I, Michael Myers, Want a Restraining Order Against Laurie Strode
Halloween is just about here. It should be a festive, spooky and, above all else, enjoyable occasion. I say “should” and not “will” because that has not been my experience lately. You see, my sister Laurie has been causing me grave bodily injury on this day, and I have reason to believe she will continue to do so until I’m dead. Therefore, I have no choice but to ask the authorities for their help.
Laurie has been huffing and puffing about my existence, threatening to kill me and give me what she thinks I deserve. But what have I said about her? Or to her? Absolutely nothing. No threats at all. I’ve been totally silent. And she has the nerve to call me the aggressor? I haven’t even mailed her a creepy letter. Nor have I slipped a note under her door, knocked, and then walked away slowly yet fast enough to not be seen. Trying to write anything with my first grade education would just mean making a fool of myself.
She claims I’m a stalker who refuses to show his face, and that this is malicious behavior. Did she forget what happens on Halloween? People go to each other’s houses with masks on. All over town. And the state. Country, too. I’m no exception. Now if I took a few liberties by coming off as more scary than your typical Haddonfieldian, that’s all part of the experience. She’s got to learn that not everything you see that day is real. As far as I’m concerned, getting caught up in the moment is better than being a big stick in the mud. I mean, she’s never put on a mask, never made a stranger scream. She’s never even offered me candy. Talk about a red flag.
She’s more uptight now than ever before, which is terrible for me. At this point in my life — I’m well into retirement age, even though it’s hard to tell by looking at me — I just want to enjoy the Halloween season. I want to take in the varied expressions on the jack-o-lanterns that dot my neighbors’ porch steps, the intricacies in the decorative spider webs that connect tree to tree, the earthy scent of crushed leaves as I swoosh through them on the sidewalk following no one in particular. Yet I can’t shake the fear that at any time, Laurie could suddenly appear, swinging a chef’s knife, an ax or God knows what, hollering about “evil.” Give me a break.
I am a pillar of this community. I am a presence around town. Everybody knows my name. I spend time at the local animal shelter. I attend meetings of the board of selectmen regarding pertinent zoning issues. (My old house, which I care for more deeply than Laurie does, is in jeopardy of being demolished to make room for another Shake Shack.) And yet I’m forced to do these things in secret — hiding behind doors, eavesdropping through ceiling vents, lurking in public parks — because she has made me out to be a monster. It’s slanderous. Who knows the person I can become, how I can flourish, if she is kept at bay.
I’ve developed anxiety because of it. And I didn’t want to open up like this, but I mention it because my therapist told me to use whatever means are at my disposal, including the law, to protect myself from people like her who repeatedly inflict pain. And I haven’t even mentioned all the physical abuse.
I’ve been shot, stabbed, lit on fire, poked through the eye with a wire hanger — the list goes on. All have been her doing. Other acts of violence have been outright demeaning as well. Just last year, while a vicious mob had me surrounded in the street, some old lady struck me with, of all things, an iron. Like I’m just one big joke.
When is enough, enough? Leaving Haddonfield is not an option. I have too much pride. This town is big enough for the two of us, if only she would respect my personal boundaries. But I feel like we’re at a juncture where no matter how many self-care measures I undertake, she’ll just keep coming after me.
My sister seems more sure than ever that this will be my last Halloween, but I don’t know. I’ve seen how this has played out before; I’m pretty good at holding my ground. Which means it won’t be long before she returns. She always has.
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William Vaillancourt’s humor writing has appeared in Robot Butt, The Halfway Post and The Haven, among other places. Coincidentally, it has not appeared in other places as well.
