Please read all authors notes, and disclaimers as they will include important information about the contents of the chapter, trigger warnings and important plot points.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Halloween or any of it's characters or components. They are currently property of Blumhouse Studios. Michael Myers, Laurie Strode and any other recognizable character were created by John Carpenter and Debra Hill… or the writers from Blumhouse. Michelle Myers as she is portrayed in this story has been my own original character for nearly twenty years. I will not give permission for anyone else to use her, and any unauthorized use will be dealt with. Please be considerate, I created her a long time ago, she is my fucked up babygirl and I am very protective of her.

In 2014, I began posting this story titled Halloween: Blood is Thicker than Water. As my writing style and ideas have changed drastically in this time, I decided it would simply be easier to rewrite the entire damn thing. I can't count the number of times I've rewritten this, but I think I have finally worked out all of the kinks. The response for BiTtW was overwhelming, and I thank all of you so much for the time you took to write reviews, send me PM's and most of all… read the story. You're all so awesome, and I sincerely hope that I can make you just as happy with this newest iteration of Michelle and Michael.

The release of the 2018 retconning sequel has finally shaken loose all of the cobwebs, and forced me out of self-imposed hiatus. But, also thanks to that, I've decided to fuck with the timeline to an extreme. As much as I loved 2018, the one thing that bothered me was the removal of the familial aspect between Michael and Laurie. For me, that's always upped the intensity of the story. The fact that Michael waited and waited for fifteen years to go after his sister is infinitely more terrifying than him just deciding to escape one day and slaughter a bunch of babysitters. So for the sake of this fic, Halloween (1978) and Halloween II (1981) will remain in tact. I'm choosing to disregard H20, and Resurrection, and will be incorporating elements of 2018, into this story. Which will be taking place in place of Resurrection in the year 2002.

If you followed that, A+, if not… I'll try to clarify as I write.

October 31st, 2001

Stafford Manor

London, England

Michelle Stafford, heiress to the Stafford Steel Mill, stood next to the french doors of her third floor bedroom balcony. Tonight was her twenty-third birthday, but rather than celebrating, she stared out into the darkness of her parents estate, a bottle of Irish whiskey clutched in her blood stained hands. Her black tipped nails drummed against the glass in a soothing rhythm. The police had just left, and her actions that night were slowly sinking in as she thought back over the course of her birthday evening.

She'd come home at the insistence of her mother. The vile woman wanted Michelle home from Uni so she could throw an extravagant party for her 'baby girl' and try to make herself look like a decent human being. It was a farce, of course… Emmalie couldn't have cared less about her daughter, if she'd ever have even tried to begin with.

For as far back as Michelle could remember, her parents hadn't been much of her life. Her earliest memories always involved her ever rotating staff of nannies and governesses. She couldn't even recall a conversation with her mother before she was eleven. Em had decided that it was her job to explain to the scared, young girl, what was happening to her body. It hadn't been a pleasant conversation, and had been the thing to plant the festering seed of hate for her parents in Michelle's heart.

Her father wasn't any better. If she thought hard enough, she might be able to recall a handful of times her father even spoke to her. And most of those moments were more him screaming at her than anything else. She'd fled as soon as she turned 18. Their existence and hatred of her no longer hurt, instead it triggered a response that scared the fuck out of her. She wanted to kill them. She wanted to dig her manicured black nails into their eyes and push until their gray matter oozed out. She wanted to slit their throats, to tear out their windpipes and vocal chords.

Michelle simply wanted them dead, and only at her hands.

That's how she had gotten here tonight. Oh, she'd come home, all happy and excited to spend the weekend with her parents. At least, that's what everyone at school had been lead to believe. There would be a grand party, and the next day she would go shopping with her mother in London. Oh she couldn't wait.

Of course, that wasn't the case at all. Michelle only had one thing on her mind when she arrived home that Friday morning. It had been exceedingly easy, in hindsight, and made the woman wonder why she'd waited so long.

The servants had all been out, gathering supplies and tending to the grounds for the party. Michelle went for her father first, he'd been in his study, a room Michelle had always been expressly forbade from entering, but she'd invited herself in that afternoon.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing in here, girl?" He'd snapped at her, having looked up when the sounds of her heavily booted footfalls crossed his threshold. Michelle had ignored him for the time being, instead choosing to examine the brown, wood paneled walls that were covered in cheap reproductions of classic art. He always did so love showing guests his 'authentic' pieces. So many 'first edition' books were lined up on the shelves… the sad truth was that most of them were just covered glued on to wooden blocks. The room stank of cigars and scotch, along with the overwhelming stench of a slimy human being. Her father had always carried the slightest smell of perpetual body odour, owing to his wide, fat frame.

Harold Stafford had always been a squat, fat man. His nose was too wide for his face, and tipped with a bulbous shape… the perpetual red shade of it had always conjured the image of radishes in Michelle's mind. His eyes were small, almost pinpoints in his large face. And for the entirety of Michelle's life there was never a single strand of hair on his head, but his eyebrows were threatening to overtake his entire face.

Her mother was much the same. Short and plump in a rather unpleasant way. Emmalie carried all of her weight right in her gut. She had short, thin brown hair that she always kept tucked under a kerchief. She wore too much makeup, to try to enhance the features she didn't have. If plain had a face, it would be Em Stafford.

