A Killer Hand

By Hyboreal

Artwork by Big Chris Art (www.bigchrisart.com)

Deep in the bowels of his infamous Boiler Room, Freddy Krueger is preparing for a night of cards, carnage, and comedy. The guest list is a rogue's gallery of cinema’s most terrifying slashers. But when Chucky cancels with a reminder about a new player at the table, the dream demon is left fuming at having to babysit their latest addition to the game night.

This motley crew of maniacs finds themselves dealing with a strange haunted TV, Ghostface’s relentless prank calls, pizza-fueled debates on the finer points of terror, and a mysterious newcomer who might just be holding all the aces.

In this hilarious and horrifying novella, the pizza gets cold and the body count stays suspiciously low. One question remains: who - or what - is the new guy at the table?

Content Warnings:

This book contains foul language, some mild violence and gore. No sex, but there are many adult themes, including alcohol, smoking, and gambling.

Themes: Horror Comedy.

Copyrights:

Freddy Krueger: is owned by Wes Craven

Chucky: is owned by: Don Mancini. (Also claimed to be owned by: MGM, SYFY Channel, and Universal Studios.)

Jason Voorhees: is owned by Victor Miller

The Hell Priest: (Pinhead) is owned by Clive Barker

Angela Baker: I could find nothing about who owns the rights to this character, so I am going to default and say she is owned by her creator Robert Hiltzik.

Ghostface: Created by Kevin Williamson. The visuals of the costume were created and designed by the ‘Fun World Costume Company.’

All Rights Reserved:

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the creator.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Chapter 1: The Bail

The last golden glow of the setting sun caught the top edge of skylights, the beams refracting through filthy panes of glass. Down the light traveled, across rusted pipes and forgotten machinery, between dripping pipes, and casting eerie shadows on the space below. A thick layer of grime, rust, and years of dirt coated every surface, and clouds of dust drifted down to swirl in the faint shafts of light.

A flickering neon sign illuminated the dust motes, the glowing words announcing to the darkened space “Your Comfort Zone Will Kill You”. The neon hummed and pulsed intermittently, the strange orange-pink glow painted a spotlight on the wall near a free-standing bar.

The wall behind the bar, lined with rusted metal shelves held many bottles. The glass sparkled, lacking any of the layers of dust, age and neglect indicative of the dilapidated interior of the surrounding factory. Neon light gleamed off their strangely clean surfaces catching a demonic as it moved, the distorted reflections bulging and shrinking with each irritated step.

Freddy Krueger paced back and forth, his burnt flesh and bald head glistened beneath the overhead lights as he passed under them. He held an old corded phone to one ear, listening with growing irritation, teeth clenched and eyes blazing as his boots clanged on the metal grating.

“What? What do you mean, you can’t make it?” Freddy growled into the phone, his voice a mixture of gravel and menace. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, you plastic prick! You can’t bail on poker night! It’s your fucking turn to bring beer!”

On the other end of the line, Chucky’s voice came through, breathless and harried. “Look, Krueger, I’ve got my hands full here!” The crash of breaking dishes sounded in the background, followed by the distinct whistle of a thrown knife, its sudden stop in a wall left a warbling sound to vibrate over the phone’s speaker.

Chucky yelled, “Ya missed me, bitch!” Then, there was a thud, and he cursed, “Ow fuck! God damnit… Look, Krueger, Tiffany’s on the warpath and—“ another crash; Chucky pulled the phone away to yell into the other room, “will you please stop for one second? Look, I can’t get away tonight!”

Freddy rolled his eyes and spat, “Fine, but your pussy-whipped ass is doing this next time. Beer, hosting…the works! No bullshit!”

As if on cue, the loud crunch of snapping wood echoed through the boiler room. Freddy turned to see Jason Voorhees, all six-foot-five inches of him, perched awkwardly on a decrepit couch, collapsing under his weight. A bowl of chips teetered precariously on his lap, and even through the expressionless hockey mask, Freddy could sense confusion as Jason attempted to eat a chip. Crumbs scattered everywhere, onto the cushions, into the crevasse, and falling to the floor like confetti.

Freddy pressed his clawed hand to his face in exasperation, nearly slicing up his face. “For fuck’s sake, Hockey Puck,” he muttered.

“Vorhees is already there?,” Chucky asked, the sound of a door clicking shut and the shrieking of an angry wife fading into the background.

Freddy turned his back on the couch and walked a few steps into the kitchen, cupping his hand around the receiver and whispering. “Yeah, got dropped off by mommy a little while ago.”

Both killers burst into laughter, only to be cut short by Tiffany’s muffled voice erupting from the background. “What the fuck are you laughing about?” The crash of a breaking dish cut the laughter short. “Get out here right now!”

Jason’s head tilted sharply at the sudden stop of Freddy’s laughter. He stood abruptly, sending the bowl and remaining chips crashing to the floor.

“Ahh fuck!” Freddy threw his hand out at the mess in defeat. “I gotta go!”

“Oh hey, hey, hey, Pizza Face,” Chucky interrupted Freddy’s growing frustration, “I almost forgot! We have the new guy showing up tonight, you gotta make him feel welcome. The guy is solid, and more importantly, he sucks at poker!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Chucky! First you bail on me, and now you’re sticking me with babysitting?” Freddy’s expression soured, the burnt flesh of his face twisting into a grimace. He stomped past a wall, and his claws left a trail of sparks as he dragged them in a sudden, violent swipe.

“Don't be an asshole.”

“Fine,” Krueger said, “I’ll play nice with the fresh meat. But listen here, you dickless Ken doll, you owe me for this. Big time!”

“Ah, come on, it’ll be fun! Besides, think of all the souls you can win off him.” There was another crash over the phone, and Tiffany’s voice, screaming for Chucky to get out of the bathroom.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Freddy’s face at the thought. “Well, when you put it that way… Alright, I’ll play nice. For now.”

“Shit, I think she set the house on fire. Gotta go,” Chucky said quickly.

“Yeah, me too!” As Chucky hung up, Freddy’s gaze drifted back to Jason. The hulking killer was now attempting to scoop up the chips with his massive hands, only succeeding in crushing them further.

“Why me?” The killer asked the silent killer, “Seriously? It’s not that hard. Look, you just lift the mask a little, like this…” He demonstrated with exaggerated movements, mimicking eating a chip.

Jason tilted his head and stared blankly.

Before Freddy could launch into another tirade, a resounding discordant CLANG echoed through the boiler room, causing both killers to look up toward the source of the noise. The air shimmered and writhed, reality seeming to tear as a figure appeared out of a shadowed nook.

Static electricity that seemed to spark from nowhere, coalescing into the shape of a man. Pinhead emerged in a flash of brilliant white-blue light, the sound of chains rattling ominously from some unseen place beyond the void. His pale, pin-studded face was a mask of solemnity as his beetle-black eyes settled on the two killers in the room. “Gentlemen,” he rumbled, his voice deep and toneless. “I am here to play!”

Freddy rolls his eyes dramatically, “Well, well, well! If it isn’t ol’ Pincushion, making an entrance flashier than a Vegas stripper. You know, a simple knock would’ve done the trick, but no, you just had to bring the whole light show and carnival act, didn’t ya?”

He sauntered over to Pinhead, gesturing broadly and giving the Hell Priest jazz hands. “Should have saved the dramatic entrance for the new guy who’s coming. Woulda made him shit his pants.” Krueger laughed at his joke.

Pinhead leaned slightly, looking past the red and green goblin to look at Jason, who merely tilted his head in response.

Freddy looked dejected at Pinhead’s lack of response. “These are the jokes, you albino cactus. If you don’t react,” threw his hands up, “I’ve got nothing to work with.”

“I do not find your humor to my liking.” Pinhead’s eyes jumped around the room, his gaze lingering on the poker table,.

Freddy scoffed, “Sheesh! Always so serious! Anyway…glad you could escape the S&M party long enough to join us. And for hell’s sake, don’t sit on the couch until I have a chance to clean it” He flicked a bladed glove to gesture in Jason’s direction, “Lake Placid here just broke the couch and spilled five pounds of chips into the cushions.”

Pinhead moved past Freddy to stand before the poker table. The surface was scratched and torn, duct tape and black electrical tape slapped down in places, holding the sections of the green together. The soft cushioned bumpers, also covered with black and silver tape, showed signs of scratches and heavy use.

As Pinhead sat, he ran his fingers over its damaged and disheveled surface. There was a slight twitch of his facial expression before he raised his voice, “Your game table is looking…”

“Yeah, I know!” Freddy cut him off. “I have my eye on this new table. Get this, blood red felt!” he stared into the distance and swept his gloved hand back and forth as if smoothing out the sheets of a bed, “Ohh, it looks so good. It has an option for LEDs under the bumper cushions. Sounds nice, eh?”

Pinhead ignored the implied question and began dealing himself a hand of solitaire.

Freddy made a dismissive hand wave. “Yeah, sure! Make yourself at home. The red-headed plastic turd bailed on us…again. So no beer.”

While Pinhead played solitaire, Freddy made an effort to tidy up more. Pushing the usual detritus of bricks and wooden pallets into the corners. He cleaned the chips from the couch and found a dart down between the cushions. He stood and threw the dart left-handed at a dartboard on the other side of the room. It landed to the left of the center, and Pinhead noted a photograph of Nancy Thompson’s face tacked to the board.

Nearby, an old dusty flat-screen TV had been showing static, but as he flipped cards, Pinhead saw from the corner of his eye the screen had changed. He directed his view and watched as the screen now showed Pinhead confronting Kirsty in the first Hellraiser movie, the volume off, their on-screen dialog silent.

Mesmerized, Pinhead distractedly said, “I sense… otherworldly power.” His tone was almost reverent.

“Heeeh! You like that?” Freddy grinned and gestured to the TV, “It’s possessed.”

Pinhead tore his eyes from the screen, snapping his gaze to Freddy. “Who’s soul is contained within?”

“Some old fart named Bob Wilkins.” Freddy flicked his blades dismissively. “Used to host a late-night show called Creature Features or something.” Freddy moved to the TV and gave it a wrap with his knuckles, “Come on, you old fuck, play something good!” He turned back to look at Pinhead, whose face remained impassive, “Turns out he was a big deal back in the seventies, so after his death, someone decided Bob would be happier back on TV. Bound him to this.”

At the mention of his name, a young bespectacled man appeared on the screen, seated in a rocking chair. Bob’s hair was blond, short, and swept to the side. His clothing appeared nice and well-tailored, but the discordant clash of muted colors and patterns spoke of the early 1970s. He sat on a set made of paper-mache—the mix of a haunted house and torture dungeon. In the background was a window that looked out onto a cemetery, the tombstones strung with fake cobwebs. The spirit struck a match and lit a cigar, giving the faintest hint of a smile.

“Where did you acquire this cursed soul?” The cenobite asked.

Freddy grins wickedly, his burnt face twisting into a grotesque parody of mirth. “Swapped it with Pennywise for a slightly used red balloon.” He pauses for effect, then leans in conspiratorially towards Pinhead. “Well, okay, it was a used cherry-flavored condom! But that’s just being picky.”

The demon of pain’s eyes twitched slightly, and he pursed his lips, clearly unamused.

Freddy cackles at his joke, the sound grating and unpleasant. “What can I say? The clown’s got a weird sense of value. But hey, one man’s jizz filled balloon is another man’s treasure?”

Pinhead’s face remained impassive, but his voice carried a hint of steel as he responded to Freddy’s crude joke. “Your lies do not amuse us, Krueger. We sense the falsehood in your words. Speak truth, or do not speak at all.”

Freddy’s grin falters momentarily, replaced by a flash of annoyance, then he sighed and his shoulders slumped. He tossed his bladed glove up in mock surrender. “Alright, fine! You want the truth, you prickly pear?” Freddy grumbled. His tone was a mix of irritation and pride. “Some poor sap in Springwood got their hands on this possessed boob tube. Started having nightmares about it - myyyy kind of nightmares.”

A wicked smile flashed, revealing his sharp and crusted teeth, “Being the King of dreams, I whispered in his ear for a few weeks, persuaded them the TV was the source of their nightmares. I encouraged them to ship it here. To me.” With a flourish, Freddy gestured to the metal door with both hands. “Had them deliver it right to my front door! Nothing like a little dreamtime yard sale to get what you want. It’s amazing what people will do when they think they’re gonna piss the bed, eh?” He cackles, clearly pleased with himself.

Pinhead’s soulless eyes returned to the TV, his expression inscrutable. The ghost of Bob Wilkins faded as the screen went dark, then flickered to life with a grainy, black-and-white image. An eerie silhouette of Count Orlok climbing the stairs, his elongated fingers casting grotesque shadows on the wall.

Freddy saw Jason lumber towards the table near the bar, laden with chips and snacks. He bent down, yanking open an ice chest on the floor. Cold sodas peeked out from the layer of ice. With a tilt of his masked head, Jason reached in and stood up, clutching a can of soda.

“Ah, fuck! Hold on, Swamp Thing,” Freddy darted past the giant monster towards a well-used kitchenette in the corner. The area boasted an old but functional sink, some sturdy metal shelves stocked with an eclectic mix of snacks, and a mini-fridge humming quietly. A microwave sat on a counter, its door plastered with horror movie magnets.

Freddy scanned past a coffee maker that gurgled, filling the air with the aroma of fresh brew, noticing a drawer that hung slightly open, revealing an assortment of takeout menus from local joints that didn’t ask questions about their unusual clientele.

Above the counter was a shelf holding a metal tin of bacon-flavored popcorn, and there, his eyes zeroed in on a collection of novelty glasses, each featuring a different classic movie monster. He grabbed one, showing the snarling face of The Creature from the Black Lagoon, stuffed with an assortment of colorful straws.

In one fluid motion, Freddy snatched a straw, popped open the soda can, and jammed the straw in. He thrust the drink back into Jason’s massive hand before the lumbering killer could fumble and soak the already filthy floor.

“There,” Freddy sneered, “You’re welcome.”

Jason tilted his head in what might have been gratitude or confusion, then slowly raised the can to the approximate location of his mouth, the straw disappearing beneath the hockey mask’s edge.

Closing his eyes, Freddy growled to himself, releasing a long, heavy sigh at how the night was already going to shit. His eyes opened and settled on a board hanging on the wall, the ‘Rule’s Board.’ His eyes slid from that one to the ‘Betting Board” next to it. They had put it up during their last poker night, and it was still hanging crookedly over the bar. Scrawled in red marker: “Next Hollywood Remake,” “Most Creative Kill of the Month,” and “Next Slasher Movie being a Horror Comedy.”

As he stared at the board, he was reminded of what Chucky said about the new guy. Well… that just meant more chips in Freddy’s pile, he thought. His frustration melted away, replaced by a familiar predatory excitement.

Across the room, Pinhead shuffled the cards and dealt himself a new hand of solitaire while Jason continued his losing battle with the straw. Freddy allowed himself a small, wicked smile. Playing nice with the fresh meat or not, it was going to be one hell of a night.

Return to the Top

Chapter 2: Arrivals

Freddy smiled to himself as he surveyed the boiler room. While you could still get tetanus of the eyeballs just by looking at the place, the boiler room had transformed into a reasonably clean and uncluttered space for poker night. He’d tossed out the detritus that once littered the floor and shoved junk off to the farthest edges where people wouldn’t trip over it. A string of chili pepper lights now hung above the kitchen and bar area, adding a touch of warmth to the grim, dark space. The stench of rust and old oil still lingered—not much he could do about that in an abandoned factory—everyone would just have to shut the fuck up if they didn’t like it.

He turned to the table where Jason sat, his massive frame looking comical on the creaking. Nearby, Pinhead sat like a statue, staring at the game before him. Only Pinhead’s hands moved as he flipped cards. His eyes darted back and forth over the face-up cards before him, occasionally flicking to the TV. On the screen, the old horror host lifted a skull candle holder to light his cigar. The red wax of the candle had melted down onto the skull. Long gloopy trails meant to look like blood clung to its sides.

