Author's Note: Yeah, I dunno. This is one of those ideas that just sorta popped in there, but once it did it wouldn't go away. Understandably, the idea of a story pitting Michael Myers and Chucky against each other doesn't make a lot of sense, and is a pairing (not that kind of pairing…) that's pretty hard to take seriously… which is why this story doesn't take itself very seriously. If you're looking for something seriously scary, best look elsewhere (Might I recommend Nightmare House or perhaps His Territory?) But if you're looking for the traditional sex, drugs, and rock n' roll gore fest that all of us 80's slasher fans came to know and love, this will probably be right up your alley.

I had a bunch of titles for this story I tossed around. Halloween: The Curse of Chucky was a front runner for a while, until Curse of Chucky was actually announced as the title the next Chucky film. Then I decided the story didn't really need a big flashy title. It's Michael vs. Chucky. You get exactly what you pay for on the label.

Basically this story was written to be a love letter to everything I adore about horror movies. There are tons of references to just about every horror flick I've ever seen buried in here somewhere. In fact just about all of the primary characters are named after characters from some of my favorites. See if you can find them all! Anyone who can gets a hearty, internet high-five from yours truly.

The following story takes place after the events of Seed of Chucky and Halloween: Resurrection. It also assumes that the Halloween 4-6 timeline and the H20/Resurrection timeline are one and the same. Does it attempt to reconcile any of the contradictions between the two timelines?

No it does not.

Enjoy!

Chapter One: Special Deliveries

Haddonfield, IL

October 29th, 2012

Two days before Halloween…

A cool gust of wind swirled down the pleasant suburban neighborhood of Lampkin Lane, scattering the dried leaves that nearly completely covered the sidewalk and causing a kaleidoscope of oranges, yellows, and browns to take to the air. The fading, deep golden light of the setting sun cast the mostly bare trees in long, jagged shadows across the quaint, two story houses in whose front lawns they stood. The neighborhood was picturesque, the siding on each house new and well kept, the paint never pealing. The grass in each lawn was always neatly cut, the picket fences a perfect white, the hedges completely angular and well trimmed.

Yes, Lampkin Lane was the perfect picture of normalcy in the perfectly normal town of Haddonfield, located in the perfectly normal state of Illinois.

Yeah, it was true that there was that one, odd lot of grass in between the houses numbered 43 and 47 where it looked like there'd just be room enough for another house. Maybe one that had, oh, say, burned down sometime in the past ten years? There was a lone "For Sale" sign located near the front of the lot, nearly hidden now amongst the weeds that had mostly overtaken it. It didn't seem as if anyone was too concerned with the upkeep of this lot of grass, but so what? So it gave the neighborhood kids a place to play or at the very least a place for the neighborhood dogs to do their business.

Except the neighborhood kids viewed this lot with such abject terror that most of them just pretended it didn't exist. And most dogs that tried to approach it would lose bowel or bladder control far before they even made it to the grass, and would run away yipping, tails between their legs.

Dogs have a sixth sense about these sorts of things. They knew the truth, as did the kids.

The empty lot on Lampkin Lane was where the boogeyman used to live.

And there was a time when the boogeyman made the street of Lampkin, along with most of the other streets in Haddonfield run red with blood.

There were several times actually; Once in 1978; again in 1988. 1989. 1996. 2002.

And there was also that incident in California in 1998 that everybody knew but nobody wanted to admit was a part of the whole thing.

2002 was when it had all stopped. That was when the boogeyman went away. When he was taken away and locked up. And his house burned down.

And now nobody talks about him. Nobody dares whisper his name (and he did have a name). No one ever even acknowledged his existence. Not in Haddonfield. Speak not the name of the devil lest he appear.

The adults on Lampkin had grown content in their safety. The house was gone. The boogeyman's legacy in the town had been completely erased from all public records, along with any trace that even his family had ever lived there. There was no reason for the boogeyman to return to Lampkin, even if he could.

But the dogs and the children knew better.

The boogeyman would always come back.

The air brakes of the large, Global Parcel Services van screeched slightly as the vehicle slowly pulled to a stop along the curb in front of 44 Lampkin Lane. The van was an obnoxiously bright purple, the letters GPS stenciled in big, bold letters on its windowless side. Nate Pleasance sat behind the wheel, wearing shorts, a button down workshirt, and a GPS ball cap, all of which matched the color of the truck. He sighed and took a drag off of his cigarette before glancing down at the clipboard he kept on the dash.