Michelle was the polar opposite of her parents. She stood five foot ten, and was very lean. Her hips and bust tapered into a thin waist. Where her parents were ruddy and olive skinned from their supposed Italian ancestry, Michelle was very fair, pale even, her mother often compared her to sketch paper. That tease was only intensified as Michelle began filling in her pale skin with tattoos. All dark imagery and symbolism that served the dual purpose of self-expression and thoroughly pissing her parents right off.

Where as her father had no hair, and her mother the equivalent of a thin birds nest, Michelle had a head full of thick, blue-black locks. It fell down to the small of her back like a midnight waterfall. The most defining difference between the young woman, and her parents was her eyes. Harold sported the most underwhelming shade of blue, while her mothers were a babyshit green shade. Michelle's eyes… were black. No, not a dark gray or deep blue. They were entirely black. Her eye doctor had made quite a big deal about it… stating that he had never seen anything like it.

After a thorough examination of the unremarkable room, Michelle slowly turned to her father, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

"I asked you a question, Michelle!" He snapped, beginning to struggle to get out of his armchair. She didn't respond, there would be no more wasted words on him. She bent down, extracting a long knife out of her boot, she turned it over in her hands, admiring it for a few moments, before raising her eyes to him with a dark smirk.

Harold went pale, fighting more against his own weight to stand up. His mouth opened to scream, but Michelle was on him, slapping her palm over his lips to stifle any sound.

Those black eyes stayed fixed on his, as the blade drew across his throat, she savored the sound of his death gurgles, with glee shining in her eyes. Keeping him down was so easy, not that the fat fuck could move much to begin with, but Michelle had always possessed a sort of wiry strength that was completely disproportionate to her frame. He bled out slowly, but she loved every second of it, until the lights went out in him.

Michelle continued down the hall, smiling at the works she'd already done on her mother. The woman was beyond drunk, and had no issue accepting the pills that her daughter handed to her. Michelle always had the best drugs… it was the one thing the two of them ever got on over.

"Oh you'll be flying, mummy." Michelle said, smiling as Emmalie tilted her brandy to her lips to swallow the capsules. Em was left to die, while Michelle cleaned herself up. Washing off the blood, burning the clothing she'd worn, disposing of the ashes.

The tragic story of the murder suicide at Stafford Manor would be all over the news by six a.m. And the poor heiress, only twenty-three years old… left orphaned. Michelle smirked at the thought, as she turned back towards her bed… she'd need to rest to keep the act going tomorrow.

Ian Windsor had been Harold and Emmalie Stafford's attorney for thirty years. In those three decades he had often wished for their demise. They were two of the most dense, obnoxious, and toxic human beings he had ever known. Not only were they vile, they had no idea how to handle anything in their own lives. Almost every day he was dealing with some new grievance, or issue of theirs. Honestly, he would have left several years ago… if it hadn't been for their daughter.

The last thing that Ian had ever wanted to do for them was drag a child into their mess, but his hands were rather tied… he knew if he didn't do it… someone else would. At least if he stuck around, he could ensure the child was properly cared for. He'd taken great pains to only hire the best help to tend to her. He'd also been funneling a considerable amount of money into a fund for her, fearing that they would never alter their will to benefit her. Fortunately, they had. She would be entitled to everything.

And now they were dead. Honestly, he felt nothing. The entirety of the world would be better off without them. Ian, wasn't entirely sure if he bought the murder-suicide story, there had been something very off about Michelle for the past several years. He still had a job to do, however… and if she had killed them… that was entirely her business. The less he knew, the less he could be implicated in himself.

A maid had left him in the dining room to go fetch Michelle, and Ian took several moments to be sure he had all of the paperwork.

Going over it all hadn't taken long, Michelle knew what to expect with all of the official paperwork. The accounts and such were familiar to her. It was the last envelope that he was dreading. The papers inside would likely throw the girl for a loop, but she deserved to know.

"Now, Michelle, this last bit isn't anything financial… it's more of a personal matter for you. You parents had never intended to tell you, but I feel you have the right to know."

Michelle raised an eyebrow, Ian was usually rather sure of himself, seeing him off kilter was… strange. She gingerly took the envelope and opened it. Dumping the few papers inside out onto the table. The first was from an adoption agency. Her eyes shot up to him.

"The fuck is this?" She asked, looking over the paper at him. Ian let out a suffering sigh. "In 1977, your parents decided they needed to adopt a child… they claimed they were lonely…" Another sigh, and Ian reached for the bourbon that Michelle had brought out for them. "I found you in a foster home in Illinois in '79. You were six months old at the time." He reached out, picking up the other, smaller sheet on the table. "This is your birth certificate. There was no information to be found on you… other than this. It was issued at a mental hospital."

Michelle felt very little at this, it didn't take a genius to figure out she didn't spawn from those two morons. She scanned the paper, a woman named Ingrid Schneider was listed as her mother. But her father's name had been redacted. "Why wouldn't he be listed?" She said, looking at Ian.

Well, at least she was handling it well… "I honestly don't know. Every question I asked only lead to a dead end. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

"Can you at least tell me which hospital?"

"I believe it was called…. Smith's Grove."