Splatterhouse: The Final Chapter
by Rob Strangman
July, 2050.
In front a softly droning television sat an old man in a recliner, fast asleep. The sound of his snoring was the only other sound in the room. On the shelves around him were pictures. His wedding photo. A photo of his son as a young boy. A photo of his son, now much older, at his wedding. A picture of a young woman with auburn hair.
The wind blew softly outside as the old man snored on.
Rick...
The old man stirred slightly, but did not wake up.
Rick...
Still the old man snored on.
Rick?
A snort.
RICK!
"Huh? Whazzat?" the old man said as he woke. "Who? What?"
As his eyes began to focus, he could make out a ghostly form hovering in front of him.
He squinted. Still ghostly. Too indistinct.
Grumbling, he reached for his glasses. As he put them on, the ghostly form became clearer. He squinted a little more, then groaned as he realized what he was looking at.
"Sweet Jesus," he muttered. "Not you again."
It is time, Rick. Time to play again.
"I don't think so," he grumbled. "Matlock starts in a hour."
She doesn't have to die, Rick.
The old man snorted. "She's been dead for eight years. Heart attack."
Oh.
The old man stood, then shuffled toward the kitchen. The ghostly image followed.
Your son. David. He-
"Died in a car wreck twelve years ago."
Umm... your grand... son?
The old man shook his head as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
"What do you want?"
To be one with you again. To play again. Remember how it felt?
The old man sighed.
"Would you just give it up already?"
No. I don't want to.
"Stupid talking demonic mask... why won't you just leave me alone? I'm in my eighties, for chrissake!"
It is time, Rick.
"Why do I bother? Damned one track mind."
We must go, to revel in the blood. The carnage. We will play once more.
"And I told you that Matlock starts in an hour."
The ghostly form sighed.
Then we'll do this the hard way.
It faded from sight. The old man sighed again, preparing himself for the inevitable.
Then a ghostly white mask appeared on his face.
Now, Rick. Pick up the cleaver.
"With my arthritis flaring? I don't think so."
Get the shotgun.
"Yeah, we'll do that. After Matlock."
Fine. Then I will channel my powers into you and...
With a flash of lightning, the mask fused into the old man's neck as his muscles expanded, bulking up to three times their size.
...then he collapsed in a heap as his brittle old bones snapped under their weight.
There was silence for several minutes.
Rick?
More silence.
Uh, Rick?
The sound of the television droning mindlessly was all that could be heard.
...
Shit.
~~~
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