44 Lampkin Lane. The last stop before quittin' time. Thank God.

Nate stamped out his cigarette in the van's ash tray and grimaced as he slowly stepped out of the van's driver's side door. He knew that smoking on the job was frowned upon by the good people that signed his paychecks, but who cared? What were they gonna do, fire him? He was an elderly black man, only three weeks away from retirement. It'd be a litigation lawyer's wet dream.

He made his way around to the back of the van, wiping the sweat from his brow as he went. It was hot out; his dashboard thermometer marked it at 88 degrees. Way too fucking hot for the time of the year. Christ, they were only 3 days out from November! But, that was the Midwest for you. Weather never made any Goddamned sense.

As Nate came around the back of the truck, his eyes fell on the empty lot across the street where 45 Lampkin Lane once stood. Despite the heat, he felt a chill run down his spine. He knew about the house that had once stood there. He was old enough to remember the very beginning. He'd actually just started working for GPS, operating a forklift in their Haddonfield warehouse, when the first murder had happened. It had been in all the papers. The Haddonfield Herald had called it the worst tragedy in the town's history.

Halloween night, October 31st, 1963. 6 year old Michael Myers came home from trick-or-treating, entered his house, and inexplicably murdered his teenaged sister, Judith, with a kitchen knife.

He could still vividly remember the mugshot of the boy they'd printed in the paper. The dark, emotionless look on his face. The hollow emptiness in his black, lifeless eyes.

But of course that had only been the beginning of all the madness that would follow over the next four decades. Nate had made it a point to batten down the hatches at his apartment whenever Halloween rolled around, so he was a bit hazy on the details, as he was pretty sure everyone in Haddonfield was. Most of the people that had a front row seat for all of the Myers rampages didn't live long enough to tell anybody the real story.

As a result, some of the rumors about Michael Myers got pretty outlandish. He was a madman who killed with no motivation. He had no face, which was why he hid behind that white, rubber mask of his. He had no soul. He was actually trying to hunt down his long lost younger sister who'd been adopted into a new family after Michael had been incarcerated. He hunted down and killed his sister's daughter, his own niece, after his sister herself had died. Or faked her death and ran away to California. Or something. He was worshipped by an evil cult. He was cursed by a druid demon to murder his family. He survived being shot, stabbed, blown up, electrified, even decapitated. Nobody knew what was true and what was bullshit.

And then, ten years ago, when that Dangertainment or whatever had tried to film a reality show in Myers' old house (on Halloween night, of course) Michael himself had decided to make a special appearance during the live, internet broadcast of the show. The house had burned down and just about everybody involved had died. And Michael, who'd survived despite being supposedly hanged, electrocuted, and burned alive, was remanded to the maximum security depths of the then newly redesigned Smith's Grove sanitarium, the very same sanitarium in which he'd been incarcerated when he was a child.

Nate blinked a few times, slowly coming out of his train of thought. He shook his head. He didn't usually dwell on shit like that and didn't know what had suddenly made him think of it. He supposed it was just 'cause of this street. The fact that they were two days out from Halloween didn't help either.

Nate reached up and pulled open the double doors at the rear of the truck, before hauling himself up into the cargo bay. A single brown, cardboard package, about three feet tall and two feet wide was all that remained. It was set vertically against the wall that separated the bay from the truck cab. As Nate made his way toward it, the box suddenly toppled forward and landed with a loud smack against the floor of the bay. Nate leapt back started.

He realized suddenly that he was on edge for some reason but had no idea why. A bit angry with himself, Nate set his jaw, marched the last few feet toward the box, and knelt to pick it up.

"Is that mine?"

The new voice coming out of nowhere caused Nate to yelp in surprise, leaping to his feet, and falling back against the side of the cargo bay, clutching his chest.

Standing outside the truck, peering in through the open double doors, was a teenaged girl. She was short, maybe about 5'3", thin and very pale. She had long, straight black hair, her bangs cut to curl just above her pencil thin, jet black eyebrows. She wore heavy black eye shadow, and black lipstick. Everything about this girl was black, save for her ghost white skin. She wore a black, long sleeved, fishnet shirt over nothing but a black braw. A short black pleated skirt, black fingerless gloves. Black and grey striped thigh high stockings, black combat boots. The only bits of color on her were her icy blue eyes. She stood, her arms crossed as she stared up at Nate as if he was the most boring thing she'd seen all day. She might've been very pretty if she wasn't trying so hard not to be.

