ZALE AKULA
The Akula Building, Floor 13
November 1st - 7:23 AM
***
Zale's coffee cost more than most people spent on groceries. The view from his thirteenth-floor penthouse had cost forty-seven million—because when you had unlimited money, why rent?
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching Haddonfield wake up. Below, the city moved through its morning routine—cars, pedestrians, children waiting for buses. Normal. Mundane. Blissfully ignorant their forty-year nightmare had ended in fire last night.
The penthouse was deliberately understated. Comfortable furniture. Clean lines. Open space. The top three floors were his: operations, training, and home. The rest housed legitimate businesses that didn't know their landlord hunted monsters.
Behind him, the book manifested unbidden on his desk.
"You're keeping the mask," it said.
"I'm asking to keep it," Zale corrected. "There's a difference."
"If you keep it, at least display it properly. Glass case. Dramatic lighting."
Zale raised an eyebrow. "You're giving me interior design advice?"
"Aesthetic matters. You're building a reputation."
"You're a sentient grimoire worried about decorating."
"I have standards."
"Fine. Glass case. Spotlight. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
Zale pulled on his suit jacket—charcoal grey, perfectly tailored, three-piece cut that allowed movement while maintaining professional lines.
He grabbed the two evidence bags from his desk and headed for the elevator.
Time to give Laurie Strode her life back.
***
LAURIE STRODE
Haddonfield, Illinois
November 1st - 10:47 AM
***
The knock came exactly when he'd said it would.
Laurie sat in her living room—bars on windows, three deadbolts, motion sensors, security cameras—and stared at the monitor showing her front porch.
It was him. The man who'd called yesterday with the words she'd waited forty years to hear:
"It's done. He's dead. I have proof."
She'd barely slept. Spent the night pacing, checking the security system, her weapons.
Forty years of habits.
Except now, maybe, they didn't need to be habits anymore.
If he's really dead.
She'd watched Michael "die" before. Burned. Shot. Beheaded. He always came back.
But this man—Zale Akula—had a reputation. Whispers in the survivor community.
"If anyone can end it permanently, it's him."
She'd paid him five million dollars. Everything she had. Forty years of savings for one purpose.
Please let it be real.
Laurie stood, unlocked the deadbolts, and opened the door six inches. Chain engaged. Gun behind her back.
"Mr. Akula."
"Ms. Strode." Calm voice. "May I come in?"
She studied him. Young—mid-twenties. Dark suit. Dark eyes that assessed without judgment.
Normal. Not like someone who killed monsters.
She unhooked the chain. Let him inside.
They sat across from each other—her in the armchair with clear sight lines, him on the couch, setting two bags on the coffee table.
Laurie stared at those bags. Her heart pounded.
"Before I show you," Zale said quietly, "I need you to understand something. What's in these bags is definitive. Once you see it, there's no more wondering."
"Good," Laurie whispered. "I've had forty years of doubt."
He reached for the first bag. Opened it.
A white mask. Scorched. Cracked. Stained.
Unmistakable.
Laurie's breath caught. The room spun.
That mask. That fucking mask.
"Is he..." She couldn't finish.
"Yes," Zale said. "But I brought more. Because I know you've seen him 'die' before."
He reached for the second bag.
"You can say no. But if you want absolute certainty..."
"Show me." Steel in her voice. "I need to know."
Zale opened the second bag.
Michael Myers' head. Pale. Scarred. Eyes closed. Separated cleanly at the neck.
Dead.
The room tilted.
A sound escaped Laurie—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Relief and disbelief and forty years of trauma finally validated.
"He's dead," she whispered. "He's really dead."
"Yes."
"He can't come back."
"No."
"You're certain."
"I watched his body burn. I made sure. He's not coming back, Ms. Strode."
Laurie stared at the head for a long time.
Then slowly lowered her hands.
"I need to destroy this. Personally. Watch it burn."
"I understand."
She looked up at him. "Why? Why did you take this case?"
Zale was quiet. Then surprisingly, he smiled—slight, but genuine.
"Honestly? I was bored. And looking for a challenge."
Laurie blinked. "Bored."
"Bored," he confirmed. "I'd been hunting minor entities. Ghosts. Poltergeists. Easy. Routine. I needed something that would test me. Michael Myers was supposed to be that."
"Was supposed to be?"
"He died easier than I predicted." Matter-of-fact. "Don't get me wrong—he was dangerous. Durable. Relentless. But with proper preparation, manageable. I was hoping for more of a fight."
Laurie stared. Then laughed.
"You're disappointed the Boogeyman was too easy?"
"A little," he admitted. "Though I'm glad it was. Less risk. But professionally..." He shrugged. "I was expecting more."
"You're insane."
"Possibly. But you're free now. So maybe useful insanity."
She smiled despite herself.
Zale looked at the scorched mask.
"I have a request. You can absolutely say no."
"What?"
"I'd like to keep the mask." He met her eyes. "I know what it represents to you. I know it's been the face of your nightmares for forty years. If you want to destroy it, I completely understand. But it's proof. Evidence. A trophy. First major kill. First legend ended." He paused. "But only if you're okay with it. This is your trauma. Your choice."
Laurie stared at the mask.
Then pushed it toward him.
"Take it. Please."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. I don't want to see it again. You want to mount it as proof that legends can die?" She met his eyes. "Good. Do it. Show people. Give people hope their monsters can be killed."
Zale picked up the mask carefully. "Thank you."
"Thank you," she countered, holding the bag with the head. "For letting me finish it."
She pushed the envelope of money across.
"And take this. You earned every penny."
Zale took the envelope. Nodded once.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Laurie stood. "I need to figure out how to destroy this properly."
