The Death of Michael

Halloween was over and Michael was tired. He dug through the pockets of his faded blue jumpsuit and pulled out the key to his apartment. With a sigh he unlocked the door, stepped in, and flicked on the light. His eyes roamed the rooms as he shut the door with a soft click and slipped off his boots. The space was cozy, an oak coffee table, a worn leather couch the color of caramel, the sparse but clean kitchen. Well, except for the stack of mail teetering on haphazardly on the table. Michael mentally admonished himself for the third time that week, resolving to sort through it the next day. 

He strode into the kitchen and turned on the sink, pumping thick fragrant soap into his calloused hands. As he scrubbed, he watched muted hues of pink and read swirl together before spiraling down the drain. Convinced of his cleanliness, he dried his hands then moved to the fridge and pulled open the door. He grabbed a tall can of beer and popped the tab, relishing the gentle hiss of the escaping carbonation. His steps were soft as he made his way to the living room and plopped on the couch. With a flourish, he snatched the remote from the coffee table and replaced it with his feet. His back relaxed into the cool leather as he turned on the TV.

He was greeted immediately with satisfaction as the local news channel blinked into the picture. A bedraggled reporter stood in the middle of a street illuminated by flood lamps and shifting flashes of police sirens. The houses behind him were drenched in shadow. The reporter was speaking to the camera, his voice noticeably unsteady. Michael thought he had probably been dragged from bed for this and felt a sliver of guilt brush his mind. He prodded it away and focused on what the newsman was saying.

“… are receiving more information as we speak. What we know so far is that at least four people were attacked, three were pronounced dead on the scene and the fourth died shortly after arriving at the hospital.”

Michael noted that they had yet to find the fifth victim. He knew they would shortly though, the bodies had not been as spaced out throughout the town as in the prior years. He was getting too old for this.

“The initial statement from first responders placed the attacks sometime between 10 pm and 12:30 am, only a few short hours ago…”

The reporter’s voice faltered, and he looked nervously around the street. The shadows behind him weaved in and out of the flashing lights like fingers. He turned back to the camera, steeling himself, and cleared his throat.

“As we know, this is not the first Halloween to end in loss of life, in the last five decades there have been one dozen attacks, tonight marking the thirteenth for our small town.”

A plump man with thinning hair came into view. He hustled to the reporter, a piece of paper clutched in his hand. The reporter smothered the mic on his collar with his fist and the plump man said something. The reporter nodded once and took the paper, scanning it over as the man scurried out of the camera’s range. He took a breath and continued.

“The police have returned with more information; a witness saw a tall figure walking behind one of the victims as she ran down the stretch of sidewalk behind me. The witness assumed it was late night trick-or-treaters. Police want the community to be on the lookout for a large man resembling William Shatner.” The reporter narrowed his eyes at the paper. “The witness stated the man’s face was oddly pale and his hair was uncombed and wild. Police believe it could also be a mask, given the time of year. They are encouraging the community to be on high alert as the case continues.”

Michael switched off the TV and stood with a groan. He was definitely getting too old for this. He moved the small window in the corner of the living room where a large aquarium sat on an ornate stand. He peered into the tank. His fish were sleeping, nestled amongst flowing emerald blades of Vallisneria. Michael had fed them and turned off the tank’s LED light before he left. He watched the four small cichlids with a smile. Soon, he pulled himself away and flicked off the light, blanketing the apartment in darkness. He walked down the short length of narrow hallway to his bedroom at the end. He was too tired to do anything other than flop on the bed, where he fell nearly instantly into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Michael woke suddenly to a loud sound somewhere in the apartment, like several drawers being slammed shut at once. Bleary with sleep he strained to listen for the next several moments. All was quiet, and he shrugged it off, sure he had dreamt it, and rolled over to drown again in slumber. His eyes drooped closed, but immediately snapped open as the smell hit him. Fear clawed his chest and his nose crinkled; he would recognize it anywhere. It was the deep iron tang of blood.

His heart slammed in his chest, but he remained motionless on the bed. The room was black as pitch, and he strained to see or hear. Not for the first time in his life he silently cursed himself for his inability to spontaneously develop night vison. He perceived only the nothing of darkness and the low huff of his own breathing. He willed his mattress to be silent as sat up cautiously and reached for the lamp on the bedside. He turned it on with a small click.

Sickly yellow light flooded the small room. Michael’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth in horror. Crimson stains of congealed blood stuck in the carpet of his room, along with mud and bits of grass. The door to his room was open and he could see spots of grime trailing into the black, yawning maw of the hallway. The floor was most tarnished on the far side of the room. There, something lay gleaming atop the dresser. A strangled cry escaped Michael’s throat, rough with disuse, as he gazed at the object. The pearlescent bodies of his beautiful fish were wet and glistening against the wood, speared through on one long, metal pick. He wrenched out of bed to the fish-spear, picking it up and cradling it in his arms. His mind was reeling, and he ground his teeth together trying to focus.

