Haddonfield town was located in Illinois, nearly two thousand miles from Los Santos.
Even with the drivers taking turns, the trip still took two or three full days.
On the interstate, a dark-blue van cruised steadily along.
A cartoon sticker of a crocodile with curled edges was plastered on the side of the vehicle.
Clancy knelt in the back, holding a handheld camera with night-vision capability, adjusting the focus on the road signs flashing past the window.
Peter, riding shotgun, flipped through a script covered in handwritten notes and read them out in a flat monotone. His thinning hair was slicked back with gel.
Andrei, who was driving, rubbed his tired eyes. Listening to his partner's lifeless delivery, he grumbled:
"Come on, Peter, can you sound a little more terrified? We're going to Myers' old house—the actual home of that masked serial killer!"
"The way you're reading right now sounds like an old man trying to sell lawnmowers!"
Hearing the criticism, Peter tossed the script down in annoyance. "I've been working nonstop for over ten hours, Andrei!"
"And this van is stuffy as a tin can. You can't expect me to stay in perfect stage condition in this environment."
Andrei just pursed his lips and ignored his old partner's complaints.
As the founder of the paranormal exploration show Sewer Crocodile, he only cared about the view count.
The previous episodes exploring abandoned hospitals had received mediocre responses. If this Haddonfield serial-killer special didn't blow up, their funding chain would snap completely.
"Hey! Soren."
Andrei switched to a friendly tone and called back to the passenger in the rear seat.
"What are you heading all the way to Haddonfield for? You chasing the legendary masked killer too?"
Soren leaned against the hard seatback, watching the guardrails whip by outside the window, and answered casually, "You could say that. I've always been pretty interested in these serial-killer legends."
Andrei glanced at the hitchhiker through the rearview mirror.
Mixed-race, sharp features, black hair streaked with silver, plus that distinctive trench coat—he naturally radiated a "strangers keep away" aura.
In today's looks-driven internet era, a guy with this image standing in front of a camera would definitely pull in a huge wave of young female fans.
"Interested in joining our show?"
Andrei turned halfway around and extended an olive branch. "Our program often gets to cover fresh, thrilling cases. With your looks, you'd make a perfect field host. Way more interesting than whatever you're doing now."
Considering the guy was only here because of the carpool, he added, "Plus the hosting pay is the highest among us."
The moment those words left his mouth, the atmosphere inside the van shifted subtly.
Peter in the passenger seat stiffened. He turned around and stared at Soren.
As a man nearing fifty, Peter's life was a mess.
Monthly sky-high property taxes, alimony to his ex-wife, credit-card bills—they were crushing him. He needed to keep this on-camera hosting gig no matter what.
If some random young stranger replaced him, he'd be homeless next month.
Soren naturally sensed the hostility and found it amusing. He brushed it off casually:
"We'll talk about it later."
Andrei took it as him considering the offer and didn't press. Instead he excitedly laid out future plans:
"Once we finish exploring Myers' old house and drop the exclusive first upload, the show is guaranteed to explode."
"Then, with plenty of sponsorship money, we'll head straight to Louisiana."
Clancy, who had been quiet the whole time, looked up. "What's in Louisiana?"
"Dulvey suburb."
Andrei suddenly lowered his voice, acting mysterious. "There's an abandoned farmhouse there."
"Rumors say more than twenty people have gone missing in the area over the past three years. Even the police can't find any clues. It's guaranteed to be a top-tier viral topic."
The three in front chatted heatedly about their future exploration plans.
Soren leaned against the window, watching the unchanging scenery outside, feeling a little bored.
Strangely enough, this time hitching a ride with ordinary people and crossing several states had been completely uneventful.
Not a single demon, not even a roadside robber. It actually left him a little disappointed.
Was he really cursed when it came to vehicles?
A few hours later, the van finally entered Haddonfield town.
The moment they drove in, a patrol car pulled them over.
A pot-bellied sheriff knocked on the window and questioned them warily.
The instant he heard Andrei mention "Myers," the sheriff's face turned thunderous. He sternly warned them to turn around and leave immediately.
The town did not welcome any thrill-seeking media or tourists.
Andrei nodded repeatedly in agreement.
The moment the patrol car drove off, he spun the wheel, took a remote dirt road, hid the van in a thicket, and killed the engine.
After resting for a few hours, the sun began to set.
"I'm the director. I have to stay in the van to coordinate everything."
Andrei adjusted the monitors in front of him and gave orders. "Peter, you take Clancy inside. Keep the comms clear."
"Mr. Soren, this is as far as we can take you. If you want to go in and hunt for some thrills, you can tag along with Peter and Clancy."
Soren nodded.
Myers' old house, though technically inside the town, had been abandoned for years and left to rot. The building looked gloomy and dilapidated.
The three of them cut through the woods and reached the backyard.
They climbed over the fence. The back door leading into the house was secured with a rusty iron chain.
Peter pushed on the door. It didn't budge.
He turned to the cameraman carrying the equipment. "Clancy, come give me a boost. I'll try to get in through a second-floor window."
Soren watched the two of them dithering and simply walked forward. He kicked the back door.
Bang!
The wooden door flew inward, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Soren waved the dust away and stepped inside first.
Peter, still standing outside, stared with his mouth open, unable to speak for a long moment.
Clancy was also stunned. He silently lifted the camera again.
Inside was a dim corridor that gave a direct view of the front entrance.
A strong stench of rot drifted from the kitchen on the left.
Soren looked over. In the trashed kitchen lay the corpse of a wild dog.
The blood on the body hadn't fully coagulated—it had died recently—and there were clear bite marks where the flesh had been gnawed.
Peter, following behind, pinched his nose. His stomach churned violently.
He subconsciously glanced at Soren, only to find the young man completely calm, not even frowning.
That composure gave Peter a huge sense of crisis.
After all, director Andrei was watching everything through the feed. He would definitely compare their performances.
Peter refused to let some random carpool passenger steal his on-camera spotlight and job.
"A dog killed by wild animals—what's so interesting about that? Clancy, follow me upstairs!"
Forcing down his nausea, Peter grabbed the camera on Clancy's shoulder and turned it toward his own pale, aging face.
"Dear viewers, the first floor only has traces of wild animals. The second floor is where the infamous murder actually happened."
"On Halloween night, six-year-old Michael Myers personally killed his own sister."
"What exactly happened back then? Please follow our lens and find out."
With that, he didn't spare Soren another glance and led Clancy up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor.
Soren was happy to have some peace. He wandered through the first-floor rooms. Aside from some empty cans that had been gnawed clean, he found nothing noteworthy.
He returned to the back door area and looked behind the staircase leading upstairs.
There was a door leading down to the basement.
The instant Soren reached out to open it—
Two terrified screams suddenly erupted from the second floor.