask and called his name, bewildered. "Michael, is this a joke...?"
He continued coming at her.
"Get out of here, Goddamn it. Get out of here before I..."
The first slash of the knife caught her on the wrist, splashing blood across her chest and legs. She looked at the wound with more surprise than pain. She couldn't believe it was happening.
Then she realized.
She jumped to her feet and backed away to the wall, knocking over her chair. "What are you doing? What are you doing?" she cried. As he raised the blade again, she held her hand out to protect herself. He slashed the hand viciously, and it dropped limply to her side. Now she was shrieking insanely as she grasped what was happening. He plunged the knife into her right breast, and a great gout of scarlet blood spurted out of the wound and soaked his hand and wrist. He thrust the blade into her belly. At what point she died, he didn't know, for now that she was defenseless he stuck the knife into her again and again, jamming it into her breasts, belly, groin, arms, legs, and throat. He stabbed her fifty times if he stabbed her once, exultation sweeping over him like no joy he had ever known.
The paroxysms began to die down and he stood over her, spent. It was almost impossible to recognize this piece of hacked flesh. Blood was everywhere, and the sour odor of it rose up from his hands, intoxicating him.
The gory little figure turned and stepped over the fallen furniture and scattered clothing and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. Suddenly he realized he was hungry. He reached into a bowl on the kitchen counter and stuffed a cookie into his mouth, then opened the refrigerator door and removed a bottle of milk. He emptied half of it into his mouth with his bloody sleeve, leaving a streak of red and white across his cheek.
He opened the side door and went outside, still carrying the butcher knife. He stepped out onto the lawn and stood there for a minute indecisively.
At that moment, a dark sedan pulled up to the curb. The assassin made no attempt to flee, but stood on the lawn waiting for the occupants of the car to get out. After a moment both front doors opened and a man and woman emerged. They took two or three paces toward the house, then saw him and stopped, staring at the figure in the bloodstained clown costume with a blood-clotted butcher knife in his hand.
The man reached out and removed the mask from the boy's face. "Michael...?"