The spook had only appeared a few times in the month since Freddy had got the Television, but here he was twice in one night. He now sported a different outfit—a tacky plaid suit and hideous tie—still sitting in the wooden rocking chair. His thick black-framed glasses caught glints of light as he gently rocked back and forth. As the man smoked, the fog filled the screen as if a smoke machine was at the bottom of the screen, just out of sight. Billowing plumes of white drifted up, obscuring the horror host. As the mist cleared, Freddy saw a man being stabbed by a large hook and then a knife. He recognized it as a scene from John Carpenter’s The Fog.

“That’s it!” Freddy roared, ripping his eyes from the TV and throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Where the hell is everyone?”

He stomped over to a grimy mirror hanging on the wall, his melted features sneering as he glared at his reflection. “Candyman,” he muttered, voice dripping with resigned annoyance, “Candyman,” he repeated, rolling his eyes, “Candyman,” followed by an exaggerated sigh.

Freddy’s gaze drifted to the flickering neon sign. “Your Comfort Zone Will Kill You,” it proclaimed in sickly orange letters. He remembered the day Angela Baker had presented it at his “retirement party” - a twisted affair that was equal parts roast and wake for his film career. More than once, he thought about tossing the insipid thing into the boiler and melting it down to slag. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Comfort Zone, my ass” He snorted and turned back to the mirror, “Candyman, Candyman, now get your honey-dripping ass over here already!” He turned to walk away but turned back at the last minute and added, “And bring some fucking beer since Strawberry Shortcake bailed!”

The mirror’s surface rippled like disturbed water. There was a flash, and Candyman appeared behind Freddy in the reflection. He stood in the shadows, his imposing figure shrouded in a long, dark coat that absorbed the light. The shadowed face, etched with a mix of menace and melancholy, stared back at Freddy.

Candyman’s presence brought with it the faint, unsettling hum of bees. The sound emanated from everywhere and nowhere at once. His right hand ended in a bloody stump, replaced by a rusted iron hook. Dried blood crusted the metal, and fresh droplets oozed down its length and flicked to the floor as he moved.

Candyman fixed Freddy with a look of irritation, his dark eyes burning with intensity, unimpressed by the lack of respect in his summoning.

“What?” Freddy shrugged, unfazed by Candyman’s intimidating presence. “We’ve got a game to play. I got sick of waiting.”

“I was expecting to be summoned by Chucky.” Candyman glared.

“Don’t get me started on that little shit! He and the little misses were getting into it when he called to say he couldn’t bring beer.”

“Ahhhhh.” was the only response as Candyman handed Freddy a case of beer and moved to join the others. He paused mid-step, his attention caught by the old TV in the corner. The screen showed Jason tilting his head in confusion. Candyman glanced at the real Jason, who mimicked the same head tilt. Candyman did a double-take, looking between the TV and Jason with growing bewilderment.

Freddy snorted before saying, “Make yourself at home. Snacks and drinks,” waving to the nearby table and the ice chest. “If Cactus Head is willing to open a gateway, maybe later we can order pizza from somewhere good rather than the Mexican pizza place down the road.”

“¿Hablas Pizza? is a crime against humanity,” Candyman said.

Freddy chuckled, “Where the cheese rips and the crust stretches!” He kept laughing as he stuffed cans of beer into the ice chest.

Candyman’s eyes closed, his face a mask of disgust, and Pinhead’s eye twitched, both recoiling at the memory of the pizza from the previous poker night.

“Hey, I gotta live with what I can get here.” Freddy shrugged. “You know how few places will deliver to an abandoned factory with as many bodies found on the property as this place? If Spike Strip here would help a killer out and get me a portal that I could use when he’s not around, I wouldn’t have to rely on shitty pizza.”

“Don’t tell me DoorDash doesn’t come to this area,” Candyman said.

“DoorDash, UberEATS, Grubhub - they all said this address is—” Freddy made air quotes with his fingers and blades, “Not an official business or residence.”

Before Candyman spoke up, they heard the muffled sounds of someone at the front door. All heads turned as the door creaked open, flooding the dim space with a brief burst of the dusky orange sky, and in walked Angela Baker.

Wild, wavy blonde hair framed her girl-next-door face, dominated by a smile that widened at the sight of the room’s terrifying occupants. Her shorts exposed tanned legs, while a button-up shirt hung loosely over a tank top with the “Camp Arawak” logo. She carried a casserole dish in one hand and a plastic pitcher in the other. The pitcher showed a cartoon frog in a straw hat with the words ‘Ribbit-licious.’ She looked like she was on her way to camp rather than a poker night with a gathering of the world’s most infamous slashers.

“Hi, guys!” Her chirpy voice pierced the gloom. She practically bounced, her energy bubbly and infectious. “Freddy, you’ve really spruced the place up. It’s almost… homey.” Her eyes lit up as they fell on the decorations. “Awww, I like those little chili peppers. So cute!”

Freddy’s face contorted into one of disgust. The cheerfulness radiating from Angela appeared to cause him actual pain. “Now I regret putting them up,” he grumbled.

Angela’s smile didn’t falter as she approached the snack table. Already crowded with chips, cheese, crackers, and finger sandwiches, she slid a bowl aside and set her dish down. “I made easy, oven-baked S’mores. Not quite as good as the real thing, but I found a recipe online, and while it was pretty good, I made it even better with a little bit of ‘Liquid Smoke’ to get the campfire flavor.”

Candyman glided over to the table and peered into the dish, the aroma of chocolate and marshmallows mingling with the faint scent of smoke. “Ah, Angela,” he said, his deep voice sounding amused, “you always bring an unexpected delight to our gatherings.” He picked up a s’more with his good hand, examining the cookie-like confection, “I must admit, I have a certain… fondness for the sweeter things in life.” Taking a bite, the gooey marshmallow stretched between the cookie and his mouth. He savored it for a moment before murmuring with pleasure, “The hint of smokey flavoring is… inspired.”

Angela beamed at the compliment.

Freddy raised an eyebrow, a look of mild irritation showing on his face, “And how come you’re so late, Mary Poppins?”

Angela’s perpetual smile dimmed somewhat, a flicker of something darker passing behind her eyes. “Oh, Tiff called me,” her smile fading and eyes dropping to dangerous, narrow slits. “Said Chucky ‘messed up big time’ and he wouldn’t be here. Since he wouldn’t be bringing beer, I made a batch of Strawberry Lemonade.” She finished with a wide smile while holding up the plastic pitcher.

“In what universe would lemonade be a substitute for beer?” Freddy snapped.

“In every universe. Duuuuh!” She replied with a laugh, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Freddy closed his eyes in exasperation. He glanced over at Pinhead, still playing solitaire, and Jason watching the TV. The screen showed little more than underwater clips of beavers and fish swimming by in murky green waters. The giant monster sat there, gaze fixed and unmoving. Freddy blinked, his mind reeling at the bizarre sight. He had questions, but before he could voice them, Angela continued.

“I don’t know what Chucky did, but I know Tiff will make him pay for it.” As if a switch had been flipped, Angela was beaming again, her eyes shining with uncontained glee. “I can’t wait to hear how she dismembers him!”

Freddy snorted. “Yeah, well…” he began, “I think she just needs a nice, long, hard ride on a battery-operated friend, if you know what I mean.” He put his hands behind his head and started gyrating his hips as he waggled his tongue, flicking it obscenely. Then he started making a rhythmic buzzing noise from between his teeth.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Angela’s face darkened as she walked over to the table, grabbed a large chef’s knife next to the S’mores, and pointed it at him, “Clean up your act around me, Freddy Krueger! Or I’ll start cutting the dirty parts off of you. Starting with that disgusting tongue!”

He recoiled, the knife, now leveled, inches from his face. The storm of rage in her eyes was almost enough to give him chills…that was if he wasn’t an unkillable demon. “Jeez, take it easy, Mother Superior. I forgot how touchy you can be.”

“Good!” Her smile returned, a bit too wide. “Now have some of my homemade strawberry lemonade. Nothing beats it on a hot summer night!”

Again, he marveled at her ability to flip her switch like that. “Ohhh, goody,” he said, putting on a mocking smile and air of false good cheer, “just what a bunch of slashers want. Booze-free drinks from Camp Kumbaya.”

She dropped the knife back on the snack table and turned to face the room, clapping her hands excitedly. “So, who’s ready for some fun?” she sing-songed, her tone sounding more like she was about to lead them all in a round of singing camp songs.

“We are always ready to play,” Pinhead intoned, not taking his eyes off the game of solitaire, a game that he would win by the looks of it.

Pausing, Angela looked thoughtful. “Ohh…I almost forgot. Who’s the guy sitting in his car outside? He looks like he is talking to himself.”

Freddy moved to a grimy window, peering out into the darkness. Through the windshield of a parked car, he saw a man talking to himself or, more likely, talking on the phone.

“Must be the new guy Chucky mentioned,” Freddy shrugged, returning to the group. “Alright, everyone, let’s not kill the new guy. Plastic Patch said this guy is solid and more importaintleeeee…,” He dragged out the word as a huge grin stretched his scared face. “He sucks at poker.”

“Aww… I’m going to feel bad for him. Poor guy.” Angela’s mouth turned down in a frown.

“Fuck that!” With a dismissive wave, Freddy snapped, “I’m going to take him for every last soul he has.”

Candyman gave them a dark smile. “Indeed. The sweet taste of victory shall be mine tonight.”

As they spoke, Pinhead moved to the bar. He had produced a bottle of bourbon and mixed a drink in a silver shaker. The liquid and ice inside made a rapid, sloshing, grating sound.

Freddy approached the bar, his gaze locked on Pinhead’s drink. Amber liquid cascaded over a single, oversized, crystal-clear ice cube that nestled perfectly in the glass—a spiraled orange rind perched atop the concoction. As the amber liquid cascaded over the ice, Freddy glanced at his rusty fridge that didn’t work and pondered the cube’s origin. Then he decided he didn’t care, and his face split into a wicked grin. “Alright! How about a drinking game? We take a shot for every horror movie cliché we spot or mention tonight.”

Pinhead inclined his head, savoring a sip of his Old Fashioned, “While I prefer my current indulgence. For the sake of the evening, I shall partake in this… ritual.”

Jason gave a slight head tilt, and Angela made a face before saying, “Yuck, I’ll be drinking lemonade.”

“Then what’s the point?” Freddy groused at the back of her head as she walked away.

At that moment, a resounding bang echoed from across the room. Jason loomed over the Television, his meaty fist having slammed down on its dusty frame. The screen flickered before it cut to a black-and-white clip of Japanese civilians fleeing from Godzilla as the building crumbled and fell down around them.

“Hey, Maggothead! What the fuck are you doing to my TV?” Freddy raged, storming across the room. “You trying to give it brain damage to match yours?”

After stepping back, Jason looked down at the monitor. The image flipped back to what it was on a moment before, a scene of an elderly Elvis Presley facing down a Mummy.

Freddy glanced between Jason and the Television, “What? You’re smashing my shit because it’s showing a Horror Comedy? Christ, Lurch, calm down!”

Jason pointed at Freddy, pointed at the TV, and made a hitting motion with his fist.

“Yeah! I can do that. Because it’s mine, dumbass!” Freddy yelled.

Jason turned and stomped off to the table filled with snacks, head hanging and his shoulders hunched.

Candyman’s smooth voice sounded almost angry. “Horror comedies are a blight upon our genre. They reduce our artistry to mere… slapstick.”

Pinhead nodded, “Indeed. The state of the genre is most concerning. The line between terror and parody grows ever thin.”

Angela perked up with a grin, “I really liked ‘Freaky!”

Candyman shot her a look that could curdle milk.

“What?” she demanded, oblivious to the tension. “I thought it was fun. And funny.”

Jason raised both arms above his head, about to smash the snacks, when Freddy’s voice roared, “DON’T YOU FUCKING DO IT! I swear to whatever unholy power created you, I’ll start bringing your mom to poker night! And we will be playing Strip Poker.”

Jason’s fists loomed overhead for a long moment before he dropped them to his sides with an almost audible sigh.

Continuing, as if nothing had interrupted her, Angela added, “Her friends were so wholesome and adorable.” She scrunched up her shoulders and beamed. A moment later, her face darkened, and she made a disgusted face, “Not doing all that disgusting stuff adults do.” She stuck out her tongue, then instantly brightened again, “Oh, and Totally Killer was fun too.”

“Give it a rest, June Cleaver,” Freddy said, flashing her the ‘talk to hand gesture’ with his glove. “I hate to take her side, but do you really think Chucky isn’t a comedy? A serial killer gets swapped into the body of a toy doll? How is that any less comedic than the slasher getting flipped into the body of the Final Girl? That’s some funny shit right there.” He continued, “Or what about me and Swamp Thing over there duking it out WWF style? You think Freddy vs. Jason wasn’t a comedy?”

Freddy flexed his arms and struck an exaggerated wrestling pose, one arm making a muscle. The bladed glove shot out at a forty-five-degree angle, Hulk Hogan style, “Shitty digital effects aside, that was funny. The sequel would have been awesome! At least it got made into a comic book, and in it, I got to bang his mom!” He finished with a laugh and jabbing a thumb at Jason.

“Gross! And not funny!” Angela reached over and patted one of Jason’s arms. The hulking monster cocked his head, menace radiating from behind the mask. Freddy’s laughter died when he realized he was the only one laughing.

“Anyway,” he went on, pushing past the awkward moment with a wave of one hand, “the sequel was going to be a three-way battle between me, Hockey Puck, and Ash Williams.” He held out his hands for effect, wiggling his eyebrows, “Three-way. Get it?”

“Again….Eww!” Angela looked angry. “Don’t make me go get my knife again.”

Pinhead sighed, swirling his Old Fashioned. “You don’t feel it belittles your… relevance?”

“Fuck no!” Freddy looked exasperated. “I got taken out by Rule 63 Kevin McCallister in my first movie. How can anyone take themselves seriously after that? This is something Candy Cane over here can appreciate. The only ‘Relevance’ that matters is that people are still talking about you and preferably making movies, action figures, bobbleheads, comics, fan-fiction, and any other shit about YOU!”

“This is true,” Candyman said. “Though I am retired, the reboot of my franchise has given me a new life.”

A frown and a look of concentration fell over Angela’s face. “No one made any of that stuff about me?”

“Are you kidding? You brutally murdered a bunch of kids in their sleeping bags and flashed your junk on screen in 1983!” Freddy said, “People are still talking about that. And by the way, there are a fuck ton of shirts and shit about you that people make. And…I hesitate to say this, but they did make an action figure of you. Don’t look it up. It’s horrible and you’ll just get upset.”

Candyman interrupted his tirade. “And in the three-way battle you mentioned? Who, pray tell, would have won this?”

“The good guy, of course!” Freddy shook his head in stupefied amazement. “You dipshits can’t be this clueless! In what film… have any of us actually won?”

Angela’s hand shot up, grinning from ear to ear. “I did!”

The room fell silent. Even Jason turned to stare at her.

“What?” Angela sounded slightly defensive. “In my second movie, I got away. Drove off in some lady’s truck. I even got to ride off with the Final Girl.” She let out a wistful sigh and stared into the distance. “We had a wonderful rest of the summer together.” Her cheerful grin lit up the dingy room like a ray of sunshine.

Pinhead’s dark eyes narrowed, the dim light gleaming in their reflection. “Yet your tale didn’t end there, did it?”

Angela’s smile wavered. “I got amnesia for a while… So, I don’t know what happened to Molly, but… it was nice while it lasted.”