"Jesus God, girl." Nate breathed as stood back upright, straightening his hat. "You scared the ever living shit outta me."

"Did I? I'm so sorry," the girl's deadpan voice told Nate she was anything but. "I'll never forgive myself. Is that mine?"

Nate glanced down at the package. "Hell if I know." He finally knelt down and picked it up, glancing at the postage on the top. "You… Angela Baker? 44 Lampkin Lane?"

Nate noticed the girl's right eye twitch almost imperceptibly as he said the name. "I prefer Nyghtshade."

Nate furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

"The name. I prefer Nyghtshade to Angela."

"Uh… why?"

The girl, Nyghtshade or Angela, or whoever, didn't respond. Her deadpan expression was slowly becoming a glare.

Nate sighed, shifting the weight of the package from his left arm to his right. It was a little heavy. "Look, this package is for Angela Baker, not Nightlight or whatever you wanna call yourself. Now, is your legal name Angela Baker?"

The expression was definitely a glare now. Angela glowered at him for a long time before finally responding. "Yes."

"Good!" Nate hopped out of the back of the truck before thrusting the box into Angela's arms. Caught off guard, Angela just barely managed to keep an awkward hold on the large box, stumbling back a bit before regaining her balance. Nate, meanwhile, reached into the back of the truck for his clipboard, before placing it on top of the box Angela held, and placing a pen next to it. "Please sign here."

Angela glared at him, before slowly setting the box down on the pavement and picking up the clipboard and pen. She was about to sign when Nate suddenly grabbed her wrist.

"Your legal name." he said.

Angela sneered at him, before hastily scratching her name on the clipboard and jamming it back into Nate's hands.

Nate tipped his ball cap at her. "Have a pleasant day, ma'am!"

He trotted back to the driver's side of the GPS van, hauled himself inside, and ignited the engine. A few seconds later he was at the stop sign at the end of the street. Angela continued to glare at him, until he turned off Lampkin Lane and onto Bessel Street. Then her gaze slowly moved down to the package at her feet

And a dark grin slowly crawled across her face.

100 miles away

Warren County, IL…

Heather Donahue drummed her hands nervously against the steering wheel of her car as she sat in the parking lot of Smith's Grove Sanitarium. She checked her watch again. 6:28. Exactly two minutes until she was supposed to start her first shift at her new job as a resident nurse at Smith's Grove Sanitarium.

And to say she was nervous about it would've probably been the biggest understatement in the history of Western Civilization.

She pulled down the car's sun visor to check herself out in the mirror for the billionth time.

She was a pretty girl, slight, with a round face, a petite nose, and wide, blue eyes. Her brunette hair was tied back in a single braid that draped down just past her shoulder blades. She was dressed in dull blue scrubs and white sneakers.

It wasn't the fact that she was starting a new job (her first out of college as a matter of fact) that had her nerves so frazzled. Nor was it the fact that Smith's Grove had been converted, ten years ago, into the most maximum security mental institution in Illinois (she'd had to check in at a thick iron gate when she'd first arrived. The ten foot high fence that surrounded the institution was posted with signs proclaiming "danger: high voltage!" as well as having wicked looking razor wire coiled around its top.) With its two story, grey stone walls and barred windows, and guard towers on all four sides, it looked very much like a combination between a hospital and a prison. Which, Heather supposed, was basically what it was.

Granted, these things didn't help, but what was truly bothering her, what was actually making her want to start her car, turn around, and give this job the big blow off, despite having just signed a two year lease on a pleasant but not-inexpensive apartment was a particular patient that she knew was incarcerated here.

Hell, everyone knew the patient that was incarcerated here.

Michael Myers. The Halloween Killer. The Boogeyman.

Heather had sent out her application all over the country after she'd graduated from Southern Illinois University in Edwardsville. She'd had a few bites here and there, though they'd all fallen through. At one point she'd thought she was going to end up working for a place called Westin Hills in a little Ohio town called Springwood. She'd had two phone interviews and had felt really confident about both of them.

But then nothing.

Finally she'd heard back from Smith's Grove. She'd been pretty desperate at that point and had taken the job as soon as it had been offered without really considering the ramifications, until her roommate at the time, Leslie, had pointed out just what exactly Smith's Grove was famous for.

It had housed Michael Myers for most of his early life, from age 6 to 21 until he'd broken out the first time.

