[He can't even say it. Ash shakes his head again, more forceful this time, the only thing he can do with both hands occupied. His eyes are glassy as he looks at the grainy projection of himself on the wall, cowering with his back pressed against the front door of the cabin. He looks terrified, all red-cheeked and sweaty and teary, just like he's sure he does right now.
Pretty funny. He's the one with the chainsaw.
The projection begins to bleed. It skips a frame, holding on Linda's body laid out on the table in the workshed. She looks so peaceful, like she could be sleeping. Streaks of red trickle down the top of the image, the hazy white light gradually darkening, bathing the walls in muddy red.
"Linda died alone," Cheryl's voice snarls at him in the dark, each word venomous and brutal, warping into something monstrous but still recognizably Cheryl. The shotgun, gone; the axe, gone; his little sister, gone. "You're the reason she's suffering. Her and Shelly, even Scott."
Just hearing her name makes Ash's throat close up as a new, fresh wave of grief steamrolls over him. Watching himself do those things to Linda hurts just as bad as remembering it. It's even worse when all he can do is stand here and take it.
Just take it, like Linda did when it finally came for her. Like Scott and Shelly did.
But before them, there was Cheryl.
"They're all down here with us, Ash," Cheryl says next to his shoulder, far too sweetly. "Watching you die again, and again, and again."
He whips his head just in time to see a flash of Cheryl's gums — pink and shiny, flecked with bloody drool — as she appears by his side in a flash, surging forward on all fours. She rises to her feet like a marionette, yanked up by invisible strings with ugly, jerky fluidity.
"SHE MISSES YOU, ASHLEY. SHE MISSES YOU SO MUCH."]
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[He can't even say it. Ash shakes his head again, more forceful this time, the only thing he can do with both hands occupied. His eyes are glassy as he looks at the grainy projection of himself on the wall, cowering with his back pressed against the front door of the cabin. He looks terrified, all red-cheeked and sweaty and teary, just like he's sure he does right now.
Pretty funny. He's the one with the chainsaw.
The projection begins to bleed. It skips a frame, holding on Linda's body laid out on the table in the workshed. She looks so peaceful, like she could be sleeping. Streaks of red trickle down the top of the image, the hazy white light gradually darkening, bathing the walls in muddy red.
"Linda died alone," Cheryl's voice snarls at him in the dark, each word venomous and brutal, warping into something monstrous but still recognizably Cheryl. The shotgun, gone; the axe, gone; his little sister, gone. "You're the reason she's suffering. Her and Shelly, even Scott."
Just hearing her name makes Ash's throat close up as a new, fresh wave of grief steamrolls over him. Watching himself do those things to Linda hurts just as bad as remembering it. It's even worse when all he can do is stand here and take it.
Just take it, like Linda did when it finally came for her. Like Scott and Shelly did.
But before them, there was Cheryl.
"They're all down here with us, Ash," Cheryl says next to his shoulder, far too sweetly. "Watching you die again, and again, and again."
He whips his head just in time to see a flash of Cheryl's gums — pink and shiny, flecked with bloody drool — as she appears by his side in a flash, surging forward on all fours. She rises to her feet like a marionette, yanked up by invisible strings with ugly, jerky fluidity.
"SHE MISSES YOU, ASHLEY. SHE MISSES YOU SO MUCH."]