Barry really did plan to do it.
But inside this dream, he felt something else — Michael's lingering resentment even after death.
Or rather, it was as if Michael still had something to say.
Of course, not in a physical sense — but something deeper, coming straight from his soul.
Then Michael's thoughts began to take shape.
—I'm willing to offer my soul, everything I have, if you'll help me.
"Help you? Tempting offer," Barry said dryly, "but aren't you forgetting something? What's yours is already mine. You're trying to bargain with my own property — don't you think that's a little confused?"
Barry was no fool. He understood exactly where his interests lay.
"You're saying that if I just absorb your soul by force, I won't get your full abilities?"
Really now?
Barry thought about it for a moment. His mind wandered to Jason, still stuck in hell — assuming he hadn't been reincarnated or was still fighting in some twisted resurrection tournament.
Still… maybe Michael had a point.
When Barry had instantly refined Jason's soul, he'd gained incredible powers — resurrection and bone manipulation — but Jason's blink ability hadn't transferred over.
Could that have been the problem?
If so, maybe Michael's words weren't just nonsense.
"Well, whatever," Barry muttered. "You're just a fish on the chopping block anyway. No harm in hearing what you have to say."
"Go on, let's hear it. I'll decide whether it's worth my time."
Barry didn't agree right away, but he didn't turn him down either.
Then, within the dream, fragments of memory hidden deep in Michael's soul began to unfold.
Like watching a movie, Barry saw Michael's life play out before him — every moment, every horror.
When it was over, Barry understood.
He understood Michael's hatred now.
Michael's life had been a curse born of evil — and a tragedy born of human cruelty.
Hidden within the mental hospital had been a secret cult.
They wanted to study evil itself, to master extraordinary powers.
They chose a young Michael as their experiment — performing dark rituals on him.
From that moment on, Michael's life became one long nightmare — a killing machine forged by ritual and despair.
"Damn it! Those evil cult bastards again!" Barry cursed.
"Fine, I'll crush them all — even if they don't pay me! …Well, actually, I will collect payment. That's just principle."
"I'll do it," Barry said finally.
Without wasting a moment, he set out under the cover of night for the same mental hospital where Michael had once been held.
The next evening—
The Book of Ghost Tales — Activate!
The straw around him writhed and grew uncontrollably, morphing until Barry burst forth from it.
When he emerged, his form was identical to Michael's — same build, same posture — except that he had no flesh inside, just a hollow frame. He slipped on Michael's favorite white mask.
Tonight would mark the final appearance of the Michael Myers persona.
Once Barry agreed to take revenge in Michael's stead, Michael's soul stopped resisting. It began to dissolve, bit by bit, until the vengeance was complete.
As the soul merged into him, Barry could feel new power awakening — a fresh, expanded awareness.
He picked the lock with ease and entered the hospital from the back door.
Inside the long, sterile white hallway, Barry immediately sensed something off — a strange, pulsing energy deep below the building.
Michael had been confined here for years.
And now, guided by Michael's memory, Barry quickly found the culprit's office — the director's.
The office was empty.
"Gone? Or just skipping night duty? Makes sense. Once you make it to director, you probably don't stick around here much — especially at night."
Barry stepped out again, intent on hunting down every last cult member one by one.
After all, letting them live was just a waste of oxygen — better to let his blade put them to use as fertilizer.
But as he rounded a corner, Barry froze.
Ahead stood dozens of figures in black robes.
At the front was none other than the man Michael had most hated — the old director himself, the cult leader.
And when Barry turned around — more black-robed figures.
Dozens of them. All armed, all ready.
The old director looked at Barry — mistaking him for Michael — and spoke with a patronizing calm:
"Michael, I'm glad you came back. But tell me, what are you doing here at this hour? I believe my order was to eliminate your blood relatives, not turn your blade on your master."
"Old dog," Barry said coldly. "Get ready for hell."
The white lights above flickered violently, buzzing with unstable current.
A second later — screams.
A dagger plunged into a cultist's chest. Blood gushed out like a fountain.
"Hold him down!" the director barked, panic breaking through his composure.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire roared down the corridor. Muzzle flashes lit up the hall. Bullets ripped through the air, straight toward Barry—
Then—darkness.
The lights died completely.
The gunfire echoed in chaos — and the screams that followed told the rest of the story. The bullets had torn through their own ranks.
"Impossible!" the director shouted.
He knew Michael could kill silently, from the shadows — but never like this, right before everyone's eyes.
Wait— the lights!
The director's face went pale as he realized it.
He tried to retreat, backing toward the rear of the group, hoping to escape into a better-lit area. Once there, he could regroup — maybe even reclaim control.
But the hallway lights kept flickering, on and off, over and over.
And every time the light changed — Barry moved.
Every time it blinked — someone died.
So this was the killer's blink ability…
Barry couldn't help but grin.
This power was incredible.
When no one's eyes were on him — or when the world fell briefly into shadow — he could slip through the cracks of space itself, reappearing somewhere else.
That was how Michael had survived so many times before, pretending to be dead only to vanish at the last second.
It worked for both ambush and escape.
Like now.
Barry became a blur — appearing and disappearing like a ghost.
Each flash of movement ended in a spray of crimson.
Fingers severed, limbs scattered like broken dolls across the pristine floor.
Hot blood splattered the walls and ceiling in rhythm with every flicker of the lights.
With a single jab, Barry drove a bone spike through a cultist's hood and straight into his skull.
He flicked his wrist — brain matter splashed onto the man beside him.
"Ahh! My eyes—" the man screamed, but before he could finish, Barry's fist smashed into his head with the force of a sledgehammer, bursting it like a melon.
Five sharp fingers ripped through flesh, yanked out a gleaming white spine, and swept it sideways — slicing three men in half in one clean motion.
In less than thirty seconds, the once-sterile white corridor was drenched in red — more brutal than any slaughterhouse.
The old director watched in horror as his followers fell one after another — most of them left in unrecognizable pieces.
Barry moved through them like he was mowing down grass, efficient and emotionless, painting the walls in gore.
"You… you're not Michael…" the director stammered, trembling. "Please—spare me. I can give you great power! Please! I don't want to die!"
Finally, the old man realized the truth.
This wasn't Michael.
Michael could never be this powerful.