Michael had gone on a rampage there in 1996, murdering several staff members (who themselves seemed to be engaged in some kind of bizarre, ritual surgical procedure at the time.)

Smith's Grove didn't exactly have a happy history.

After the rampage in '96 the place had been shut down and completely remodeled over the next four years until it reopened in the year 2000. Then, two years later, its most famous inmate was returned to its doors, nearly forty years to the day of his first incarceration.

And there he remained.

Heather had done a lot of research on Smith's Grove since accepting the job. The more she'd done, the less she'd wanted the job. But she also knew how damn hard it was finding work these days, and she was desperate to be independent, after having depended far too much on others during her time at school. Plus, she had student loans to pay back, car payments to make. And let's not forget that two year lease.

Heather checked her watch again. 6:31pm. That was just great. She was officially late for her first day on the job because she was too scared to get out of the car. Sighing, she grabbed her purse from the seat next to her, opened the car door, and got out.

Frank Cotton sighed as he leaned back in his chair, staring up at the break room's lightly buzzing florescent lights. His white tennis shoes were kicked up on the table in front of him, his hands laced together behind his bushy head of curly black hair. God, how he hated the night shift at Smith's Grove.

Frank was a good looking young man in his early twenties, though his bored expression and unshaven face did a pretty good job of displaying his inherently uncaring attitude. He wore the white button down shirt and slacks of a Smith's Grove orderly, a plastic sleeved badge clipped to his left breast pocket displaying a picture of him and his name "Cotton, Frank B."

True it was about 6:35 at this point, a full five minutes after he was to start his shift, but what did he care? Nothing ever fucking happened during the night shift. Yeah, there were a few unruly patients here and there, but for the most part, Smith's Grove was pretty bereft of patients in general.

Which resulted in the night shift being possibly the most boring way a person could spend ten hours.

Frank let his eyes drift over to the old box TV that hung in the far corner of the room. It was currently tuned to the Discovery Channel which was showing some kind of documentary about a bunch of murders that kept happening over and over again at some lakeside campground in New Jersey. The typical fare they played on cable this close to Halloween.

God he could use a cigarette about now.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door to the break room opened and Rosemary Woodhouse burst into the room.

"God, I hate being late," she declared as she made her way to the line of lockers on the other side of the break room, opening one and tossing her purse in, before glancing at the tiny mirror hanging on the locker's door and running a hand through her hair. "Even if it is just five minutes. I've just been having so much trouble sleeping lately. Keep having these same fucked up dreams…"

Rosemary was one of Smith's Grove's resident nurses. She was 25, green-eyed, fair skinned, and very pretty, though as a result of constantly working the nightshift, she always looked a bit drawn and tired. Her eyes often had dark shadows under them and her wavy, blonde hair was usually frizzy and stuffed into a very hasty ponytail. She was dressed in salmon colored scrubs and white sneakers.

"How dare you." Frank said to her, casually, his eyes not leaving the television screen. "We've been so busy, too. You're fired."

Rosemary scoffed, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Frank, have you even fucking clocked in yet?"

Frank pointed vaguely in her direction, still not bothering to look at her. "Don't change the subject. This isn't about me, it's about you."

Rosemary rolled her eyes, shutting her locker, and making her way over to the clipboard hanging on the wall near the door that listed all the nurses and orderlies assigned duties for the night. "So who else is on duty tonight?"

"Just you, me, and Annie. Oh, and I think that new girl starts tonight."

Rosemary looked up from the clipboard. "Oh, that's right! I forgot we had a new nurse starting tonight. You seen her yet?"

Frank shook his head. "Nope. Last I heard Annie was still up at the front desk with Mike waiting to give her her badge when she gets here."

Rosemary nodded, going back to the clipboard. "Well, it'll be nice to have a fresh face around here."

"Yeah. Hope she's hot."

Rosemary paused before glancing back up at Frank, arching an eyebrow. "Wow. Really?"

Frank finally looked up at her, smiling lecherously. "Hey, I need some new workplace fantasizing material, okay? I can only fantasize about you for so long. And, I mean, Annie's cute and all, but she's, like, forty. I'm not really into the cougar thing."

Rosemary shook her head. "Annie's only thirty-four."

Frank shrugged. "Eh, once you hit thirty you might as well be forty. Besides, new girl's fresh outta college. Just the way I like's 'em!" He went back to staring at the TV, lacing his hands behind his head. "I just hope she's not fat or something."

