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( STU ) maybe i'll go rogue one day. maybe i'll be woodsboro's michael myers.
( RONNIE ) nah man, not without me you wouldn't.
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PROLOGUE. children of the damned woodsboro, october 31st, 1994
Fallen leaves in auburn, amber, maroon, covering the concrete of the driveways, a thin layer of moist foliage smelling of the earth. Despite the dark, the street is abuzz with people: little cowboys and witches and robots and fairies and pirates running from door to door, sometimes parents trotting after them with an air of annoyance, cigarettes in hand, pairs of two so to have a conversation partner while watching the children.
262 Turner Lane, 94971 Woodsboro. A suburban home in a row of many, almost identical. Little personality, white cladding, grey roof-tiles, your very own piece of the American dream, only 261 other people have the same one — on this street alone. A non-descript, grey 1993 Honda Accord parked in front of the garage, raindrops from the overhang of the garage dripping onto the ceiling in regular intervals. The lights are out throughout the house. The residents don't seem to be at home, at first glance, but if one were to linger, were to observe, they'd soon notice a flickering light from the second window of the upper story.