Freddy sneered. “We’re not here to be nice. We’re here to terrify, to traumatize! To maim and murder!” He finished his statement with a flourish, raising his gloved hand and wiggling his razor-tipped fingers in a macabre, snip-snip, scissoring gesture.

Candyman said, “The very nature of terror has shifted. The sweet terror we feed upon now competes with those of the waking world. The mortals we once tormented have grown numb, finding our familiar frights almost… comforting, in the face of their daily fears.”

As the group fell into a heated discussion about the current state of horror cinema and horror comedies, their voices rose and fell in agreement and admonishment. Angela’s gaze drifted to the TV and the ghostly host on the screen, rocking in his chair and smoking his cigar. He had a strange little smirk as he watched the debate unfold. The ghost gave her a quick wink and a nod.

Return to the Top

Chapter 3: The New Guy

The killers’ banter was abruptly interrupted by the shrill ring of a phone. The sound echoed ominously off the rusted metal walls of the boiler room, causing even Jason to tilt his head in curiosity.

Freddy looked around and, when no one else was moving to get the phone, sighed, “Well, don’t everyone jump up? I’ll just get that, shall I?” his burnt face flashed a smirk as he picked up the old corded phone hanging from the wall.

“Krueger’s House of Pain,” he growled into the receiver, his gravelly voice dripping with sarcasm, “how may I direct your screaming?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then a distorted voice crackled through the line, “That’s a funny way to answer the phone. So… you must really like scary movies?”

Freddy’s eyes rolled so hard his head rolled with their path. “Cut the crap! We’ve been through this routine more times than I can count, you bargain bin poser.”

The voice faltered for a second before rallying. “What’s your favorite scary movie?” they pressed on, determined to see the bit through.

“Really? We’re doing this?” Freddy’s shoulders slumped, his patience thinner than his burnt skin, “Fine. My favorite scary movie is the one where I turn a banned prank caller into a human shish-kebab for interrupting my poker night. Oh wait, that’s not a movie—that’s what’s gonna happen if you don’t quit calling.”

“I don’t see why you’re getting so upset. I just want to talk with you guys,” the voice whined, dropping the act.

“Listen here, you shower curtain cosplayer,” Freddy yelled into the phone, his voice dripping with contempt. “While you’re prancing around asking trivia questions, I’m the goddamn reason therapists can afford beach houses. You lost your invite privileges when you nearly got us all killed last year. So unless you want me to turn your wet dreams into a fucking snuff film, hang up, fuck off, and die!”

“Awww… you’re not bein—”

Freddy slammed the phone down with an exasperated grunt, cutting off the prank caller mid-sentence. The receiver cracked under the force of his frustration.

“Ghostface?” Candyman inquired, eyeing a second s’more treat on his plate, a hint of amusement in his deep voice.

“Fucking Ghostface,” Freddy snarled, shaking his head. “Amateur hour phone pranks. Next time I see him—.”

Freddy’s words were cut off as the TV flickered to show Ghostface picking up and dialing a phone, and then the scene cut to a slack-jawed black man, clearly stoned out of his mind, answering his phone. Even without sound, everyone recognized the infamous “Wazzup” moment from ‘Scary Movie,’ further cementing Ghostface’s reputation as a buffoon.

The group erupted in laughter, a cacophony of strange chuckling sounds punctuated by Angela’s cheerful giggle. Jason only cocked his head slightly and Pinhead, ever the stoic, merely arched an eyebrow.

A sudden, hard, single knock at the rusted metal door abruptly cut their laughter short. The killers froze, exchanging glances.

“Seriously?” Freddy exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation, blades glinting in the dim light. “What the fuck is this? Grand Central Station?”

“Language, Freddy!” Angela snapped before she bounced on her toes, clapping her hands together so fast she looked like someone praying and having a seizure at the same time. “Ooh, it’s got to be the new guy. Guess he’s finally done with his phone call!”

Freddy went to open the door, the other killers congregating near the poker table. With a sinister grin, Freddy raised his gloved hand as if to slash down on anyone on the other side. He yanked the door open, revealing a man standing on the threshold, glaring back at him.

The man cut an imposing figure, dressed all in black. His faded jeans tucked into slightly scuffed military-style combat boots, left loose at the top so they flared out slightly. A black loose-neck t-shirt hugged his lean, athletic frame, partially obscured by a heavy black jacket adorned with metal rings and chains. The man’s dark hair was messy, and a thin scar sliced through his right eyebrow. Multiple silver rings adorned his fingers, including one of a skull.

Freddy growled, “Yeah? Whatdaya want?”

The man narrowed his eyes, glanced up at the raised arm, clearly unimpressed by Freddy’s attempt at intimidation. “Chuck sent me.”

Freddy stepped aside with a flourish of his bladed hand. “Well, well, Fresh Meat. Come on in.”

As the man in black stepped inside, the heavy thud of his combat boots on the metal floor echoed through the room. The conversation died down, and all eyes turned to the newcomer. Jason remained motionless, his mask hiding any expression. Pinhead’s dark eyes narrowed, assessing the man with cold calculation. The air grew thick with tension, broken only by the distant drip of water and the soft crackle of the neon sign.

The man stared at them all for a moment; he was about to speak when Freddy stepped into his field of view and put on a mockingly sweet and friendly voice, “Hiiiii, Im Freddy. I’ll be your host for the evening.” Then his voice shifted to one of menace. “Now… who the fuck are you?”

“Freddy! Be nice!” Angela glared through gritted teeth.

Standing before them, the newcomer gave a curt and hesitant nod. Then he squared his shoulders and addressed the group. “I’m Victor Toth,” he announced, his voice resonant and slightly gravelly.

Angela stepped forward with a bright smile. “Pleased to meet you, Victor! We’re so glad you could make it. I hope you’re ready for a killer game night!”

Victor’s eyes narrowed slightly at Angela’s cheerfulness. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes and said, “Oh, I’m always ready for a good… killing.”

“Ooooh…“ Freddy weakly waved his hands and made a face of mock fear. “Yeah, yeah, we’re all very scary here, Nny.”

Victor furrowed his brow and gave Freddy a confused look.

After a long pause, Freddy said, “Nny…As in John-Nny!” When no one around him showed any recognition of what he was referencing, he said, “Johnny the Homicidal Maniac?” At the further blank stares, he explained in exasperation, “It’s a comic book about a slasher. He wears all black.” Freddy emphasized, gesturing to Victor’s clothing.

“You have to forgive Freddy. He’s a big jerk.” Angela began, showing Victor to the game table, and then she gestured to the snacks, “grab some food and a something to drink. I made s’mores and strawberry lemonade, so help yourself.”

With introductions out of the way, Victor took in the boiler room for the first time. Seeing the dim orange glow from the kitchen-bar area, he noticed the chili pepper lights and frowned at the incongruous decorations. On the wall facing him was what appeared to be some kind of betting board. It listed things like “Next Slasher Movie being a Horror Comedy” and “Next Hollywood Remake”; the last one was circled with a red marker, and the word ‘Winner’ written over it. Hanging not too far away was a second board listing the ‘Game Night Rules’:

Clean up your own mess. (soda, beer, blood, viscera, etc.)
No Cheating — this includes using powers)
Keep your hands/tentacles/extra appendages to yourself
No slashing the other players
Leave your vendettas at the door
What happens in the Boiler Room—stays in the Boiler Room

When Victor read the last rule, he let out a snort of laughter, then quickly composed himself, his face taking on a mask of seriousness once more. He gave a solemn nod and looked at his host. “You could film a movie here.”

“Well, aren’t you a regular Spielberg? News flash, Toffy - this ain’t no movie set. It’s the real deal.” Freddy said, sounding insulted, “They didn’t just film movies here, dumbass. They filmed MY movies. This is THE boiler room…”

Victor cocked his head, looking around as if trying to visualize the space and recognize it.

Candyman appeared next to Victor, presenting his gleaming hook. He was about to say something, but Victor beat him to it. “If I had known this was a costume party, I would have worn my Fishermen outfit.” Victor looked at the bleeding hook and gave a malicious grin, his gravelly voice taking on a mocking tone, “Then we could be twinsies!” He finished by making a hook shape with two fingers and waved it in a mocking gesture.

Freddy barked in laughter from the other side of the room; he was filling a plate with snacks and called out, “Ohh, I like him!”

Candyman moved with unnatural speed, the scent of honey and the faint hum of bees filling the small space that remained between them. “Most people fear me,” he snapped, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through Victor’s chest.

The gleaming hook came to rest on Victor’s shoulder. “It would be well… that you do the same.”

Victor’s eyes widened briefly before he said, “Watch the jacket, man.” He brushed the hook away and glanced at the sticky smear across his shoulder in disgust.

As the two men stood there staring at each other, everyone else began moving to the table and sitting down.

“Quit fucking around over there!” Freddy interrupted. “Let’s get this game started.”

Victor turned to see that everyone else had claimed seats around the table. As he approached, he asked, “Poker?”

“Yeah!” Freddy gave him a look like he was an idiot. “Didn’t Chucky tell you?”

“No, he did not,” Victor said, his jaw tightening and an air of malice smoldering in his eyes.

“What did you think we were setting up at the poker table for Vicky? To have a circle jerk?” Freddy gave him a dubious look. “Is that what you’re into? Eating the limp biscuit?” Then Freddy leaned back and tossed up his hands. “Not judging. Just inquiring minds wanna know!”

“Eww! Freddy, that’s gross!” Angela chided. “Ignore him.”

“I’m going to get some food.” Victor said, walking away.

As Victor helped himself to the snacks, the old TV in the corner caught his attention. On the screen, a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses gave him a subtle nod, then gestured with a thumb to his right. Before Victor could make sense of the image, the screen changed. Now, a group of terrified teenagers ran for their lives through a factory filled with billowing steam and an ominous red glow. The similarities to his current surroundings were uncanny—the hissing pipes and the rusty metal walls. For a moment, Victor wondered if this was where that scene had been filmed. It certainly looked like it.

Pinhead cleaned up his solitaire game as they settled down. He began shuffling the deck with the skill of a professional magician. His movements were mesmerizing, fingers dancing over the deck with inhuman speed and grace. The cards seemed to defy gravity, floating between his hands in intricate patterns as he shuffled. Freddy slouched in his chair, absently picking his nails with a blade. Jason sat motionless, his mask betraying no interest. Angela hummed softly to herself, arranging snacks on her plate. Candyman sipped his drink, his gaze lingering on the stack of s’mores on his plate.

As the incredible display continued, Victor was shocked by the other’s lack of interest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Pinhead’s hands. His jaw slackened slightly, and he leaned forward, trying to follow the impossible movements. ‘Damn, that’s one hell of a trick!’ he muttered, his head and eyes jerking side to side in an attempt to keep up with the cards’ rapid dance.

‘What’s the matter, Vic?’ Angela asked, noticing his fixation.

Victor just shook his head, giving a dismissive wave. But his eyes remained locked on the cards as they continued their mesmerizing, gravity-defying performance.

Return to the Top

Chapter 4: The Agent

The walls of Chuck’s office were a patchwork of faded and curling B-movie posters and headshots of D-list actors, each trying to out-glare the other in overly dramatic and severe expressions. Within this mausoleum of Hollywood’s who’s who of unknown actors sat Victor Toth, trying to keep his leg from bouncing and resisting the urge to bite his nails.

Victor had been escorted to Chuck’s office by his secretary. “Mr. Rosenbaum is on another call and will be back in a moment.” She pointed to a pair of coffee-stained chairs. “Please have a seat and wait right here.” One chair had faded metallic green fabric, and the other might have been white with orange polka dots at some point, but now it looked horribly stained. The woman pulled the door shut before he chose a seat, the sound of a phone ringing drawing her away in a rush.

Now, morning sunlight sliced through the bent, dust-covered blinds, casting zebra-striped shadows across the room. Piles of papers, manuscripts, and folders packed with the lives of other D-list actors teetered precariously on every available surface. The faded and peeling wallpaper barely clung to the walls. They looked to be competing with the stained and broken office ceiling tiles, for which one could look more neglected.

In the corner, an ancient coffee pot that Victor was almost positive had been stolen from a Denny’s restaurant at some point in the last twenty years. It gurgled and hissed ominously, filling the air with the acrid smell of old burnt coffee. The aroma mingled with the musty scent of age and desperation that seemed to permeate every inch of the room.

A worn leather chair dominated the space behind the desk, its surface cracked and peeling. The chair held a permanent depression marked where the agent’s weight had pressed the now-visible foam into a dark orange, crumbling mess. A dusting of desiccated foam littered the floor, looking like Chuck had used his ass as a cheese grater.

Victor’s eyes darted from the disintegrating chair to the desk and landed on his resume, sitting open, its contents half spilling out as it slid from atop a stack of papers. Details of his various roles stared back at him, a reminder of his less-than-illustrious career thus far. A few commercials, an extra role on several TV shows, and a little voice acting made up most of his experience. The highlights were his lead role as Sweeney Todd for a small stage theater, a minor part in a teen romantic comedy, and some stunt work on a horror flick where he got the scar over his right eye. He was proud of that scar. He thought it gave him a certain ‘look.’

He could hear his agent’s voice rising from the hallway, talking animatedly on the phone or perhaps to his long-suffering receptionist. As he waited, the room seemed to close in on him, each detail heavy with the desperation that fueled this corner of the movie industry. His dreams of stardom felt both incredibly close, and impossibly within this crumbling temple to Hollywood’s forgotten. Victor shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the thin padding pressing into him and making his ass go numb.

He looked dubiously at the white and orange chair next to him. The brown smears conjured revolting images of how they came to be. His aching butt wanted him to switch seats despite the stains, but the door burst open at that moment. Victor flinched as his agent waddled in; his spare tire jiggled as he gesticulated wildly with one hand while holding a sloshing cup of coffee in the other.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Chuck barked, and for a moment, Victor thought the agent was talking to him. “I warned you about this when they offered you the role, I told! I told you! They were gonna want you to flash some skin. You agreed and signed on for full frontal… I know… I know… STOP! They don’t care if you’re having second thoughts now. I’m sorry. Look, you know I love ya, but you’re just gonna have to suck it up, drop trou, and flash yer clam in ‘Werewolf Cheerleader’… Just… No! Just do it! It’ll be five minutes of your life you can live to regret, orrrr, the alternative is you’re not getting paid. Your choice!”

There was a long moment while Chuck just listened to the other end of the phone, nodding at what was being said on the other end. The agent held up a single finger to Victor with a grimace before speaking back into the phone, “Yeah…uh huh…yeep…OK, I—Hey, I got another client here waiting; I gotta go. OK, love you sis. Yeah, tell Mom I love her too.”

He lifted his phone to eye level in one hand, pulled his other arm way back over his shoulder, and, with a manic expression, jabbed the stubby digit of his forefinger into the screen.

Turning to Victor with a broad grin, Chuck said with a quick laugh, “Sorry about that, kid. Family, am I right?” He dropped heavily into his chair, a blast of fine yellow foam powder puffing out all around as he let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“No problem, Mr. Rosenbaum.” Victor said.

“I fucking miss the old phones! You know, the ones you could slam down in rage.” He mimed grasping the invisible receiver of an old phone and bringing his hand violently down repeatedly, stopping just short of hitting a giant pile of folders that surely would have gone crashing to the floor. “So much more satisfying than stabbing a screen with your finger.”

Victor studied the man before him. The middle-aged agent’s graying comb-over waged a losing battle against his receding hairline, and his short-sleeve, powder blue shirt had two buttons across the middle threatening to break free. At the current tension, Victor was almost sure someone could lose an eye when it happened. His gaze dropped to Chuck’s pants. The gray plaid slacks and shiny brown shoes were straight out of the ’70s. Victor prayed it was an ironic fashion statement, but didn’t think so.

He probably wasn’t really that old; Victor guessed he was in his forties, maybe? But with his weight, balding hair, the bags under his eyes, and the stress lines on his face, he looked well into his fifties, maybe sixties.