Rosemary rolled her eyes. "You're a boon to your sex."

"Thank you, I am very good at sex."

Rosemary sighed deeply, but before she could respond, the door to the break room opened again, and Head Nurse Annie Wilkes entered, followed by a pretty, young brunette in blue scrubs with her hair tied back in a braid. She was currently examining the laminated badge clipped to the left breast side of her scrubs.

Annie was a pretty woman, with her bright red, dyed hair cut short, her bangs styled so that they swooped over her right eye. She wore bright white scrubs, and perhaps a bit too much blush and blue eye shadow but it did little to effect how attractive she was. In her right hand she too held a clipboard and what looked like an old, beaten up paperback novel. The girl behind her looked up and smiled at Frank and Rosemary nervously.

Annie smirked. "Hm, gee. How did I know you two would still be in the break room at almost ten minutes after your shift started?"

Rosemary quickly shut her locker looking immediately apologetic. "I am so sorry, Annie! I was only a few minutes late when dingus here started talking to me-"

"Oh, sure, blame all your problems on me." Frank didn't budge from watching the TV. "Typical."

Annie waved them off, turning to the new girl. "Clearly, you see we run a tight ship here. Anyway, this is the break room. There are some lockers over there, most of them unassigned. Just stake one out and it's yours." She gestured to Rosemary and Frank. "This is Rosemary Woodhouse and Frank Cotton. You'll have the distinct pleasure of working with them tonight. I'll mostly have you shadowing Rosemary for tonight. Guys, this is Heather Donahue."

Heather smiled shyly and waved. "Hi."

Rosemary quickly stepped forward smiling brightly at Heather.

"Hi, Heather!" she said cheerfully. "I look forward to working with you!" Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Frank looking Heather up and down, before looking at Rosemary and giving her a thumbs up and a nod of approval. Rosemary sighed.

Annie shook her head. "It's her first day, guys, so try not to scare her off too quickly, alright? I have to head back to the front desk and go over security procedures tonight with Mike."

Frank leaned forward now, cocking an eyebrow. "Security procedures?"

Annie nodded. "Dr. Brundle apparently sent down some specific guidelines for tonight. Not sure what he's up to, but I'm sure it's nothing. Anyway, why don't you two make the rounds, take Heather with you, show her around. Introduce her to Dr. Brundle, while you're at it. Oh, and Dr. Arbogast, he's around here somewhere tonight too."

Heather jumped slightly as Frank and Rosemary suddenly groaned simultaneously.

"Arbogast?" Frank asked with a scowl on his face. "I thought he got off at five today!"

Annie nodded. "He did, but he decided there was something else he wanted to look into so he stuck around. Guys, I know how you feel, but try to remember Dr. Arbogast is technically one of our bosses, so try not to be too disrespectful. Especially with the new blood here." She winked at Heather. "Anyway, I'll see you guys at break time."

"Hang on a sec there, Annie!" Frank smiled, gesturing to the book Annie held in her hand. "What's that ya got there?"

Annie slowly turned back to him, a combination of a glare and smirk on her face. Frank and Rosemary exchanged a knowing grin as Annie held up her paperback novel.

On it was a picture of an impossibly beautiful young woman with flowing chestnut hair, wearing a see-through, old fashioned white nightgown. She was lying, in an enraptured state, on a large, oak four poster bed. The title "50 Shades of Misery: A New Misery Chastain Novel by Paul Sheldon" was written in big, block letters at the top of the cover.

"Porn!" Frank declared.

"Oh my God, Annie, how can you read that garbage!" Rosemary giggled.

"Hey!" Annie shot back. "We are all entitled to our guilty pleasures, thank you very much!" She sighed before glancing over at Heather. "Don't let these two give you too much grief tonight, hon, okay?"

Heather nodded, smiling, as Annie left the room. Frank finally slapped his hands on his knees before standing.

"Welp," he said jovially. "Let's give ol' Heather the grand tour, shall we, Rosemary? Establish all the ground rules and whatnot?"

"Sounds good," Rosemary said. She turned and put an arm around Heather. "Rule number one: Don't ever go anywhere alone with Frank. Ever. He's a blood sucking pervert."

Heather laughed. Maybe working here wasn't going to be so bad after all.