"Cremation," Zale said, standing. "High temperature. Scatter the ashes in moving water—ocean, river. Or concrete. Seal it in a block, drop it in deep water."
"Ocean," Laurie said. "I'll take him to the ocean."
"Good choice."
She walked him to the door.
"What will you do now?"
"Hunt," he said simply. "There are other monsters. Other nightmares that need ending."
"Be careful. The world needs people like you."
"I'll try."
He drove away on his black Ducati.
Laurie watched him go.
Then closed the door. Relatched the deadbolt.
Looked at the bag in her hands.
Michael Myers' head.
Dead.
She pulled out her phone. Dialed her daughter.
"Mom?" Allyson answered. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, baby," Laurie said, and meant it. "It's over. He's really gone."
"Mom, you've said—"
"I know. But this time I have proof. And I'm going to destroy it. Today. And then..." Her voice broke—not from fear, but relief. "Then I'm going to live."
Silence. Then quietly: "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too."
She hung up. Looked at the bag.
And smiled.
Forty years.
Finally over.
***
ZALE AKULA
The Akula Building, Floor 13
November 6th - 3:47 PM
***
Zale sat at his desk, staring at Michael Myers' mask mounted on the wall behind him.
Five days.
Five days since he'd killed the Boogeyman of Haddonfield, and he'd gotten exactly one case—three teenagers in Cleveland playing with an Ouija board they didn't understand. A spirit had come through, opportunistic and malevolent. He'd arrived, absorbed the entity, and closed the case.
Ninety minutes from start to finish.
Easy. Routine. Boring.
He pulled the book toward him. It fell open to the new page.
***
[PAGE ACQUIRED: THE THRESHOLD WALKER]
Entity Designation: Threshold Walker (Lesser Demon)
Classification: Opportunistic Spirit / Minor Infernal
Threat Level: Delta-Class (Low-Moderate)
Abilities: Name Binding, Soul Leeching, Fear Feeding, Minor Possession
Weaknesses: Cannot manifest without invitation, bound by ritual rules, salt and iron disrupt manifestation, sunlight weakens significantly
Kill Count: 3 confirmed over 50 years
Status: ABSORBED
POWER ACQUIRED: BARRIER WARD
Effect: Create protective barrier preventing supernatural entities from crossing designated threshold for 24 hours. Requires salt line and incantation. Effective against spirits, minor demons, and incorporeal threats up to Beta-Class strength.
***
Zale closed the book.
Another page. Another power. Another entry.
But it didn't change the fact that he was bored.
His inbox was flooded—hauntings, possessions, cursed objects. Dozens of contracts he was ignoring because none of them interested him. His reputation had grown fast. Word spread through underground channels, survivor networks, occult communities.
The man who killed Michael Myers.
The hunter who makes monsters stay dead.
Fame brought clients. Money. Opportunities.
But most were minor cases that felt like busywork.
He needed a challenge. Something substantial. Something that would actually test him.
The book hummed on his desk.
"Hungry," it whispered. "Bored. Feed me something better than parlor tricks."
"You and me both," Zale muttered.
His security system chimed.
Multiple alerts. Lobby. Three vehicles. Professional formation.
Finally, something interesting.
He pulled up camera feeds. Black SUVs. Government plates. Security detail deploying in textbook formation.
Facial recognition ran automatically.
MATCH: Catherine Martin
Status: U.S. Senator (Virginia)
Background: Survivor - Buffalo Bill (1991)
Very interesting.
His intercom crackled.
"Mr. Akula? Senator Catherine Martin to see you. No appointment."
"Send her up. Alone."
"Sir, her security detail—"
"They wait in the lobby. She comes alone."
Pause. Muffled conversation.
"She's agreed, sir."
Zale straightened his tie and remained seated at his desk. Hands folded. Professional. Patient.
Michael Myers' mask watched from the wall behind him.
The book sat closed on his desk, but he could feel its attention sharpening.
The elevator hummed. Floor 12. Floor 13.
Ding.
***
SENATOR CATHERINE MARTIN
The Akula Building - Elevator
November 6th - 4:15 PM
***
The elevator climbed to the thirteenth floor.
Catherine checked her .38 Special for the third time. Safety on.
The man who killed Michael Myers. The man who made legends die permanently.
Three days of searching. Favors burned. Money spent.
Everyone said: "If anyone can help, it's him."
Four days since Emma vanished.
Four days of FBI promises that felt like lies.
Four days of nightmares about pits and skin suits and darkness that swallowed screams.
Ding.
The doors opened.
A hallway. Single door at the end, slightly ajar. Hardwood floors. Recessed lighting.
Professional. Like a law office.
Not like a monster hunter's lair.
Catherine stepped forward, heels clicking on polished floor. Her hand moved unconsciously toward her gun.
Stopped.
He's not the enemy. He's supposed to help.
She reached the door. Took a breath.
Pushed it open.
The office was professional. Modern. Clean lines and technology. Multiple monitors showing data feeds. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Haddonfield. Organized. Almost corporate.
Except—
On the wall, in a glass case with dramatic spotlight:
Michael Myers' mask.
Scorched. Cracked. Unmistakably real.
Catherine's breath caught.
He really did it. He really killed—
"Hello, Senator."
Her eyes snapped to the desk.
He was sitting there. Mid-twenties. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. Calm eyes. Hands folded like a businessman, not a hunter.
Professional. Composed. Utterly unintimidating in appearance.
Which somehow made him more intimidating.
"You've come a long way from Washington."
Catherine opened her mouth.
The rehearsed words—the careful explanation, the political plea wrapped in courtesy, the desperation packaged as business proposal—tried to surface.
But what came out was—
[END CHAPTER 3]