“Ah, fuck! And cigarettes!” Chuck exclaimed. “I’d beat Michael Myers’s ass for a Morley right now.” He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a pack of small individually wrapped cubes, the plastic crinkling loudly as he popped one in his mouth. Then he pulled out a green and yellow box labeled ‘Nico-Strips.’ He pulled out a sheet, peeled off the back, then slapped a transparent sheet of shiny plastic on the arm already plastered with half a dozen patches.

Victor’s eyes drifted to the clock. 10:13 am, then back to the nicotine patches. He managed a dubious smile and a chuckle before saying, “No problem, Mr. Rosenbaum. So, um, any news about the audition?”

Chuck’s face, chewing on the Nico-gum, contorted into what might have been sympathy or possibly indigestion. “Look, kid, I’ve got good news, important news, and bad news. Bad news first: You didn’t get the Vampire role on ‘Co-Ed Blood Sucker.’ You’re just too young to play the dean of a college. I told you… You should have gone for the Security Guard.”

“That role sucked!” Victor whined. “He died in the first twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes of screen time is better than zero. And now you have zero.” Chuck pinched his thumb and fingers together to form an ‘O’ before moving it rapidly back and forth. Victor’s eye twitched as he tried to dismiss the image that stabbed into his brain and focus on Chuck as he went on, “Also, it was good exposure! You would have shown your face. And you would have done a great stunt where the vampire throws you through a wall.” The stubby man looked to his left, gritted his teeth, and flung his arms like he was tossing someone at the wall, finishing with a “Hiyaah!”

“And the good news?” Victor mumbled, his voice sounding deflated.

Chuck’s grin widened, revealing teeth stained by years of coffee and cigarettes. “Two things. First, I got you an audition for the Slasher role in ‘Forever Darkness.’ And second, you’re going to a Method Acting Group Mixer for actors! Tonight!”

Victor’s expression lit up, then shifted to dubious. “Method Acting Mixer?” Then his face took on a look of panic. “Wait, tonight?”

“This is non-negotiable, Vic.” Chuck jabbed a finger at him. “You are doing okay, but you need this. You have one week before Forever Darkness starts holding auditions. If you want a chance at landing that role, you will want to be living and breathing this psycho until then. That means you need practice. The mixer will be a great place to start.”

Victor straightened in his chair and brightened once more. “Alright, Chuck! I am going to nail this part.”

As Victor began to stand, Chuck stopped him with a raised finger. Victor’s ass ached in protest, but he stayed seated.

“One last thing, kid. I’m gonna level with you.” Chuck looked thoughtful before he pressed on. “This mixer? It’s kinda… underground. These actors meet in character. In the roles they’re playing or ones they want to play. They never break character.” He sighed and met Victor’s eyes. “I know it’s a little weird, but the networking opportunities?” Chuck made an ‘O-Face,’ while enthusiastically giving OK signs with both hands. “Killer.”

Victor winced at Chuck’s facial expression and the back-and-forth movement of the ‘O’ gestures. He gave a grimacing smile and a nod, trying to look anywhere but directly at his agent.

Chuck pressed on, his eyes gleaming. “Look, in this business, you’ve gotta commit. Be the star you want to see in the world. This mixer? It’s your chance to rub elbows with some top-tier actors. Watch what they do. See how they behave when they are in the roles they’re playing. There’s bound to be a few A-Listers there, so don’t try and suck their dicks to get an autograph. Just act like it’s no big deal and play your role. At the end of the night, you will have a chance to shake hands and do a little networking.”

Reaching into his desk drawer, Chuck pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and scribbled down an address. “Remember, Victor, 90% of success in this town is just being in the right place at the right time. The other 10%?” He tapped his desk with a stubby finger. “Fake it till you make it.”

Victor felt like it was the other way around; 90% of fake it till you make it, but he took the paper and smiled down at the agent. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Rosenbaum. I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

Chuck got up from his chair, his ass scrapping more yellow foam onto the floor, came around the desk and clapped a hand down on Victor’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit, kid. Now, go break a leg!”

Victor’s beat-up Honda Civic whined down the sun-baked streets of LA. A faded bumper sticker of an old VHS tape with the words ‘I’d rather be watching horror movies’ clung stubbornly to the rear, its edge torn and peeling up slightly.

The inside of the car told the story of Victor’s struggling career. Crumpled fast-food bags mingled with dog-eared scripts, their pages stained and yellowed from countless read-throughs. Coffee cups, soda cans, and a few unpaid parking tickets formed a carpet that mostly covered the floor. A life lived between back-to-back auditions. The back seat was equally cluttered, housing several changes of clothes. Once crisp and ready for last-minute casting calls, they lay scattered, wrinkled, and stained.

At a red light, Victor’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. His face transformed, eyes narrowing as he slipped into character. “You can’t kill the boogeyman,” he cried, in the childlike voice of young Brian Andrews from Halloween. A moment later, his expression shifted, a maniacal grin spreading across his face as he embodied Jack Nicholson, “Here’s Johnny!” His grin faded as quickly as it had appeared. Was that too much? Not enough? He shook his head and sighed as he flashed his teeth and practiced several expressions.

The honk of a car horn from behind started Victor, telling him that the light had turned green. Victor gave a wave and moved his car with the late morning traffic while mentally running through his preparation checklist.

First, he’d go home and raid his wardrobe for the most sinister, slasher-worthy outfit he owned. Then, as always, he would vomit from nerves. As much as it sucked, it was familiar. And then, finally, he would do improv in the Shower. His pre-audition ritual of running through several character impersonations while he got himself clean and dressed. It never eliminated the anxiety, but at least left him feeling somewhat refreshed and human again.

Lost in thought, Victor absently reached for his Starbucks cup. He chuckled at the barista’s mistake where she had written ‘Victim’ on his cup instead of ‘Victor.’ “Not today,” he muttered. “I’m going to be the monster tonight. And I am going to kill it!” He grinned as he took a sip of coffee.

A car cut him off, forcing Victor to swerve. “Hey, watch it!” he yelled, the lid of his cup popping off in his grip, coffee sloshing free. As he steadied the wheel, he noticed with horror that some had splashed onto Chuck’s note with the mixer’s address.

“Oh, come on!” Victor groaned, quickly pulling to the curb. “No, no, no…” He grabbed a crumpled fast-food napkin from the center console and tried to dab at the paper, but it was too late. The ink had smeared, leaving the address barely legible.

Squinting at the blurred text, Victor exploded. “Son of a—!” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Mother fucking… FUCK!” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Okay, okay. Take a breath. I can figure this out,” he muttered, peering at the smudged paper as if sheer willpower could make the numbers reappear.

His mind raced as he forced himself to relax and focus. He’d faced worse obstacles in his career. This was just another challenge to overcome. “Alright, Victor!” he said to himself, “Here’s the game plan. Go home, call Chuck, get the address again. No big deal. You’ve got this.”

Victor exhaled slowly, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Okay, let’s do this,” he muttered, pulling back into traffic.

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At home, he fumbled with his phone, punching in Chuck’s number. The tired voice of the receptionist answered.

“Rosenbaum Talent Agency.”

“Hey, it’s Victor. I really need to speak with Chuck—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rosenbaum has left for the day. He won’t be available until later tonight.”

Victor’s stomach lurched. “But I—”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, I… thanks.” The line went dead.

Victor barely made it to the toilet before his lunch made a reappearance. As he knelt on the cold tile, he could almost hear Chuck’s gravelly voice: “That’s showbiz, kid.”

The shower’s hot water did little to wash away his anxiety, but as he toweled off, Victor caught his reflection in the mirror. He narrowed his eyes and jabbed a finger at his reflection while doing his best, Clint Eastwood, “Listen up, punk! You’re going to that mixer if it kills you. The Dusk Lord from Forever Darkness wouldn’t let a little something like smudged ink stand in his way. So you have to ask yourself…are you going to bellyache about how unfair life is? Or are you going to do something about it? Well, punk? What’s it going to be?”

Then his eyes drifted up to the towel wrapped around his head like Ferris Bueller. Deciding it did little for his menacing glare, he sighed, wrapped the towel around his waist, then marched to his bedroom to tackle the coffee-stained paper once more.

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The sun bled into the horizon as Victor’s car pulled into the dusty lot of an old abandoned factory. He was pretty sure he had passed police tape that had once blocked the entrance. The dirt road snaked up to a dilapidated building that looked like it had been rejected from a post-apocalyptic movie set for being “too grim.” He double-checked the smeared address, uncertainty etched across his face as he sucked on his teeth.

“This can’t be right,” he muttered, peering through the dusty, bug-crusted windshield. The faded numbers on the crumbling facade matched what he could make out on the ink-smeared paper. “Well, Chuck did say it was underground… but he didn’t mention illegal trespassing…” He looked around the empty lot before adding, “or getting axe murdered.”

Victor sat in his car for a while, drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. The abandoned lot was creepy. There were no other cars, and the only sound was the occasional caw from the crow perched upon the rooftop. Finally, he took a deep breath and began psyching himself up.

“OK, Vic, you’ve got this,” he said to his reflection in the rearview mirror, trying to channel the confidence he didn’t quite feel. “Read the room. Be the room. Channel your inner vampire and take no prisoners.”

Victor closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began his pre-role ritual. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and did a series of exaggerated facial expressions - stretching his mouth wide, furrowing his brow, and baring his teeth in what he hoped was a menacing snarl.

He dropped his voice to a gravelly whisper. “I am the darkness. I am the night. I am terror incarnate.” He paused, then growled at his reflection, “I’m Batman!” Victor imidiatly groaned and he shook his head. “No! Come on, stop it! This is serious. Networking is important. You can’t act like a child with these people.”

Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a tube of fake blood and dabbed a little at the corner of his mouth. “For that fresh-from-the-kill look,” Then immediately second-guessed himself. “Too much? Maybe too much.”

He was so focused on his preparations and frantically wiping away excess fake blood; he didn’t notice Angela Baker walking past. Victor didn’t see her give his car a curious glance, leaning slightly to see who was in the driver’s seat. He didn’t see her walk to the factory, and he didn’t see the door open before she vanished inside. Victor was in the ‘Zone.’

Victor mussed his hair and donned his jacket - the finishing touches on his “killer” ensemble. He practiced his “menacing” glare one last time, alternating between baring his teeth and narrowing his eyes in a final face exercise that made him look less like a terrifying villain and more like someone desperately in need of a bathroom. He dismissively shook his head at that last expression, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car.

The looming silhouette of the factory before him sent a chill down his spine. The urge to flee nearly overwhelmed him, but he steeled himself and pushed forward. His shoes crunched on gravel and broken glass as he approached the entrance, then stopped. One more glance around the abandoned lot sent him scurrying back to the car, muttering, “I’m going to come back and find my car stripped… or gone.”

He locked his car.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Victor returned to the factory door. As he walked, he slowly cranked his head left and right, eliciting a satisfying pop on each side. Standing before the rusty metal door, he let out one more shaky breath, then slipped on the mask of his Killer Persona. He raised his fist, hesitated for a heartbeat, then brought his knuckles down once with all the forced confidence he could muster.

Return to the Top

Chapter 5: Playing Poker

After shuffling the deck, Pinhead’s hands blurred, and he defied reality with each gesture. Victor’s jaw dropped. He’d studied basic card tricks for a role once and understood sleight-of-hand principles. But this exceeded all of his comprehension. Simply put, this was the most astounding card trick he had ever witnessed.

Pinhead snapped his wrist, and the cards flew, gliding along the felt, appearing to hover. When the card hit a cushioned edge of the table, they vanished. Gone! Only to materialize on the opposite edge of the table, sliding to a precise stop before each player. Victor’s eyebrows rose in disbelief, and his mouth worked as he tried to say something.

“Holy shit,” he breathed as his persona crumbled. His brain grappled with the performance, imagining how it could be done. Wires? Mirrors? Anything to explain the unbelievable sight.

But Victor was left stunned. The man dressed as Pinhead was handling the cards as casually as if he were shuffling a deck at home. Meanwhile, what Victor thought he knew about reality seemed to bend around him.

He closed his mouth and tried to compose himself. Around him, the other players appeared unfazed by the display. They collected their cards, examining their hands without notice or comment on the card trick—all except the man in the hockey mask.

The man dressed as Jason fumbled with his cards, his massive, gloved hands unable to get under the cards to pick them up. Angela, noticing his struggle, reached over and said, “Here, Jason, let me help you with those.” She gathered Jason’s cards for him, careful not to look at his hand.

He watched, noticing her smile radiated genuine warmth, as if she had not been acting at all. His stomach sank. These actors are incredible. Their performances awed and unnerved him, stirring a deep sense of inadequacy. He doubted he could ever measure up to their caliber of performance.

His attention was drawn to Freddy, who had lifted a leather-bound box to the table’s edge and began distributing stacks of pale-tan poker chips. Victor followed Freddy’s movements, watching a stack sliding towards Jason, only to see it snag on a strip of duct tape. The stack toppled, and Victor tracked a single chip as it rolled across the worn felt, coming to rest face-up before him.

He picked the chip up, surprised by its unexpected heft. Upon closer inspection, he realized with unease that the chip appeared to be made from bone. One side bore an intricate carving of a skeletal suicide king, encircled by a decorative border of interlocking bones separated by spades and diamonds. As he turned it over, Victor’s breath caught in his throat. The reverse featured crossed machetes, spearing a realistic heart, with tiny hearts and clubs interlocking in the macabre bone border.

In the corner, the TV flickered, displaying a clip from “The Haunted Casino.” A creepy, bald man dealt cards with stiff, stilted movements. Eerie blue light bathed the scene, casting long shadows across the faces of the young people gathered around the table. One terrified kid, handcuffed to the table’s edge, pulled and panicked as the cuffs held him in place. The bald man revealed a massive meat cleaver.

Candyman picked up a stack of chips and let them slip from his fingers one by one, dropping back onto the top of his stack. As they landed with a sharp, hollow sound, the ‘clack-clack-clack’ echoed off the metal walls. He caught Victor watching and shot him an evil grin. “I assume Chucky told you… we play for souls here.”

Victor chuckled, impressed by Candyman’s commitment to the role. He was already feeling out of his league with these actors, but played along, patting his pockets theatrically. “Seems I left my souls in my other jacket.”

Jason tilted his head at the newcomer, his masked face unreadable. Candyman gave a long “Hmmmmm” sound before going on, “We use one hundred chips for a single soul. We don’t deal in half or partial souls. If you have ninety-nine chips at the end of the night, you win nothing.”

“It’s OK,” Angela beamed at him, “We can all chip in to spot you for this first night. Since you’re new.” She glanced around the table before asking, “Right, guys?”

Freddy grumbled, “Fucking Chucky!”

“If you keep cursing Freddy, I’ll be washing your mouth out with soap,” Angela said.

Pinhead narrowed his eyes and spoke up, “We each give Victor sixteen chips.”

Freddy did not respond; he just bared his crusty teeth and growled under his breath. But he slid a few chips from his pile in Victor’s direction.

Each of the slashers took sixteen chips from their stacks in various denominations of 1s, 5s, and 10s, sliding them over to Victor. As he began sorting and stacking his borrowed “souls,” Freddy’s raspy chuckle filled the air.

“Hope you’re ready to pay up, Fresh Meat,” Freddy taunted, a grotesque smile showing sharp, nasty teeth, “I plan to take you for everything you have.”

Victor glared back before looking at his cards and masked his bewilderment. Having never studied poker or been a gambler, he was out of his depth. He knew a few basics, but strategies, odds, and the names of the more complex hands eluded him.

Freddy said, “Ante up.” And each killer tossed in a single poker chip marked with a ‘One.’ Victor followed suit, mimicking their actions but not fully understanding what he was doing. But he froze when they all started tossing a few cards face down and took replacements from Pinhead. Unsure what to do but determined not to appear clueless, he kept all of his cards.