Billy Peltzer did his best not to smudge his eyeliner as he attempted to rub his right eye. He sighed. He'd been sitting here on the edge of Angela's… or Nyghtshade's, as she made him call her… bed, in her room, waiting for her to come back ever since she'd spotted the GPS truck in the street from her second story window. It was really fucking annoying. They'd been engaged in some seriously heavy petting when she'd just happened to look up and see the truck. Without another word she'd bolted out of the room.

Billy sighed as he looked down at himself. He was wearing a black Marilyn Manson t-shirt, baggy black jeans with chain hanging in a loop from the pockets and knees, black boots, black fingerless gloves, black black black. He even wore black lipstick, eyeliner, and had his short, spiked hair dyed black. He felt like an idiot dressing like this but it didn't matter.

He'd been wanting to bed Angela ever since he'd set eyes on her two years ago during their Freshman year. But she'd ignored him for a long time. She had no interest in "some stupid, skater, pothead as she called him."

It was insulting! Just because he liked to indulge in a little weed now and then, and enjoyed skateboarding, and spent a lot of his free time watching messed up videos on YouTube of dudes totally wiping out and fucking up their faces doing skate tricks, it did NOT make him a pothead!

But he'd worked at it. He'd changed his style of dress from his normal hoodie and plain jeans to more closely match Angela's. He'd pretended to be depressed and obsessed with dark and evil things like Angela. He even came up with a stupid, goth name for himself like she did. Raziel. He heard it in a video game at some point or something, he wasn't sure.

But it had worked. Slowly, Angela had allowed him to get closer and closer to her, until finally, he'd asked her out and she'd accepted. Since then, Billy couldn't have been happier. Billy remembered the first time she let him get to second base. And what a GLORIOUS second base it was! It hadn't taken long before they had gone all the way. And had done so many times since. It had been Nirvana. It has been everything Bill could have possibly hoped for and more. It had made how stupid he looked and felt all the time completely worth it!

Billy glanced around Angela's room. Still… there was something about Angela that gave him the serious creeps too. Her room was entirely done in black and shades of purple. Curtains, carpet, and ceiling: purple. Bed spread, walls, furniture: black. On top of her dresser she had several half melted black, red, and purple candles. A wicked looking, serrated knife sat amidst them. The dresser was positioned on the wall directly across from the foot of the bed. On the wall above the bed, Angela had painted, in red, the letters REDRUM. Reflected in the mirror across from the foot of the bed, Billy could clearly see the word MURDER.

On her door she had a poster of Ted Bundy. Above her bed, on the ceiling, a poster of Charles Manson. The names Albert Fish, Jame Gumb, Son of Sam, Raymond Andrew Joubert, and Ed Gein were spray painted in various spots on the walls. A poster of one of those creepy clown paintings John Wayne Gacy used to do in prison was on the door to her closet.

The bookshelf next to Angela's dresser was practically over-flowing with books dedicated to the study of other real-life serial killers: Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders. The Jeffrey Dahmer Story: An American Nightmare. Springwood Slasher: The Crimes and Mistrial of Frederick Charles Krueger. Morality and Madness: A Study of John Kramer, aka The Jigsaw Killer. The Voorhees Legacy: The Myths and Facts Surrounding the Crystal Lake Murders. Civilized Insanity: The True Story of Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter. Massacred: The Unsolved Texas Chainsaw Killings of the 1970's. The Water Street Butcher: The Most Insidious Killer of the 21st Century. All four of those books that reporter chick had written on the Woodsboro, California "Ghostface" murders. Among many, many others.

A chill shot down Billy's spine. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Angela lived in Haddonfield, across the street from where the former house of one of the most infamous serial killers in history once stood. Or maybe she was just fucked in the head. Whatever the reason Angela was seriously obsessed with death. Specifically death caused at the hands of another. There were times when he honestly wondered what the hell he was doing spending time with a nutcase like Angela.

Then he remembered the sight of her naked boobs, and he knew exactly what he was doing with a nutcase like Angela.

His train of thought was interrupted when the door to Angela's room suddenly burst open, and Angela strode in, carrying a large, cardboard box. She dumped the box excitedly on the bed next to Billy before grinning broadly at him.

Billy knew a lot of guys who talked about how pretty they thought their girls were when they smiled. All Angela did when she smiled was make Billy uncomfortable because it usually meant she was getting ready to show him something creepy or gross.

He took a deep breath. "Uh… hey babe. What's in the box?"

Angela continued to grin at him. She bounced her eyebrows once. "Guess."

