[ The touch returns with a vengeance when the music shifts and there's video. If Quentin has learned anything here, it's that there's no reason to watch any movie here unless you know the source. He hisses when the light cracks through the dark and averts his eyes--but Ash isn't moving. To turn the thing off, Quentin would have to venture into the dark, closer to whatever has a grip on him--a grip on this place. To race up the stairs, he'd have to turn his back on it and abandon Ash. To get a better grip on Ash, he'd have to reach closer to that stinking, growling chainsaw, so Quentin tries to just shake him.

[ At the elbow. At the shoulder. At the jaw where his hand leaves tacky, bloody marks as Quentin whinces: ] No. No, we'll talk later, come on. Come on, I'm sorry, come on! [ Ash is fixed on the screen. Grudgingly, unhappily, hands fisted in Ashley's shirt, Quentin looks. This is a mistake.

[ His hands tighten, weight leaning into Ash almost dangerously, then jerk away just as soon as Quentin is sure he's not going to faint. Throwing up isn't out of running, though, as he crashes back against the stairwell, stutter-steps up the stairs. ] Nnn--you--Ash, what the fffffng--what the fuck, you killed them.

You're a fucking murderer!