Suspicion rippled around the table. Pinhead leaned back and cocked his head, asking, “You wish to keep… all of your cards?”

With a confidence he didn’t feel, Victor narrowed his eyes and glared at the demon. “That’s right. What of it?”

Jason cocked his head, staring at him for a long moment. Without warning, he tossed his hand face down on the table.

Angela sighed, “Yeah, I’m with the big guy here. I’m going to fold as well.” She tossed her cards face down and looked at Pinhead to see what he would do.

Pinhead’s black eyes bore holes into Victor for what felt like an eternity before he, too, tossed his cards face down, “Fold!”

Candyman scanned the faces around the table, shook his head, then discarded his hand.

“Buncha pussies!” Freddy snarled. “He’s got two pair at best, maybe three of a kind.” He reached out and tossed a few chips into the middle. “Call and raise.”

Angela’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursing in disapproval. “Language, Freddy,” she hissed, her eyes blazing, “Just because we’re killers and demons doesn’t mean we have to be vulgar.”

Still not knowing what he was doing, Victor copied Freddy’s actions. “Call and raise!” He repeated, throwing in the same amount of chips.

“Fine! Call!” Freddy’s eye twitched as he matched the chips in the pot. “Let’s see what you got, Toffy.” He laid his cards down, showing three aces. “Trip Aces here!”

The other players nodded approvingly and then looked to Victor, eager to see his hand.

“I’ve got all black!” Victor called out with confidence. His hand showed a flush of spades. The table erupted into howls of laughter at the dream demon’s loss.

“Congratulations, Victor, well played,” Angela said with her cheery grin and gesturing to the center of the table. “The pot is yours.”

Freddy’s jaw dropped as Victor pulled the pot towards himself. Feeling himself starting to grin, he quickly mustered his expression back into character, narrowed his eyes, and glared back at Freddy.

What followed was an hour of improbable victories that defied all logic. Victor didn’t win every hand, but his pile of chips grew while the slasher’s defeats mounted with each passing round, and Freddy’s irritation grew.

Pinhead glared across the table as he tried to decipher Victor’s tells, and Jason settled his gaze upon Victor, the holes of the hockey mask like black pits—suspicion radiation from them both.

The phone rang, and Freddy stepped away from the table to answer it, “Freddy Krueger’s Boiler Room!” he started, then continued with a sinister chuckle, “Turning dreams into screams since 1984!” His expression of wicked delight transformed into a wince of pain as music blasted through the receiver. He held the phone from his head and stared daggers at it until he recognized the music.

The killers at the table could hear the distant, tinny sound of “Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up” from across the room. They all groaned in unison, realizing they’d been Rickrolled.

“Fucking Ghostface!” Freddy yelled, slamming the phone down with enough force to crack the plastic.

Victor remembered Chuck, and his comment about having a phone he could ‘really let have it’ when he hung up and almost chuckled. Still, the rage on Freddy’s face made him think better of it, and he marshaled his persona back into place.

Storming back to the table, Freddy yelled, “That’s it!” He slammed his bladed hand down hard on the table. Drinks, chips, and snacks jumped. “I’m calling bullshit!” Leaning in, he directed the bladed glove at Victor. “I should gut this cheat from groin to gullet.”

Riding high on his inexplicable winning streak, Victor played it cool. He shrugged, a sly grin playing on his lips. “As if cheating at cards is the worst thing any of us has done.”

For the first time that night, Angela was not smiling, instead showing pursed lips. She stared into his face and said, “We might be monsters…” She pointed to the ‘Rules Board’ before continuing, “but we don’t cheat around here.”

Victor’s eyes went wide, and he felt a moment of panic. He was about to break character and open his mouth to protest when Candyman shook his head. “He hasn’t been cheating.”

“You’re one to talk, Sticky Fingers!” Freddy spun on Candyman with a bladed finger aimed his way. “We all know you use your bees to spy on our hands. How can you be so sure?”

With a long, slow, growling sigh and shifting in his seat, Candyman eyed Victor. “Because I had my bees watching him.”

The table erupted, and everyone spun on Candyman except Victor, who furrowed his brow in confusion.

Putting his one hand up to forestall their comments, Candyman said, “I wasn’t cheating…” He glanced at Freddy, “This time.” He shrugged and went on, “You told us that Chucky said he couldn’t play cards, so I grew suspicious. After so many unlikely wins, I merely watched to ensure he wasn’t palming cards. Not peeking at his hand.”

“If Chuck told you I can’t play cards, that’s true.” Victor said, giving a malicious grin, “But… Fake it till you make it. Right?” He looked around the table with a smirk. Then he knit his brows together, remembering something. “But I’ve never played cards with Chuck. How could he know that?”

Freddy ignored Victor and snarled at Candyman, “Beginners’ luck? Are you fucking kidding me?” He walked from the table and started pouring shots at the bar. After downing one, he bellowed at the ceiling in rage.

Angela flashed a giant grin at Victor, “Awww, you lucky duck!”

Pinhead remained stoic, although amusement played in his eyes.

“Man, you guys are good.” Victor let out a breath, his persona slipping for a moment as he misread the monsters’ reactions as acting and staying in ‘character.’

Having known the truth for almost an hour, Candyman sets his hook on the table with a resounding thump, getting everyone’s attention. “Perhaps we should order some pizza? To… break the mood.”

“No fucking pineapple!” Freddy snarled, slamming another shot back. “And I’ll gut anyone who suggests that abomination!”

Pinhead raised his voice slightly. “The suffering of a thousand souls pales in comparison to the agony of the pizza we got last time.”

Candyman made a face and said, “Please do not bring that place up again,” then shuttered.

Angela beamed. “Well then, sounds like we need to get pizza from The 4th Horman!”

“Ahhh yeah!” Freddy sounded excited at this. “I want the Slasher. Ohhhh! With meatballs instead of pepperoni.”

Jason pointed at a slice of cheese on his snack plate, and Angela nodded, saying, “I got ya, big guy.”

Victor sat up. “I love that place! But will they deliver all the way out here?”

“Oh, they’ll deliver here!” Angela said, her tone cheerful and confident. She turned to Pinhead, “Would you be willing to redirect for 4th Horsemen?”

The Cenobite gave a solemn nod.

Leaning back in his chair, confused by their confidence in the impossible, Victor marveled at their improvisational skills. He wondered how he could ever hope to match their authenticity. Their intensity. Their effortless cool under the unexpected.

He said, “If we’re ordering from 4th Horseman, how about a Captain Spaulding?”

“How about a honey ham and pineapple pizza?” Candyman suggested, while giving Freddy a vicious grin, obviously taking a stab at an ongoing sore spot between the two.

Angela spoke up over their pineapple-fueled argument, “Maybe we cut back on all the fat and dead animals and get a vegetarian?” Her suggestion was met with a chorus of eye-rolls, booos, and hisses.

The argument between Freddy and Candyman escalated, with Freddy threatening to claw Candyman over the mere suggestion of pineapple on pizza. “No fucking ham and pineapple!” Freddy roared.

Recognizing this could go on all night, Angela walked to the phone. “I’ll make the call.”

“Hellfire Triple X for me, please,” Pinhead said.

Angela gave him a nod as she dialed. A moment later, a familiar voice answered: “The 4th Horseman Pizzeria, Chef Mike speaking.”

“Heya, Mike! Didn’t think I would get the owner on the phone,” she said.

“Yeah, we’re short-staffed and slammed tonight; what can I get ya?” the harried man on the other end of the line said, his voice clipped.

She ordered six pizzas to accommodate the group’s varied tastes. As Angela hung up the phone, she turned to find the killers had gathered around the TV, shot glasses in hand, their eyes fixed on the flickering screen. Even Jason held a shot, although she thought that couldn’t end well. Freddy waved Angela over with one bladed finger.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Candyman nodded at the TV. “She’s about to trip.”

Angela rolled her eyes and laughed, needing no other explanation. She quickly poured herself a glass of her strawberry lemonade. She held it poised in anticipation of the coming classic and inevitable horror movie cliche.

A moment later, the camera followed a teenage girl; her face a mask of fear and pain. The camera chased her through a dark forest while she took quick glances backward at some unseen horror.

“Here it comes… in three, two, one…” Freddy counted down with glee.

Right on cue, the girl tripped over an exposed root, falling face-first into the dirt and leaves.

“SHOT!” the group yelled in unison, throwing back their drinks. Even Angela tipped back her lemonade with a chuckle.

The Wilkins TV seemed to flicker as the image of Bob Wilkins’ smirking face appeared. He gave a nod and smirk, then lifted a glass with some amber liquid and took a sip before fading to darkness, the screen returning to the movie.

Angela gave Freddy a sideways glance. “What’s with the TV?”

“Didn’t I already tell this story?” Freddy growled at her. “It’s possessed by the ghost of some late-night horror host. Some old guy from the 70s. I can’t wait for Cassandra Peterson to kick the bucket; I would love to get her ghost to possess a TV… much nicer to look at than this old coot.” He said with a leering wink.

Angela made a face at him. “Gross!”

“Come on! Elvira running horror movies on a possessed TV would be epic!” Freddy insisted to her retreating form.

As they settled around the poker table, Freddy went to shuffle the cards but was stopped by Angela. “I don’t think so, pervert,” she pulled the cards away before he could get both hands on them. “You’re likely to cut the cards into bits, making a mess.”

Freddy got an offended look and tossed his hands up.

“Why don’t you go somewhere private and use that gloved hand to think about Elvira?” she said as she started dealing with the cards.

The table exploded into laughter—even Freddy.

Return to the Top

Chapter 6: Pizzas Here

After several more hands, Victor’s luck showed no signs of slowing. He won two more, lost one, and won another, declaring “Royal Hearts!” Showing a straight flush - 10, Jack, Queen, King, Ace of Hearts.

The players all groaned in unison at the incredible, stupid luck Victor displayed.

“I’ve never wanted to kill someone so much,” Freddy said, tossing his cards onto the table in disgust.

When there was a loud KNOCK on the metal door, the sound echoed across the boiler room. All heads turned, the anguish of their recent loss forgotten as Angela chirped, “Pizzas here!”

Freddy rose from his seat, the bladed glove scraping against the table, tearing the bumper and releasing a tuft of cotton. At the door, he yanked it open to reveal a pizza delivery guy whose eyes widened to comical proportions at the sight of Freddy’s burnt visage.

A moment later, the delivery guy relaxed. He gave an appreciative nod. “Nice costume, man; you scared the shit out of me.” He looked over his shoulder and said, “If there weren’t a car parked out front, I would have thought I was at the wrong place.”

Freddy reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of blood-stained bills.

“Eww…” Angela’s voice came over his shoulder, “Nobody wants your blood-soaked money, Freddy.” She squeezed past the nightmare demon, holding a wad of clean bills. “Pizza for Angela, right?”

“Uhhh…” The pizza guy sighed in relief. He looked happy to be talking to someone normal-looking, or maybe he was just grateful not to be handed a pile of filthy stained bills. “Uhhh…I have six specials.”

“Great, I’ll take those…” She took the stack of pizzas and shoved them into Freddy, who grabbed them out of reflex, “And here you go.” She said, handing the pizza guy the wad of cash.

After a moment of counting, he said, “Woah, this is way too much!” Holding up over three hundred dollars in folded tens and twenties.

“That’s okay. I killed a couple of drug dealers for it, so it’s not really mine. Keep the rest as a tip, but remember to share with the rest of the staff. I’m friends with Mike, so I’ll know if you don’t.” She said with a menacing glare and warning finger. Then she flipped her switch, beamed a wide smile, and chirped, “OK, have a good night!”

As the door closed, Freddy held pizza boxes, fumed and looked irritated that Angela shoved him out of the way of his own front door. He fumed and stormed off to the kitchen while Victor Toth piped up, “Wow, they came all the way out here? That’s unbelievable! I didn’t think the 4th Horseman’s delivery range was too far outside Long Beach?”

Angela Baker made a face, her confusion clear. She gave him a patient smile. “Oh, we don’t actually give them this address. We provide a location closer to the pizza place, and Pinhead works a little dimensional magic to shift them here.” She waggled the fingers of both hands at him as if casting a magical spell before she added, “You think I came all the way here from Upstate New York for poker night without a portal?” Ending her rhetorical question with a scoff.

Victor turned to watch her as she walked by, brow furrowed, mouth hanging open.

Pinhead only starred with those bottomless black eyes. “The geometry of Hell can be bent to include convenient pizza delivery.” He said gravely, then starred at Victor, adding, “Finger gestures. Unnecessary.”

Victor smirked, struggling to keep his mask on. Continuing to be amazed at how seamlessly these ‘actors’ had taken on their characters’ personalities, “That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed, giving in and letting his persona slip. “The attention to detail…” He shook his head and let his ‘mask’ slide back into place.

Pinhead narrowed his eyes at Victor. Watching him closely, but said nothing.

As the group dug into the pizzas, he couldn’t help but chuckle at Jason Voorhees’ struggles to eat through his hockey mask. Sauce and cheese smeared across the white plastic as Jason attempted to navigate a slice past the mask’s edge. He wanted to comment on the big man’s commitment to his role. Still, he had already broken character several times tonight and vowed he wouldn’t do it again.

“You guys do this often?” Victor asked, “Pizza? Poker? You have a lot of other regulars showing up?”

Freddy finished chewing on a meatball and said, “Eh, got a lot more free time these days, but we get together one or two times a month. But I keep busy, still perving inside people’s dreams,” he said with a lascivious wink. “Gotta keep the legend alive, ya know?”

Candyman nodded. “I’ve been… preoccupied. The recent reboot has the more foolish and curious invoking my name. But I attend when I can.”

Pinhead fixed Victor with an intense stare. “Retirement offers an eternity of possibilities. The new iteration has… liberated me to explore interests beyond the realm of flesh and suffering.”

Jason pointed to Pinhead, then to himself.

Victor asked, “Oh? You’re retired as well?”

Jason only stared until the silence grew uncomfortable, and Victor felt compelled to break eye contact. “You guys must have other people show up, though, right? Micheal Meyers? Leather Face?” Victor looked hopeful, thinking he might get to see other actors portraying the roles of some of the most iconic Slashers of all time.

Freddy scoffed, “Are you kidding? Most of them are like Baby Huey here!” He nodded in Jason’s direction. “Silent and incapable of doing much more than standing in a corner and drooling.”

“Lessly Vernon was okay,” Angela said before making a face. “A little too much of a fanboy, though.”

“How about the Wishmaster?” Victor asked.

“Manipulative. He twists the rules of the game to suit him.” Pinhead said, then looked thoughtful, “The Tall Man was agreeable.”

Angela’s face lit up. “Oh, Garland Green is quite charming. Always nice when he’s around.”

Pinhead nodded. “Highly intelligent and makes the game… challenging.”

Freddy snorted. “Intelligent AND charming? That fancy-pants psycho? Give me a break. He makes the rest of us look like the Brady Bunch!”

Candyman sighed, “It’s a shame he rarely responds to our invites.”

“Yeah, I wonder why that is?” Angela questioned, giving Freddy a pointed look.

Victor thought momentarily, trying to think of other slashers with any semblance of intelligence he would want to see and play cards with. He snapped his fingers and pointed, “What about Jigsaw?”

“That asshole is more of a goody-goody than this one,” Freddy said, pointing at Angela. “He’s too good to associate with ‘murders.’” He takes on a mocking tone, “He hates murders. Despite his hypocrisy of putting people into impossible traps that kill people. Fuck that guy!”

“Language, Freddy!” Angela said in an admonishing tone.

“If Amanda Young has survived…” Candyman said in a low tone. But he didn’t say more, only giving a self-satisfied smile of approval.