A severed human head? was the first response that sprang to Billy's mind but he fought back the urge to actually say it. Not because he was worried that he was wrong or that Angela would take it the wrong way. Mostly because he was worried he was right. "Uhhh… no idea… uh… dead cat?"

Angela shook her head, smiling playfully at him. This was how she flirted. Billy sighed and just tried to keep remembering what she looked like naked. "Uh… Oswald's gun?"

Angela scoffed. "Yeah, 'cause that would be worth something since Oswald totally didn't really kill Kennedy and all…"

"Uh… a…. pygmy mummy… corpse… thing?"

Angela raised an eyebrow at that. "Um… creative guess… but no!" She squeezed onto the bed between Billy and the box, placing a hand on top of it. "This package, my dear Raziel, contains a mint condition, still in its original packaging, Good Guy Doll!"

She smiled expectantly at Billy, who just gazed blankly at her in return. "Uh. Okay."

Slowly, Angela's grin faded. "Hello… Good Guy Doll? Charles Lee Ray? Andy Barclay? Ringing any bells?"

Billy just continued to stare at her in silence.

Angela sighed. "You haven't even glanced at that book I let you borrow last week, have you? Haven't even read the back cover or anything?"

"Of course I have!" Billy automatically responded. "Um… which book was this again?"

Angela glowered at him. "Stranglehold of Fear: The True Crimes of Charles Lee Ray! The second edition with the new chapters at the end about Andy Barclay, the disturbed little boy who claimed his Good Guy Doll was possessed by the spirit of Ray! I gave you the book after you asked me who the Lakeshore Strangler was! Come on, Raziel! Get your head out of your ass!"

Billy clenched his teeth. Boy, he really hated being called Raziel. "Okay, fine. I'm sorry I didn't read your book, Angela."

"Nyghtshade!" Angela hissed.

"Right, sorry. Nyghtshade." Billy sighed. "So… it's a Good Guy Doll, huh?"

"Yup!" Angela glanced down at the package again, her morbid smile returning. "These things are worth a shit ton and they're super rare, but I got this one for a fuckin' steal! Play Pals, the company that made them, went out of business in the nineties after all the bad press surrounding Andy Barclay and his claims that his Good Guy Doll was responsible for all the death that followed him around."

Billy nodded. Angela was like a walking encyclopedia for this kind of shit. "So… what happened to the Andy kid?"

Angela shrugged. "Dunno. He kinda faded into obscurity after a while with no explanation. Probably threw him in the nuthouse with his mother or something. She claimed the doll was alive too."

Billy blinked. "Boy. Hate it when that happens."

"Yuh huh." Angela stood now and walked over to her dresser, where she retrieved her knife, before returning to the bed and cutting the tape that sealed the package. "You have no idea how unbelievably happy I am to finally get my hands on one of-"

She stopped when she pulled back the flaps of the box to reveal a sea of Styrofoam packing peanuts. Billy glanced over her shoulder. "I thought you said it was supposed to be mint in the box."

"It was!" Angela snarled through clenched teeth. She began fishing around in the packing peanuts with her hand. Clearly whatever was in this box, if anything, was loose and not in a second box that would've taken up the full space of the package. She paused as her hand struck something and she grabbed it, withdrawing it from the packing peanuts.

It was a head. A small, plastic, severed head, about the size of a softball. It had a devilish grin on its face and it looked like it had been badly damaged and even more badly stitched back together. Its icy blue eyes were made of glass, the right one almost appearing to bulge as much of the plastic surrounding it had been torn away. The doll's mouth was curled upward in what looked, to Billy, like a sinister smile. It had long and wild red hair, which was missing in a few spots and badly glued or stapled on in others.

Angela's eyes narrowed as she examined the ruined doll's head. "What the fuck is this?"

Billy shrugged. "It sure as hell ain't mint condition."

Angela tossed the head aside on her bed with a snarl, before fishing through the box some more. After a minute or two of digging, she'd managed to produce two severed, plastic doll arms, two severed plastic doll legs, and a plastic doll torso. The torso was wearing the ragged (and was that, bloodstained?) remains of a little pair of denim overalls over a multi colored striped shirt. The colors were stained and faded, but were still clearly green, white, red, and purple. The sleeves of the shirt were still on the dolls severed arms and the pant legs of the overalls were still on its legs, as if they'd been cut or chopped off by a sharp edged object. A tiny pair of sneakers was on the dolls feet. The pocket on the front of his overalls was embroidered with the words "Good Guys" in red bubble letters.