Then, a tinkling laugh from the dark. “Did you see what I made you,” a breathy voice trilled. “Do you get it? It’s fish kabob!” The laugh sounded from the dark again, this time broken with a wheezing cough and the sound of someone spitting out something unpleasant. “Damn, you really got me man.” Words trailed in to irritated muttering.

Michael acted, taking giant, measured steps to the closet and sliding open the door. He reached blindly into the corner and pulled out his katana. He couldn’t be sure who the voice belonged to, as the reporter did not name the people found, but he had an idea. Flexing his fingers around the wrapped hilt, he realized he no longer heard muttering. There was only silence from the inky darkness of the hall. He did not know what to do, but he did not like that the owner of the disembodied voice could see into the room, while Michael could not see out. He backed slowly to the lamp on the bedside table, feeling for the switch and turned it off, letting the dark envelop him.

“Oh really! Are you going back to bed now?” There was another slam and Michael tensed, then the light in the living room was on. Michael blinked rapidly, adjusting his eyes to the sudden illumination. He could not see anyone in the hallway or, from this angle, in the rooms beyond. He braced himself and toed to the entrance of the room, his knuckles white from the tight grip on the katana’s hilt. He wielded it in front of him like a joust. He would just skewer whoever was here, just like they had skewered Jeffrey and Mona and Kevin and Bob. And then he would do it again, and again, until his arms were too tired to continue. He grinned; he was good at this.

His steps were sure as he moved from the room toward the light. The tip of the blade approached the end of the hallway, the white socks of Michael’s feet on its heels. Once there he positioned himself in a defensive stance and searched the room for the voice’s owner. It was a short search. She was leaning against the aquarium stand, the LED light of the tank was on and the top ajar. Water puddled around the stand. The woman tapped broken nails against the glass of the tank.

“Has anyone ever told you that thing on your head makes you look like William Shatner if he was run over by a car then made a geisha? Do you ever take it off?” She giggled, and a bit of blood leaked from the side of her mouth.

His guess had been correct, it was the woman in the witch’s costume. She had appeared as he was leaving the park after he had brutally murdered a couple distracted in the throes of romance. They had been on a blanket next to the bushes and an empty bottle of Jack. It had been easy.

The witch woman had leapt at him as he stepped through a gap in the chain link fence that surrounded the park area. She was saying something furiously and smacking his arms and chest with force. He did not know what to do so he raised his knife and brought it down through the soft tissue and sinew of her back, the blade nearly exiting her front. She stumbled back, her purple hat crumpled over the soft curls of her hair. Her eyes were wide with shock, and Michael noticed they were a deep and vivid green, reminding him of verdant moss he had seen growing in the forest outside of town.

Disconcerted, he had stabbed her again in the belly, twisting the knife before wrenching it back out. She lurched back once more and tumbled into the grass next to the sidewalk. Michael frowned. He heard her attempts to breathe through the burbles of blood, and after a few seconds, turned on his heavy booted heels and walked away. Reflecting now, he should have kept on until he was certain she was completely dead.

“You don’t let much get to you, do you.” It was a statement, not a question. “Also, you should take better care to make sure you are not followed since you seem to go around killing people for fun. More importantly, you should lock your door.”

Michael screamed internally. He had forgotten to lock the door to his apartment tonight. It happened often; Michael did not worry about much.

She hacked a cough, and her voice went raspy. “You have a much larger knife now; do you think it will do the job this time?” Her lips curled in a predatory grin. “Or are you planning to make me a kabob like those horrible fish? A witch-kabob! Fish-kabob, witch-kabob! She cackled manically.

Michael lunged, his katana shining in the bright living room light. At the same time, the witch woman revealed the arm she had pinned behind her back and had been using to lean against the aquarium stand. She was holding a Glock, sideways, the metal as black as obsidian.

Her voice was strong and her arm steady as she shouted, “Break yourself fool!” The trigger pulled and Michael felt multiple points of searing pain and pressure as she shot the rounds into him. When the chamber was empty Michael collapsed to the ground, and it felt as if the apartment shook with the weight of him. His ears were ringing. The table in the kitchen had shifted in the chaos and envelopes fluttered around his body. He thought it must look like the Dursley’s house in Harry Potter, when all the mail had come streaming in through the fireplace. In his dying mind he saw the large, shadowed figure of Hagrid leaning over him. “She’s a witch Michael,” he said, then disappeared. Everything faded to grey, then black, as Michael felt his soul seep from his body.

From far away his eyes opened. He saw the witch woman standing over his crumpled body. She spit a globe of phlegm and blood on his face, before wrenching open the apartment door and stepping into the night. Hot waves of anger rolled through his ether. This should not be the way it ended for him. He needed vengeance. He needed new fish.

The sound of sirens appeared at the same time as the soft rays of the rising sun. Michael’s big frame rested in a pool of blood on his apartment floor, caressed by strips of sunlight streaming through the window by the now empty aquarium. All was still.

Then, Michael’s fingers twitched.