“My presence would be far too tempting for Amanda Young.” Pinhead said, “She would have opened a box, and then she would leave the desires of this world behind.” With a note of finality.

“Right…Amanda. What about the girls? There must be some female slashers that would show up?”

Angela sighed, “It would be great to have a few gal pals.”

Freddy began, counting off on his bladed fingers, “There’s Baby Firefly, a hell of a lot of fun, but she can’t focus for more than thirty seconds. Not exactly poker night material.”

“What about Tiffany Valentine?” Victor suggested.

Freddy raised another bladed finger. “She comes sometimes, but this is Chucky’s night to escape the Plastic Princess.”

Victor furrowed his brow at that, but then a thought distracted him. “Okay, what about the girl from Jennifer’s body?”

Angela’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Eww… Jennifer Check? Gross!” she finished with a shiver.

Candyman’s deep voice resonated with a hint of disdain. “Ah, Ms. Check. Her… proclivities know no bounds. She attempts to ensnare all who cross her path, regardless of gender.”

Freddy barked out a laugh, a wide grin spreading across his burned face. “Heh, yeah… Good times,” he muttered, clearly lost in memory.

Angela shot him a disgusted look. “Ugh, yuck! She is very icky. I’m pretty sure she has every disease on the planet!”

“Okay….What about the girl from the Ring?” Victor offered.

“Samara Morgan.” Pinhead said.

Angela shook her head, “She’s too…flaky! Often vanishing during a hand. And…” she added with a look of unease, “she’s a little kid! Would you want your child to hang out here?” She finished looking around the grimy surroundings with a grimace.

“Hey!” Freddy threw his hand out. “This is my home!”

She brushed off his defensiveness with a wave. “Beverly Sutphin was nice. It’s a shame she is too prim and proper to slum it with us.”

Freddy pointed a blade into his mouth and made a gagging noise. “That lady was a real bitch!”

Victor racked his brain, trying to think of any others that would fit in with this group. “What about Marybeth?” When everyone gave him a blank look, he added, “You know? The chick from The Faculty?”

Pinhead’s gaze drifted away, his voice resonating with cold detachment. “We are beings of flesh and spirit, demons and revenants. Extraterrestrial entities do not… align with our circle.”

Freddy snorted, his scarred face twisting into a smirk. “Yeah, right! Might as well invite the Xeno Queen for a night of poker. And she’d probably cheat by laying eggs inside everyone’s chest.”

Angela wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Plus, all those tentacles? Eww…” She stuck out her tongue in a gagging motion. “No, thanks.”

Freddy gave her a twisted grin and nodded. “Someone has seen enough hentai to know where this is going.”

Angela’s eyes widened in outrage, her mouth opening to unleash a tirade, but Victor quickly interjected before she could start.

“Oh! I got it!” he exclaimed, redirecting the conversation. “What about the girl from Freaky?”

The table fell silent for a moment before Freddy spoke up, his voice a mix of disappointment and dark amusement. “She would’ve been a riot, but she kicked the Butcher out of her body. So she’s a no-go. And speaking of the Butcher, he would’ve been a hell of an addition… if they hadn’t killed him off.”

Angela sighed, looking around the table. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m the token girl here. It’s not easy finding female slashers who didn’t die, go into the asylum, or are a disgusting skank.”

Victor’s brow furrowed and raised a finger. “But didn’t you go to the as-”

“HERE! HERE for Angela!” Candyman announces loudly, deliberately interrupting Victor’s dangerous comment.

“HERE! HERE!” they all said, except Jason, who only starred.

“That’s too bad,” Victor started, “It would have been great to see more of the greats brought to life like this.”

Freddy Krueger glared at the man in black, scrutinizing him with growing suspicion. He leaned towards Jason, his voice a harsh whisper. “Something’s off about this guy.” Jason, in response, stared at the new guy in silence.

The sudden ringing of the phone broke the tense moment. Candyman, closest to the receiver, picked it up with an air of resignation. “Freddy’s Boiler Room. Who is speaking?” he demanded.

“Who’s speaking?” came the distorted reply.

Candyman’s brow furrowed. “I asked you first,” he raised his voice, his patience wearing thin.

“No, I asked YOU first!” the voice insisted, the voice trying to sound menacing but coming off as childish.

Unamused, Candyman set the phone down. The handle gave a slight rattling sound as it came to a stop in the cradle. “Ghostface needs new material,” he said, unperturbed. He paused on the way back, eyed the open pizza box, considered it, and reached for another slice.

Victor smiled, still under the impression that everything - from the elaborate costumes to the prank calls - was all part of an incredibly immersive method-acting experience. “Do they do that every Poker Night as well?”

“Most.” Pinhead said, “Ever since being banned.”

“Banned? What did they do to get banned?”

“Ohh, it was bad. They were terrible!” Angela said, shaking her head, “It wasn’t just prank calls or that stupid voice changer thing during the game, either.”

Pinhead said, “The whipped cream was childish.”

“Having 10 ham pineapple pizzas delivered.” Freddy fumed. “I could have—”

Candyman interrupted, “Calling the police and having the game night ‘Swatted’ was almost the final straw.”

“Not even that got them banned? What could be worse than that?” Victor asked, mouth agape, horrified.

Candyman’s deep tone rumbled with disappointment and anger. “He offered to host poker night as a means of atonement for his past… indiscretions. Arranged everything. Meticulously choosing the venue, accommodations, and catering. But the honey-trap? A private room in a Las Vegas hotel, all expenses covered…”

“Oh, no…” Victor said, dread creeping into his voice as he anticipated where this setup was leading.

Angela nodded grimly. “Oh yeah. The night was going well. No childish pranks, no dumb jokes. And then Ghostface got up, saying he had to run to ‘the little slasher’s room’ and vanished. It was…abrupt, but not out of the norm for them.”

Candyman took a long, suffering breath. “At that moment, the wall separating our private room from the adjoining space… retracted.”

“The adjoining room,” Candyman continued, his voice tinged with bitter irony, “housed the Annual Final Girl’s Survivors Gathering. A congregation of Final Girls assembled to honor their fallen friends and loved ones. It was… pandemonium.”

“We barely got out of there with our lives,” Angela replied quietly.

At the bar, Freddy seethed as the story unfolded. He lashed out, yelling at the ceiling, “We ran all fucking night!” He downed a shot before continuing, his voice a growl of rage and frustration. “Twenty of the most dangerous broads to our kind, hunting us. I swore if I ever got my hands on that backstabbing little troll, they’d suffer an eternity of living Hell before I sent them to ACTUAL fucking Hell.”

Pinhead’s cold, measured voice cut through the tension. “And then I would claim them. For all of eternity.”

Victor couldn’t contain himself any longer. His carefully constructed persona crumbled as he burst into laughter. “Oh man, you guys are awesome! Not one of you has broken character all night. This has been incredible.”

He raised his hands, still chuckling. “Sorry… sorry for breaking character. Just give me a sec.” Running his fingers through his hair, he took a few quick breaths and stretched his face. “Sorry, let me just…”

With visible effort, Victor composed himself. He took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, his slasher persona seemed to slide back into place. In a serious tone, he said, “I can’t believe you let them live.”

The slashers exchanged meaningful glances. They’d sensed something was off about this guy all night, and this just confirmed their suspicions.

Pinhead’s usually impassive face betrayed a hint of emotion, his brow furrowing slightly. Angela’s cheerful facade slipped away, revealing a colder demeanor beneath. Candyman moved slowly, deliberately, positioning himself behind Victor to cut off any chance of escape.

Jason tilted his head so far to the side in bewilderment that Freddy had to lean with him or risk being blocked by the massive bulk. With an irritated huff, Freddy shoved the hockey-masked head out of his line of sight. He stepped forward, aiming a bladed finger at Victor’s chest.

“Okay!” Freddy snapped. As he spoke, his scarred face transformed. His skin flushed a deep, angry red, his ears elongated to sharp points, and his crusted teeth grew long and jagged. With his demonic visage fully emerged, he growled, “I think I speak for everyone when I say… WHAT… THE FUCK… is going on?”

Return to the Top

Chapter 7: The Needle Scratch

“Sooooo, Vicky,” Freddy drawled, his voice a rasp that sent chills down the actor’s spine, “tell us about your first kill. I’m just dying to hear it.” With a sudden, dramatic flourish, he flicked out his blades, the metal flashing to reflect the neon sign behind Victor. For a moment, Victor could read the half that read, ‘Will kill you.’

As the tension mounted, the Wilkins TV in the background flared to life. The view burst into a chaotic scene: a bright, sunlit field of green, with a shaky camera chasing a man running for his life. Behind him, a horde of ravenous zombies ran at full tilt. Fast zombies. To his left, more flesh-eaters came pouring over the hill, their speed alarmingly inhuman.

The frantic imagery made Victor take in the details of the monsters he had been playing with all night. Some underlying fear crept to the surface—a feeling he had been pushing down all night, dismissed as mere nerves. And now, caught off guard, he felt his mouth go dry.

The man dressed as Freddy had changed somehow. His skin was more red. Ears long and demonic. Eyes more sinister, reminding Victor of a vampire. Had he been that way all night? He couldn’t recall. Couldn’t think.

The confidence that had shielded him throughout the night evaporated in an instant. “Oh, uh,” he stammered, his mind racing to conjure up something gruesome, “it was… very bloody. Lots of screaming. You know, typical stuff.”

Pinhead and Candyman exchanged a glance, the supernatural creatures picking up on something they hadn’t noticed before.

Candyman spoke first, his deep voice a whisper from over Victor’s shoulder. “Truly fascinating description. So rich and full of… flavor. But I hunger for the sweet details.”

“Indeed,” Pinhead added, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed desire. “Where is the ripping of the flesh? The pleasure in the suffering? Where are screams begging to stop? The wonderful tears of pain and ecstasy.”

Freddy leaned in, his burnt face twisting into a grotesque smile. “Ya know… In my experience, you never forget your first. I’m like an addict, always chasing that first great high, always seeking to recapture the feeling of… your first bloody kill.”

Jason and Angela had been quiet this whole time. Jason, well, for obvious reasons, but Angela had been wandering around the kitchen. She picked up various objects, testing their weight, considering how she might smash them down on something or someone: a toaster, a spatula, a rusty frying pan. After testing an item, Angela would shake her head and put it back. She finally gave up and walked back to the group, but not before grabbing something Victor couldn’t see from the snack table.

“And your preferred method?” Candyman’s whisper seemed to caress Victor’s ear, making him cringe away.

Sweat beaded on Victor’s forehead as he looked around frantically, searching for inspiration. “Method?” he asked, stalling for time.

“Yeah, they want to know how you like to kill,” Angela said, her tone flat and not friendly in the least. He noticed she held one hand behind her back and he grew increasingly worried about what she picked up from the snack table. Having seen the sweet, smiling girl being friendly to everyone all night, only for her to suddenly switch like this… somehow, that was more terrifying than the monsters radiating menace around him.

The only person she had been nasty to was Freddy, and even that seemed to be some ongoing playful banter they had established long ago.

“Ohhh…” Victor’s voice cracked. His eyes landed on his toppling pile of poker chips. One bounced onto the cushioned bumper, teetering on the edge. He watched it slide off and hit the floor with the hollow clatter of bone—a perfect metaphor for his rapidly diminishing luck.

Swallowing hard, Victor forced out, “You know…” He managed a weak smile, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. His mind raced, searching for a plausible tale. “I like to keep it… diverse. Gotta keep the audience guessing, right?” The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Angela leaned forward. “So you’re just like me? I always found myself looking for just the right item for the situation. But I still remember my first.” She stared Victor down, a manic look in her eyes. “Pushed a huge boiling pot onto some pervy cook at camp. I ran as soon as I pushed him, so I didn’t actually see what happened to him.”

Freddy perked up at the mention of violence. “Angela!” he admonished, relishing the chance to chastise her for how she had been doing to him all night. “The gore is the best part! Well, the screaming and the gore. No, wait - the screaming, the gore, and the dying!” He paused, tapping his razor-gloved finger to his chin. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the best part.” He finished with a cackle.

“Cut me a little slack! I mean… I was just a kid,” Angela said, with a hint of defensiveness. “I was really scared. But his screams…” She paused, her eyes taking on a distant look. “They followed me out into the night. I can still hear them. Even now.”

Freddy scrunched up his shoulders and clasped his hands together in a whimsical ‘look, how cute’ way that seemed bizarrely out of place on his menacing form. “What a little scamp. Such fun!” His voice dripped with mock admiration. Then, leaning towards Angela with renewed interest, he asked, “Didn’t you kill like fifteen people that week?”

The giant grin that spread across Angela’s face was deeply unsettling. She nodded, her eyes glittering darkly. “Twelve, actually,” she corrected, her voice soft and a little sad. “Poor Paul. He was sweet.”

Victor felt his stomach lurch. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, as he realized just how deep in over his head he truly was.

“Well, weren’t you an over-achiever?” Freddy laughed, then stroked his chin in an over-exaggerated way that was both comical and mocking, “Let’s see, for me, who was my first?” Freddy mused, tapping his chin with a blade and causing it to bleed. “Ahhh yeah,” he said, holding up a finger. “Not counting the twenty little shits I killed as a human. Tina was my first as a demon.”

He leaned back and gave a wicked grin. “Ooooh… That one was great. Dragged her in the air, tossed her around like a pinball, and hung her over the bed while her boy toy watched.”

Freddy’s grin widened, showing yellowed teeth. “Then dragged my claws across her chest and gutted her like a fish. That was my demonic first,” he finished, punctuating his story by slicing off his finger with one of his blades before bursting into laughter.

The stump spurt black-green blood as the digit hit the ground with a wet thud.

Victor’s face drained of color. He gaped at the man dressed as Freddy and stared at the bleeding stump. The blood spurted. An absurd fountain of dark fluid.

“Ohh, uh oh!” Freddy said, forming a face of mock surprise. “This one’s a gusher!”

Victor’s mind reeled, struggling to process the impossible scene before him. He had watched Freddy use those fingers all night—there was no time to switch out a prop. The severed digit twitched on the floor, oozing an unnaturally dark fluid. It’s some kind of special effect, he thought desperately. It has to be.

His mouth went dry, tongue leaden. All he could do was stare at the bleeding finger, his brain short-circuiting as it tried to rationalize the inexplicable.

Angela Baker’s normally cheery voice cut through the silence, sharp as a knife. “Victor? Have you been lying to us all night?” Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Lying is wrong. Do you know what I do to people who tell filthy lies?”

Jason, silent throughout the exchange, lumbered forward. His massive frame loomed over Victor, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow all the light. Even through the expressionless hockey mask, his confusion and growing rage were palpable. The black pits of his eye sockets conveyed more menace than words ever could.

The horrifying reality of the situation hit Victor like a physical blow. Panic seized him, and he stammered, his voice leaping an octave, “Y-Y-You know, I-I-I just, uh… remembered I left my… cat… uh… running. I-I should probably go…”

He spun to flee, only to find Candyman blocking his path, Victor’s already pale expression when chalky. “Oh… uh… excuse me?”

Candyman’s deep, resonant voice rumbled with amusement. “Going somewhere, Victor?”

“Yeah…” Freddy mocked, “What’s the rush, Fresh Meat?” His voice was dripping with malicious glee as he moved in closer, “Being the pros we all are, I would feel bad if we didn’t help you out with… a few pointers.” He snapped his bladed glove open with a ‘shiiick.’

Victor felt a presence move in and half turned to see Pinhead, “Come now,” his voice showed no inflection, sending tremors through Victor’s body, “You can’t leave. We are all dying to play with you.”

Freddy lashed out and grabbed Victor by the collar. He placed the chilly edge of a bladed finger against his cheek. “I’m going to start playing in your guts if you don’t start talking, pretty boy.”