"Well," Billy said after a moment. "At least it's actually a Good Guy Doll."

"Fuck!" Angela snarled, before knocking the package the doll pieces had come in to the floor. The box landed on its side, the packing peanuts it contained spilling all over the purple carpeting.

"Who'd you order that from?" Billy asked.

Angela crossed her arms and huffed. "I got it off eBay from a private collector out in California."

"Yeah, but who?"

"They didn't give me a name."

Billy blinked. "And how much did you pay this anonymous private collector for a supposedly 'super rare' mint in the box Good Guy doll?"

For a long time Angela didn't respond. When she did finally speak, it was through clenched teeth. "Four hundred dollars."

Billy's eyes widened and he simply could not stop the toothy grin from bursting onto his face. "Wow… Angela, you got screwed."

Angela glared at Billy for a long moment. Billy's grin started to falter. Then, without warning, Angela suddenly slapped him between the legs. Billy let out a high pitched yelp and instantly crumpled to the floor in a fetal position.

"Tell me something I don't know, dipshit." Angela growled, standing and kicking the overturned box the mutilated Good Guy doll had arrived in. The box tumbled across the room, its remaining packing peanuts flying everywhere, before the box smacked into the door with a loud slapping noise, coming to rest, open side up, on the carpet. Angela moved toward the box and reared her booted foot back to kick it once again, when she paused. On the floor, something else had fallen out of the box with the packing peanuts when she'd kicked it.

It was small, roughly the size of a pocket calculator, and made of an old, tarnished kind of metal, bronze maybe. It was shaped like an elongated hexagon, and had a dull, red, jewel embedded in its center. It was connected, at its top, to a long, silver necklace chain. Angela stared at it for several long moments, her eyebrows furrowed as some part of her dimly recognized the trinket. She was completely unaware of Billy, still rolling on the floor behind her, crumpled and whimpering, clutching his stricken manhood.

Then something clicked into place behind Angela's eyes, and she gasped, quickly kneeling down and snatching up the amulet. Because that's what it was…

"Oh my God! Billy, do you know what this is?!" she asked excitedly, forgetting both about her assault on her boyfriend as well as calling him by his goth name.

Billy, meanwhile, had finally managed to get to his knees. Groaning, he leaned against the bed. "What what is?"

She stood and spun to face him now, holding up the amulet by its chain. "This! It's the Heart of Damballah!"

Billy managed to struggle to his feet now. "The heart of what now?"

Angela held the trinket up to her face, examining it closely, a look of rapturous awe on her face. "It's a powerful voodoo amulet! Charles Lee Ray was an adamant practitioner of some of the darker rituals of voodoo. He had the Heart of Damballah with him the night he was shot and killed! The coroner's photo of his corpse in Stranglehold of Fear shows him wearing it! But… he was buried with it… which means…"

"It's a fake…" Billy said finally standing up straight. He still looked a bit pale, but for the most part the pain from Angela's surprise attack had faded. "Obviously."

"Maybe," the excitement hadn't left Angela's voice. "Either that or…" slowly she turned to look at the pieces of the doll scattered across her bed. She took a few reverent steps toward it. "…or… this is him, Billy! This is actually him!"

Confused, Billy glanced back and forth between Angela and the ruined doll. "This is… who?"

Angela gestured to the doll. A maniacal grin was slowly stretching across her face. "The doll! Andy Barclay's doll! The one possessed by the soul of Charles Lee Ray!"

Billy's eyes narrowed. "Angela… babe… that's crazy. I mean, that's literally crazy! That's just some bullshit some little psycho kid made up to cover up the fact he was murdering people! There's no way any of that's true!"

Angela scoffed at him. "Puh-lease, Billy. We live in Haddonfield, remember? Hometown of Michael Myers, aka, the maniac that would not die? Remember that? Who are you to judge what is and isn't beyond the scope of reality?"

Billy still looked far from convinced. "That doesn't prove anything. Besides, even if all that bull about the doll is true, so what? What do you intend to do about it?"

Angela thought about this for a long moment before turning to grin slyly at Billy. "I intend to prove it!"

Billy raised an eyebrow. "Prove it?"

Angela nodded, stepping over to her bed and picking up the stitched together, patchwork doll's head. She smiled at it as she spoke. "That's right! Tonight, Billy, you and I are going to use the Heart of Damballah to contact the spirit of Charles Lee Ray!

Author's note: To be continued! Please R&R