JV Hampton-VanSant

And on the haunted screen, the message changes.

Look at yourself, raring to survive, open to anything.

Choose one.

A. Discover my weakness.

B. I discover yours.

He's right.

You've come this far.

You'll do anything to survive.

Even reach inside the hollows of your own jacked-up slaughterhouse leg to fish for salvation.

He's filled you with every cinematic possibility.

Bronze dagger, crucifix, a machete, bundles of white sage, alchemy jars of holy water, a zippo, a wooden stake, a sawed-off shotgun, and a scattering of silver bullets.

Everything needed to slay a silver-screened monster.

Your mind fast-forwards through a montage of creature films.

Stakes for vampires, machetes for undead psychos, silver for werewolves.

But what's guaranteed to stop a film-obsessed chimeric abomination like your Watcher?

You seize the sawed-off shotgun.

You rip it wetly from your gruesome calf.

Boneless flesh slithers as you scoot against the wall and face your watcher.

Silver bullets won't fit, you aren't fooled.

You can only hope the shotgun comes with buckshot, and that it still works.