He could feel the hard metal edge against his face and panicked. His face is how he made a living. “Woah, get that off my face, you asshole! Method acting is great, but putting a knife to an actor’s face is going too far.”

“Wha..” Freddy pulled back, clearly confused, “Acting? You better start making sense, Hot Topic, ‘cause I’m about to carve you up like the Pumpkin King!”

The horrifying truth crashed over Victor like a tidal wave of terror, leaving him gasping. His eyes darted between the killers, details he’d dismissed as Hollywood magic now taking on sinister new meanings.

Freddy’s burnt flesh glistened. Jason’s presence brought a wave of putrid swampy air that no one would bother with for a costume. Angela’s eyes glittered with a madness that went beyond method acting. The faint hum of bees around Candyman wasn’t some clever sound device. And Pinhead… Victor’s gaze skittered away, unable to process the sheer wrongness of the being before him.

“You guys…” he whispered, his voice cracking and nearly inaudible, “you’re not actors, are you?”

A moment of tense silence fell over the room, broken only by the hiss of steam from the pipes and the ominous flickering of the neon sign. Then, unexpected laughter erupted from the gathered monsters. It was a chilling sound devoid of any actual mirth.

“DING! DING! DING!” Freddy yelled, “Give that kid a prize!”

Candyman’s eyes bore into Victor, his gaze as penetrating as his hook. When he spoke, his voice was a honeyed whisper that somehow filled the room, carrying the weight of centuries of pain and power.

“Poor, sweet Victor,” Candyman said, his words a dark caress. “You’ve wandered into a hive of monsters, pretending to be a monster. But you’re not like us, are you? No… you’re something far more precious.”

He leaned in close, the scent of honey enveloping Victor. “You’re an innocent. Pure. Untainted.” A slow, terrible smile spread across Candyman’s face. “Your fear is intoxicating. Your screams will be… delicious.”

The soft buzz of invisible bees grew louder, filling Victor’s ears as panic threatened to overwhelm him. The realization crashed down upon him; he was trapped in a room with real, honest-to-god slashers!

Freddy’s manic laughter echoed off the pipes, his grip on Victor loosening just enough. It was now or never. Victor twisted away, slipping from the nightmare demon’s grasp, and stumbled backward. He brushed past Candyman, who was too busy laughing and savoring the fear in the air to notice.

With a desperate lunge, Victor bolted for the back of the boiler room, squeezing between two massive, ancient boilers. Steam hissed angrily around him, the heat searing his skin. The narrow corridor stretched ahead, its far end swallowed by inky darkness. Victor didn’t care—anywhere was better than here.

Halfway down the passage, his foot caught on a broken pipe. The world tilted sideways as he went sprawling, crashing into a stack of wooden pallets. They collapsed on top of him with a thunderous clatter that seemed to shake the entire building.

“SHOTS!” Freddy’s yell echoed off the metal of the boilers. The other killers all roared with laughter.

Panic lending him strength, Victor scrambled to free himself from the wreckage. Splinters dug into his palms as he shoved pallets aside and struggled to his feet.

The Television flickered to life with a strange blue glow, revealing the sardonic face of Bob Wilkins. “Looks like our protagonist is in quite the pickle,” the man on the screen drawled, dry amusement in his voice. “Let’s see how he gets out of this one, folks.”

Angela looked back at the TV in shock but didn’t get to voice her thoughts.

After a moment, Pinhead spoke up, “Enough!” With a flick of his hands, chains lashed down from the shadows above, snagging Victor’s clothing, but not his flesh. Chaining him in place. “Time to discover the identity of our guest.”

Return to the Top

Chapter 8: Unmasked

Freddy leapt into the air, clearing thirty feet in an instant. Candyman flashed, appearing behind the panicked actor. Taking their time, Angela, Jason, and Pinhead walked up the length of the boilers to where the man was now trapped, joining their hellish companions.

“How about it, Hot Topic? Wanna tell us who you really are?” Freddy began slicing the buttons off Victor’s jacket with sudden, deliberate flicks of a bladed finger.

Victor’s face drained of color, his eyes wide with terror. He tried to speak, but only a strangled whimper escaped his throat, “I… I…”

“Spit it out, kid,” Freddy hissed, his blades flashing up to his face, the dull side pressing into Victor’s cheek once more.

Victor flinched at the cold metal against his skin, his voice quavering as he blurted out, “I’m an actor! Just an actor! This is all a-a mistake!” He took a shaky breath, words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “I thought this was a method acting w-w-workshop. It was supposed to help me g-g-g-get ready for a new slasher film audition. I thought you were all in costume, p-p-laying parts. P-p-please, I swear I’m t-t-telling the t-truth!”

They exchanged bewildered looks.

“An actor?” Angela repeated.

“Yeah,” he nodded, the chains holding him rattling with his movement, “V-Victor Toth. That’s my n-n-name. Well, sort of.”

Candyman’s voice whispered from behind him, smooth yet menacing. “Sort of? Do elaborate.”

Victor winced. “My real last name…it- it’s Laskowski. I got called Lebowski in school. Got tired of all ‘The Dude’ jokes, so I changed it for my acting career.”

Despite the tension, Freddy laughed, “Hah… Smart move, Dude!”

“How did you find yourself here?” Pinhead interjected, his voice a cold, measured tone.

“My agent, Chuck—”

“Chuck?” Freddy groaned and looked at the others, his scarred face twisting into a grimace, “Every time you said Chuck, I thought you meant Chucky!”

Victor furrowed his brow. “Yeah, I thought that was weird… you guys calling him Chucky. I know for a fact he really hates that name. But I was in my role, so I didn’t say anything. So, who’s Chucky?” Then Victor’s eyes widened, “Wait, not THE Chucky?”

“Not so fast, buster.” Angela cut off his question. “Who’s the Chuck you’ve been talking about?”

“Chuck. Chuck Rosenbalm. He’s my agent. Balding, a bit of a paunch.” Victor’s eyes jumped from monster to monster, as if they would somehow recognize the name of a D-List movie agent. He shrugged and continued, “Anyway, he told me about this ‘exclusive method acting workshop.’ Said it was real underground.” He finished by glancing at the killers, hoping to see some understanding.

Jason tilted his head, making a motion. He grabbed the air in front of his face, pulled down, and then looked at Freddy.

To Victor, this movement was very similar to what actors would perform as they slipped into their roles, making him think these people were just messing with him again. He wanted to laugh, but he shook off the urge.

“Hockey Pucks, right!” Freddy hissed, “What if Ghostface sent this clown to fuck with us?”

“I swear! I wasn’t!” Victor scrambled at his pants pockets. “Here,” he gasped, pulling out a coffee-stained piece of paper and thrusting it forward. “Chuck, he gave this to me… but, well, I spilled coffee on it, so the address got smeared. When I knocked and saw you guys in your…” He hesitated, and his eye twitched as he looked at Freddy’s red and green striped sweater, “Well… I thought I was at the right place.”

Freddy snatched the paper with one hand and passed it back without looking; his angry eyes locked on Victor.

Angela peered at the note, her voice softening with unexpected sympathy. “421..19 Lo… I bet that last part was Long Beach, not Los Angeles. You poor thing.” She gave him a warm and sympathetic smile.

The slashers glanced at each other, realization dawning.

Pinhead’s voice cut through the silence, cold and precise. More intrigued than angry. “The layers of misunderstanding here are… incomprehensible. And exquisite!” he mused, a hint of perverse pleasure in his dispassionate voice.

Freddy’s eyes narrowed, his blades twitching with frustration. He let out a bark of laughter, harsh and grating. “So, we’ve been playing nice with a wannabe all night? Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Victor’s eyes locked onto Angela’s smiling face, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. Her calm, friendly demeanor had returned, a stark contrast to the madness surrounding them.

That relief lasted precisely three seconds.

His gaze dropped to her hand, where she clutched the knife from the s’mores dish, the blade clumped with a mixture of chocolate and gooey marshmallow. The incongruity of the sticky, sweet coating clashed with its lethal intent in his mind.

Angela’s sympathetic tone belied the menacing sight as she chirped, “Imagine showing up at the wrong address and finding us!”

Candyman’s smooth, resonant voice filled the room. “Now the only question that remains—what to do with our… unexpected guest?”

“I’ve got a few ideas.” Freddy laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and lunged at Victor, bladed glove raised. “Here’s your chance to be a Scream Queen, Vicky!”

“WAIT!” Pinhead’s commanding voice cut through the space with a discordant and resonating echo.

Freddy froze, his blades inches from Victor’s throat. “Wait? Wait for what?” he snarled, his frustration at its breaking point.

Pinhead’s gaze swept over the scene, assessing Victor’s condition. Victor had craned his neck as far back as it would go, frozen in place, but he remained uninjured.

“That’s breaking the rules,” Pinhead raised his voice, gesturing with an open palm toward a board on the wall. “No slashing the other players.”

“Ghaaa! Are you kidding me?” Freddy pushed Victor back down but didn’t let go. “This chump wasn’t invited!”

“Nevertheless. He is a player.” Pinhead’s voice was cold and unyielding, the glare of his eyes bottomless sucking up all the light.

Angela piped up, her cheerful tone at odds with her words. “He’s right. If we don’t follow our own rules, how long will it be before you and Jason are ripping the place apart again?”

Freddy grit his teeth and released Victor. “Fine. But what exactly counts as ‘slashing’? I mean, can I cut him just a little?” His blades made a scissoring motion.

Angela pipes up, “No! No cutting! That’s still slashing.”

Jason tilts his head and mimes, jabbing with a machete a few times into the space before him.

“Stabbing is still slashing,” Angela said with a shake of her head, exasperated. “Honestly?”

Pinhead narrows his eyes and turns in contemplation, his voice measured and cold. “The spirit of the rule is clear. No physical harm to other players.”

Candyman stroked his chin with his hand, his voice smooth and thoughtful. “I’m trying to recall… did he even say my name five times this evening?”

Freddy’s mouth hangs open in disbelief, “Are you kidding me with this shit, Captain Hook? And what if he didn’t?”

“Then I would be prevented from harming him. My prey must summon me with their own words. Their own will.” Candyman shrugged, his tone carrying a hint of regret.

Pinhead interrupts Freddy’s impending eruption, his voice cutting through the tension. “This boy did not seek me out. I, too, am prevented from inflicting any pain or suffering on Victor.” With several quick nods of his head, the chains holding Victor’s clothing detached, retreating to the darkness with a snaking, rattling sound.

“We’re monsters!” Freddy roared, and the boiler room echoed with his voice, “Killers. Slashers. The fucking boogymen! The stuff of NIGHTMARES! Are we really going to let something as small as a line item stop us?”

Angela cut off Freddy’s rant. “We can’t break the rules. But we also can’t let him go. He knows too much. He’ll tell!”

Still on the ground, Victor shakes his head, his voice desperate, “Absolutely not! I swear, I won’t tell a soul. Who’d believe me anyway, right?” He lets out a nervous laugh that dies in his throat.

Freddy’s face splits into a wicked grin. “We could cut out his tongue. Won’t tell anyone anything after that!”

The old TV crackled to life again, Bob’s face appearing through a haze of static and cigar smoke. “Ah, the classic’ rules lawyer’ moment,” he commented dryly. “Always a fan favorite in these situations.” The slashers paused, glancing in confusion at the old spook, whose face fought to contain a smirk.

Angela’s mouth hung open, and she raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know the ghost could speak. That’s the second time.”

“Neither did I.” Freddy had a quizzical look on his face. “Before tonight, he hadn’t said a word.”

Pinhead, ever composed, turned his piercing gaze to the TV. “It seems our evening continues to offer… unexpected revelations.”

With the monsters distracted, Victor stood, legs shaking and brushing off splinters and years of accumulated grime. He reached out to steady himself and yelped, yanking his hand back from the heat of a scalding pipe. ‘So…’ he began, hesitating before saying, ‘back to poker, or should I…’ He made a half-hearted gesture with his thumb towards the exit.

Freddy’s demonic red face twisted into a sneer. “Looks like you hit the jackpot tonight, Johnny Cash. Now cash out and get the fuck out before I decide to deal you a Dead Man’s Hand.”

Victor backed away towards the exit, his heart racing and mind reeling from the night’s events. He was almost at the door, but froze mid-step. The adrenaline coursing through his veins mixed with something else—Fear? No, not fear, at least not the fear of dying at the hands of these monsters. It was something else. The fear of the slow, ignominious spiral of failure. Of irrelevance. Of being another fading photograph on Chuck’s wall. Bleached and curled by zebra striped sun beams and forgotten to time.

He stared at the metal door and imagined how many other characters in movies faced this exact moment. The chance to walk away. To escape some terrible situation they found themselves in. He thought of NEO, getting out of the car and Trinity telling him, “You know that road. You know exactly where it ends…”

Victor had always dismissed that moment as a story mechanic, ‘if the hero just walked out the door, then they wouldn’t have a movie.’ But now he understood. It was a turning point in their arc. A point where they make the continuous choice to step up and do something different. To face the terrifying world they had found themselves in. To cast off the shackles of what was safe…

A thought occurred to him, something Chuck Rosenbaum had said: “Remember, Vic, 90% of success in this town is being in the right place at the right time.” He spun and looked at the neon sign. There it sat. Humming and pulsing faintly. Its message now screamed at him in their sickly orange-pink letters.

“Or escape what’s comfortable!” He exhaled.

“You running or what, Nevermore? I’m getting closer to ignoring these fuckers and the rules, so fly along before I lose myself restraint.” Freddy made a childish, shooing motion with both hands.

Victor took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “No. No, I don’t think I am.” He glanced around at the bewildered faces of the slashers. “I think I want to keep playing cards with you guys.”

A silence fell across the room. For the first time all night, the ever-present dripping of water was deafening. The neon sign hummed in faint, irregular pulses. The ghostly static buzz of the Wilkins TV scratched and clawed at the barrier between this world and the next. And last, the distant thrum of machinery from somewhere deep below the factory vibrated up through the concrete floor and metal gratings.

When no one said anything, Victor pressed on, “I mean, how often does someone get to play poker with actual horror legends? This is the chance of a lifetime.”

Freddy flashed a malicious grin, his blades gleaming in the dim light. “Chance of a lifetime? More like a chance to cut your lifetime short. But hey… if you’re dying to stick around… I’ll CUT you in.” He chuckled at his own pun.

Angela cocked her head, her ordinarily cheerful expression one of confusion. “You… want to stay? Even after all the…” She made a stabbing gesture with her hand. “stabby-stabby talk?”

He gave her a slow, hesitant nod, then smirked. “Yeah. Yeah, I do!”

“The human mind’s capacity for adaptation and self-destruction is… Fascinating.” Pinhead said.

Candyman nodded in appreciation. “Brave…and foolish!”

Jason remained silent, but his head tilted slightly.

Nodding, a manic grin spreading across his face, Victor said, “Absolutely. I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of a big break. A chance to learn and become a better actor. A chance to stop being so afraid. Sure, I thought it would be on a movie set, but this? This is a greater opportunity that I will ever get again.”

Pinhead’s eyes narrowed. “Do you comprehend the precipice upon which you stand?”

“Of course,” Victor replied as he walked back to the poker table and sat down. “But isn’t that how one grows? Facing the danger? Triumph over adversity?” He grinned and reorganized his poker chips. “What better way to conquer my fears than to stare them in the face and say, ‘Deal me in’?”

Angela clapped her hands together, her expression lighting up with glee, “Oh, how exciting! And so brave!”

Freddy let out a bark of laughter. “Well, well. Look who has a set of balls on them.” He gave the actor a nod. “Alright, Death Wish, you’re in. But we’re still playing for souls; better hope your lucky streak holds out cause if you don’t have the chips to pay up at the end of the night, I’m taking the one you’re using.”

Victor looked the dream demon in the eye and nodded. “Deal!”

