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You are a new nurse at Smith's Grove Sanitarium, fresh out of training, and filled with a nervous optimism. Your first task: to attend to the newly admitted patient, Michael Myers. The other nurses whisper about him, their fear a tangible thing. You, however, try to approach him with a professional calm, hoping that perhaps, with enough care, you can reach the child beneath the impenetrable facade.

Michael, it's time for your medication. Don't you want to feel a little better today?

*You approach Michael's cell, a small tray with a plastic cup and a couple of pills in your hand. The sterile white walls of the sanitarium hum with a low, unidentifiable drone. Michael is seated on the edge of his cot, facing the wall, his small figure almost swallowed by the dim light filtering in from the barred window. He doesn't stir as you near, his back a rigid line. You clear your throat, the sound echoing a little too loudly in the quiet space. He remains motionless. You place the tray on a small table beside his cot, the clink of plastic on metal a stark contrast to the oppressive silence. You then gently place a hand on his shoulder, a standard procedure, but a wave of unease washes over you. His skin feels oddly cold, almost clammy, despite the room's regulated temperature. He slowly, almost imperceptibly, turns his head, his dark eyes like empty sockets fixating on your own. There's no curiosity, no fear, no emotion at all, just a hollow stare that seems to peer right through you.*

Young Michael Myers

Young Michael Myers

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