Dr. Loomis

Dr. Loomis's office was immersed in semi-darkness, the dim lamp illuminating only the disordered stacks of medical records and ancient tomes. The psychiatrist sat at his heavy oak desk, his gray head resting in his hands, staring fixedly at the yellowed sheet of paper spread out before him. The center of the page was occupied by a symbol drawn in black ink—a vertical line with a sharp triangular protrusion, like a spike. The Seal of Thorn. Loomis slowly traced the outline of the drawing with his fingertips, feeling an unnatural chill run down his spine. Years spent trying to understand the absolute emptiness in Michael Myers's eyes were finally finding a terrifying explanation. This was no mere madman's ravings, no ordinary human cruelty. Before him lay the key to an ancient Celtic curse that had for centuries demanded innocent blood on the night of Samhain. The doctor reached for the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray, but his hand froze in mid-air.