Pinhead gave Victor a nod of respect and, in an overly serious and loud voice, announced, “Let the game begin!”

Victor gave a smirk and a nod at each of the menacing monsters, then, picked the cards. “Who’s deal is it?”

As cards and chips were tossed around the table, the old TV crackled to life once more. Bob’s face appeared, a wry smile on his lips. “Well, folks, it looks like we’ve reached the end of our little poker night from hell. And what a night it’s been! We’ve had mistaken identities, near-death experiences, and enough one-liners to fill a B-movie script. And no one died; oh, what a twist.

You know, in my day, aspiring actors would wait tables or drive cabs. But willingly sitting down to play poker with a den of literal monsters? I’ve got to hand it to the kid—he has a lot of guts. He might just be ready to sit down with some of those Hollywood types and sign a contract. That would be the true nightmare.”

With a final puff of his cigar and a sardonic smirk, Bob’s image faded from the screen, leaving only static in its wake.

Return to the Top

Chapter 9: The Dawn

A couple of hours later, Freddy, radiating annoyance, swept up a mixture of potato chips and poker chips where Jason had been sitting. His bladed fingers clacked against the haft of a broom as he worked. “Can’t believe we let Hot Topic walk out of here,” he complained.

Nearby, Angela wiped down a table that had pizza sauce and grease glistening on its top. Her movements were slow, her gaze lost in thought. “I liked Victor,” she said, her grin going wide and her eyes lighting up. “I’m glad we didn’t have to kill him.”

Freddy’s scowl deepened, “I still think we should have dumped his guts onto the floor and splashed in them like a mud puddle,” he said through gritted teeth.

Candyman shrugged and nodded, his deep voice resonating through the room. “I’m still busy enough with people summoning me, but the promise of the kill was tempting,” he mused, running his hook along his lower lip. “The fear in his eyes was… sweet.”

Pinhead interjected, his words cold and measured, “The preservation of our game night’s rules serves a greater purpose.” He paused with a thoughtful expression, “Victor’s brush with our much darker world will twist and torment him for the rest of his life. How that affects him will be a far more… interesting outcome.”

Jason remained silent as ever.

Freddy’s eyes lit up, a grin pulling at his burnt features. “Okay, hear me out. What if…” he began, pausing for dramatic effect, his blades splayed out before him like he was stopping traffic, “what if we occasionally invited a few random victims to our poker nights?”

Angela snorted in laughter. “What? Invite them to a Horror themed Poker Costume party? Would anyone really fall for that?”

“Victor did!” Freddy tossed his arms wide and started doing a little dance, “And he didn’t even think it was a costume party! Imagine the fun we could have!”

There was a moment of silence as the idea sank in. Freddy and Angela started laughing, followed shortly by Candyman, whose laugh was slow and deep. The combined sound echoed off the metal walls, a strange symphony of discordant, malevolent glee. Jason only stared at them.

Pinhead’s cold, measured voice cut through the laughter like a blade of ice. “While it would be… exquisite to witness, I will not take part.” He inclined his head. “I am bound by rules. Restricted only to those who seek the pleasure of Hell willingly.”

Candyman’s smooth baritone resonated through the room. “I, too, must remain an observer. My legend requires belief, fear… and a name spoken five times.” His hook gleamed as he gestured languidly. “But oh, the sweet terror it would bring…”

Freddy’s sneer dripped with disappointment. He gestured to the mirror at the bar where he summoned Candyman earlier this evening, his voice mocking, “Gimme a break, Honey Nuts! We can slap a mirror anywhere. What dumb fuck could resist saying your name after an hour of you buzzing in their mug?” He whirled on Pinhead, jabbing a bladed finger. “And you, Cinnabon! Just leave those kinky Rubik’s cubes lying around. Some idiot is bound to pop one open thinking it’s a fucking fidget toy.”

“Language, Freddy,” Angela snapped, her sweet voice a stark contrast to the gleam of warning in her eyes. “Why do you always have to be so crass?”

Freddy shook his head. “Vulgarity is my bread and butter, Counselor Killjoy. We’re debating the slaughter of innocents here, not having a tea party with the Queen of England!”

Jason remained silent but leaned forward as if he were listening intently to the exchange.

“That may work,” Pinhead mused, his flat tone tinged with intrigue. “The lure of the unknown is… irresistible to some.”

“Now you’re getting it, Pinecone,” Freddy grinned, “People see you, the puzzles, and some schmuck is bound to think, ‘Oh, what’s the worst that could happen?’ Next thing you know, they’re opening doors to literal Hell and regretting their life choices.” He cackled, warming to the thought. “I can see it now - ‘Congrats, idiots! You solved the puzzle. Your prize? A BDSM piercing session with Daddy Latex and a stylish new Prince Albert dick rip!’”

“FREDDY!” Angela shouted, her face a mix of shock and disgust.

The dream demon cackled in laughter at Angela’s consternation.

Candyman looked across the room to the mirror from which he had been summoned. “The mirror idea does merit consideration,” he mused. “The anticipation of that final utterance would be… so sweet.”

Excited by the prospect, Angela grabbed a notepad and began scribbling ideas, her eyes gleaming, “We could put the puzzle boxes under glass domes. A note could read ‘Solve to experience Heaven and Hell.’”

“Hmm—” Pinhead was about to speak but was cut off by Angela’s runaway excitement.

“Ohhh… and themes!” Her voice rose with excitement as she chirped, “Nerd’s night, jock’s night, girl’s night!”

Freddy put up two bladed fingers, rapidly wiggling them. “Girl’s night?” He said, pumping his burnt and hairless eyebrows suggestively.

Angela narrowed her eyes and aimed her pen at him, but he was already walking away, doing a strange little dance as he went.

Dragging his blades down the metal of a nearby pipe, sparks went flying, and a sinister shriek pierced through the boiler room. “A Poker Night In Hell,” Freddy cackled, already imagining their next game. “We’ll give ‘em a real nightmare to remember… if they survive.”

As they continued to clean, Angela suggested, “Decade themes?”

Candyman nooded. “A movie night would be enjoyable! Ghostface will be quite upset he’s no longer invited.”

“Ohhh yeah. Bob would like that as well.” Angela said, shooting the old horror host on the TV a brilliant grin, who returned the gesture with a nod and raise of his cigar.

Freddy’s fanged teeth flashed as he grinned, “Ol’ Leather Daddy here will want a BDSM Night, won’t ya?” he cackled and waggled his tongue.

Pinhead glared at the nightmare demon, his voice cold and laced with disdain. “Your crude attempts at humor are pathetic, Krueger.”

Angela made an ‘Ick’ face before saying, “You boys, let me know when you’re going to do that. I’ll stay home with some popcorn and a good movie.”

Jason remained silent, but his head jerked up as the phone rang.

Walking to where the phone hung, Freddy said, “Alright, place your bets! Who’s it gonna be? My money’s on Ghostface with another lame prank call.” He looked back at them as he picked up the phone. “No takers?” Then, into the receiver, he growled, “Krueger’s Grill. Served burnt and screaming. Let me guess? You want me to dice you up into hamburger and put you out of my misery?”

“Hey,” Chucky’s voice crackled through the line, his tone a hushed whisper. “Ghostface been calling?”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Little Plastic Prince Pussy Whipped,” Freddy sing-songed, “What’s the matter? Afraid of waking the little missus?”

“Ha ha, you fucking burnt marshmallow,” Chucky hissed. “Just tell me how the night went.”

Freddy looked back at the other slashers. “Surprisingly well, considering we didn’t kill the dumb fuck who showed up. Almost had ourselves a bloody good time.”

“Wait, what?” Chucky’s voice raised before he caught himself, and he dropped his voice back down. “My guy called to say he didn’t make it. Got lost or some shit. Said he just went home and binge-watched Bridgerton instead. You’re telling me someone else showed up?”

Freddy snorted in amusement. “Oh, you missed out on a real treat, Short Stack. We had ourselves an aspiring actor who thought he was at some method acting workshop.” He grinned, “The idiot’s got guts, I’ll give him that. Didn’t even run when he figured out we were the real deal. Came back to the poker table and finished the night with us.”

“No fucking way,” Chucky whispered, disbelief in his voice, “And you didn’t slice him up? You’re getting soft, Krueger.”

Freddy’s eyes narrowed, “Watch it, Doll-face. I would’ve played hangman with his guts if I had my way. It was Pinhead being a real stickler for the rules.” His voice took on a menacing tone. “But let’s just say… our future poker nights are shaping up to get much bloodier.”

A car horn honked outside, and Jason turned, without a sound, and walked out into the night, leaving the others behind and the front door swinging wide open.

Freddy, still on the phone, yelled over his shoulder at the open doorway, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for helping to clean up…! Don’t worry about it. We got it!”

The other slashers smirked and chuckled. “Night, Jason,” Angela called with a small wave.

“The guy still there?” Chucky asked.

Turning back to the call, Freddy said. “Nah, he left a bit ago. And Mama’s Boy just left. I should get back to cleaning up. Gonna be dawn soon.”

Chucky snorted. “Right! Can’t have the nightmares running around in the daylight.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Freddy Rolled his eyes. “Catch you next time. See if the missus will let you off the leash sometime soon. Maybe she’ll even give you your balls back.”

Hanging up the phone, it cracked and broke a little more. The receiver end popped off and dangled, only held in place by a few visible wires. Freddy sighed and shook his head as he returned to the remaining killers.

The ominous sound of chains began rattling, the disturbing sound coming from nowhere and echoing all around them. Pinhead stared off into the shadows, his voice resonating with otherworldly power, “The Leviathan calls. Until next time.”

With a clatter of a thousand opening doors, white-blue light began spilling out of the slats of the boiler vents. Pinhead dematerialized in an electrical display. A moment later, he was gone.

Freddy, perpetually angry, directed his ire at the now departed demon. “So much for being retired… Pin Prick!”

“I’m afraid I, too, must depart,” Candyman said. And with a nod of his head and a flash of light, there was a sharp cracking sound, then he, too, vanished.

Freddy threw his hands up in exasperation. “Sure… good seeing you too, Captain Hook! Here’s your hat—what’s your hurry?” He said to the place where Candyman once stood, “Whatever! Why is everyone such an asshole?” His gaze fell on Angela, who was heading towards the kitchen area. “Where are you going?”

Angela’s sweet smile held the air of menace. The chili pepper lights hanging in the kitchen behind her formed a strange glowing red halo over her head, “Oh, I’m going to get soap,” she smiled cheerfully. “I warned you, and since I can’t kill you, I’m washing your mouth out.”

Freddy’s face showed a mix of disbelief and amusement. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. What are you, my mother?”

Angela’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Oh no, Freddy. I’m much worse than that. Now, are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

“Okay, okay!” He said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re like an old nag. Can’t take a joke. Can’t CUT loose.” He punctuated his words with a sudden, violent, dismissive slash of his glove.

Angela narrowed her eyes and turned to Freddy, her tone sickeningly sweet but laced with threat. “Stop cussing, and I’ll finish helping you clean up. Keep cussing, and the only thing I’ll be cleaning is your mouth out… with soap…or maybe a knife.” She smiled and blinked innocently.

“What happened to not slashing the other players?” Freddy asked, “Now we get to ignore the rules?”

“Game night is over. We were not playing anymore. So don’t make me cut you.” She finished with a finger and a glare.

Freddy rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. No need to get your panties in a twist, Mary Poppins.” He reached for a bottle of liquor, pouring generous shots. Looking around, he realized it was just him and Angela. “Cheers,” he said with a sardonic grin.

Angela gave a dubious expression at the alcohol, then filled a shot glass with Strawberry Freckled Lemonade and raised it.

“Cheers!” they said together, an unlikely pair toasting the end of a bizarre night.

As they clinked glasses, the phone rang.

They exchanged knowing glances. “Ghostface,” they said in chorus, their voices a combination of amusement and exasperation.

Angela picked up the receiver this time. “Party’s over. Good night.” She hung up the phone without waiting for a response. With the receiver swinging wildly, the phone was set back down with a soft click, the dangling part clattering to a stop.

Freddy chuckled, a rasping sound that echoed in the quiet boiler room. “Not bad, Sunshine. But you really should have slammed it down.” He made a sudden downward motion with his hand, “That thing is so broken I bet it would have exploded into bits!”

Angela shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Then we would just have more to clean up!” She said, giving him a ‘No duh!’ expression.

As the cleanup continued, Freddy raised his voice in sudden excitement, “Okay, how’s this for a new rule?” He moved to the rules board and started making the change with a marker. “Players must have at least one soul’s worth of chips remaining at the end of the night. If they don’t, we get to collect!”

“Right!” Angela nodded with glee. “That at least gives them a chance to win and still walk out of here. Like Vic did! I’m still happy we didn’t have to kill him.”

He scowled at her. “Still think we should have sliced him to ribbons.”

“Awww, common Freddy.” She looped an arm through his. “Don’t want to be a bunch of hypocrites like that ol’fuddy, John Kramer.”

Freddy Krueger looked down at Angela and grimaced at her nice girl facade. He shook his head and said, “Good night, Margery Meanwell.”

She furrowed her brow in confusion. “Who—” but he cut her off.

“You have the internet, look it up.” He gave her a smirk and opened his mouth to deliver one last retort, but the early morning rays cut through the gloom of the boiler room, scattering his hold on this reality. His form faded,first becoming translucent and then vanishing back into the dream world. Angela’s arm slipped from where she was holding him and the broom dropped to the ground with a clatter.

Angela, the last of the slashers, picked up the broom and leaned it against the wall. She collected her dish and her jug of strawberry lemonade, humming a cheerful tune that sounded a lot like ‘I’m a Happy Camper’ as she made her way to the exit. Standing in the doorway, she smiled and gave one last glance around the boiler room. With a big goofy grin, she said, “Till next time, friends. Sweet dreams.”

She flicked off the lights on her way out, leaving the kitchen painted a reddish hue from the chili pepper lights. And the bar glowed under the pulsing orange-pink of the neon sign. Its message, “Your Comfort Zone Will Kill You,” left to hover in the darkness as the door closed.

The dusty old television flickered to life one last time and the ghostly form of Bob Wilkins appeared as a full apparition standing next to the TV, his hand resting atop its narrow surface. Striking a match that burned like a blue star, the Spector lit his cigar.

“Well, folks,” he drawled, smoke curling around his spectral form, “looks like our slasher friends have found a new way to keep their poker nights interesting. It’s always nice to see monsters finding meaning and purpose in their ailing years. Gotta keep the old slasher muscles in shape. Cause you know what they say, ‘if you don’t use it, you lose it’.”

He took a long drag on his cigar, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “So, as the sun rises, we’re left with more questions than answers. Will Victor’s newfound confidence land him that coveted slasher role? Will Freddy ever learn to shuffle without slicing the deck to ribbons? And most importantly, who’s going to tell Jason’s mother that her little boy is gambling with a bunch of serial killers and demonic entities?”

Bob smirked before shaking his head. “Alas, we have no time left to answer those questions. With the golden rays of morning scaring off the last of our monsters, I guess it’s time for me to say goodnight as well. Stay tuned for next month’s game: Same fright time, same fright channel.”

The ghostly form faded from view, and the space fell silent. Only the slight rattling of chains and dripping of water echoed off the factory walls. Only the dissipating smoke and lingering scent of cigar remained as the brightening light of day illuminated the boiler room.

The End.

Return to the Top

The Impossible Library

A Killer Hand

Table of Contents:

Content Warnings:

Copyrights:

All Rights Reserved:

Chapter 1: The Bail

Chapter 2: Arrivals

Chapter 3: The New Guy

Chapter 4: The Agent

Chapter 5: Playing Poker

Chapter 6: Pizzas Here

Chapter 7: The Needle Scratch

Chapter 8: Unmasked

Chapter 9: The Dawn