JV Hampton-VanSant

Horror after horror until all that remains is a buckshot-charred pile of shadow and bones and the tattered echoes of your clothing.

Two ruined projector lenses tumble loosely down the heap.

But you've seen these movies, read these books, know this game.

You cock the shotgun, aim and squeeze the trigger.

There shouldn't be any ammo left, but this is your movie.

The gun fires.

High above, where his full moon once shined, the buckshot shatters the projection booth window.

The theater falls into darkness.

Only thing left is to roll the final credits.

But naturally, you've made sure that can't happen.

With the shotgun clamped in your hand, you slump against the wall and welcome the darkness.

Relieved this creepshow is finally over.

Whatever trippy drugs your watcher used on you must be wearing off.

Your mangled, deboned leg tingles with the first needling, shuddering screams of lifelong misery.

Still, you can't help but smile.

The pain means you're still alive.

The pain means you've won.

Laughing wildly, dazedly, you shove yourself upright.

You're just starting to wonder how you're going to puzzle the chains off the exit when the projector in the booth flick, flick, flick, flicks back to life, an immortal heartbeat refusing to fade.

Every pulsing victory inside you plunges into a dark, theatrical pit, even as a Hollywood glow beams from the fragmented window above, ever lighting the silver screen.