Sorry for the hiatus. The deadline for this chapter was actually on Halloween, guess I have been procrastinating too much. I will never actually get used to being in school to be honest.

Now, without further ado, the grand finale.

...

Jack slammed the heavy door close as he fell into the revelation that everything he had ever done, every choice he had made, had lead to him being in the dark basement of his house, panting and praying that what had been murdering his friends would leave him alone.

It was a dick move, fleeing without at least helping his friends, but if that was what it took to survive, Jack was glad he had done it. Leaning against the door with the mechanical sound of a chainsaw echoing around the house as the background, he took a glance around the room. There was nothing to see but whatever that was being illuminated by his flashlight. He tried to slow his breathing rate, though his heart was still thumping wildly. He knew it wasn't the time to rest, but his legs were almost liquid and he used to think he would never be that terrified his whole life. Jack wasn't the kind to fret over petty jump scare scenes in horror movies, but that was different. He hadn't been in the movie then, but he sure as shit knew how those protagonists felt now. Lingering on the floor, Jack contemplated his next move, something that would keep him alive long enough for the game to stop, or at least until he found a way to end it completely. In horror movies, the ghosts usually didn't attack when it was bright, so maybe if he turned on all the lights, he would be safe. That had to be a good plan, right?

The blood-curling scream made it to Jack's ears the same time as the roars of the heavy duty machine. He could make it out in front of his eyes, vivid as ever, the long blade stabbing into his blonde friend's body, organs wallowing in their container, the thick, dark red liquid splattering on the fancy wallpaper that his mother had spent hours picking out. Swallowing, Jack sensed something cold crawling up his spine, or maybe it was a drop of sweat slowly rolling down the length of his back. Whatever it was, it spawned from the vision he just had of Ralph, so maybe he would be better off not thinking about the friend that he abandoned. Jack shone the light around the basement, looking for the fuse box. Before the game, Maurice and him both agreed on turning off all the lights to create the atmosphere, but now that everything had turned out to be like this, the whole atmosphere ordeal seemed extremely unnecessary. The chainsaw was still busy dividing Ralph's body into parts, it seemed, and Jack knew he had until the noise stopped to turn the lights back on.

He could faintly make out the shape of the life-saving metal box. With a sigh of relief, Jack ran to it, listening to the sound of his friend's body being dismembered as guilt took over him. It was for the best, he told himself, but there was no time to fuss about that. He had his own life to save, and the only way to do it was to turn all the lights on. Maybe he would develop nyctophobia after this, but he would think about that later, when he would be engulfed in the safety of the lights. Jack fumbled with the key that opened the fuse box in his pocket, shoving the piece of metal in almost clumsily. He twisted and jerked it a little to get it open, holding the flashlight with his mouth to better coordinate, and opened the small metal door. His eyes scanned through the switches, looking for one that said "lights". When he had found it, Jack reached his hand and switched all the lights on, eyes hopeful as if he had seen his safe haven.

All the noises from the chainsaw stopped at once.

Was that it? Or what if it was only that The Midnight Man had finished dismembering Ralph? Jack chose to believe the first theory, that everything was stopped, at least for now. But all the lights had been switched off before Jack decided to cut their supplies of electricity. He still had to go out of that safe basement with the house still filled with darkness, pressing on every light switch just to temporarily feel safe. Jack knew he didn't have much time. He needed to ward off the monster before it found him, carrying a chainsaw and ready to cut him up and make him himself for dinner. For a while, he was completely still, listening to footsteps but knowing that it would be useless, that the entity would have been in the basement right behind him if it wanted to. It seemed like it didn't want to reveal itself to him yet, or maybe Roger was fighting back to regain his body. Whatever the reason might be, Jack just wanted to survive. His hand roamed across the surface of the table in front of him until he could feel the sharp metal edge of an axe. The basement was where his father kept all the lumberjack shit of his, hence the existence of the heavy duty chainsaw. Jack wondered if it would hurt to just leave all those equipments behind in their townhouse back in Oregon, as there were clearly more trees there to chop down.

Jack's hand trailed down the wooden handle of the axe and picked it up. He set the flashlight on the table and held the weapon with both hands. It was lighter than he imagined, but then, again, it might just be the adrenaline pumping through his body. He let out a sigh as he unconsciously shifted his weight to his other leg. An axe against a chainsaw wouldn't make a fair fight, but it was the strongest defense he had. The guns were in his parents' safe, and he didn't know the combination to it. Jack wasn't sure if they would do much good anyway, because it wasn't Roger who was going around murdering everyone, it was the entity, and it could still control the body like a zombie even if the brain was dead.

Now that he had realized it, the house was unbearably cold. Outside, it was fall, which meant the weather would be fairly cool, but not cold enough to make his shoulders shiver. Jack felt the cold blade, someone must have fucked with the air conditioner. Considering that the chainsaw was also in the basement before this, it might as well have been The Midnight Man. Jack muttered a swear under his breath before picking up the flashlight again and shone it around the room, looking for the fuse box that controlled all the air conditioning in the house, specifically, the heaters. Corpses decay slower in cold temperature, and Jack didn't know how, exactly, that would help The Midnight Man. Nonetheless, he knew he would either be murdered horrifically or freeze to death if the temperature kept that way.

Though, for a fast and murderous entity such as The Midnight Man, it seemed to be giving Jack too much time.

The redhead shrugged it off and pretended not to care about the suspicious advantage he was having over the attacker, and just focused on finding the fuse box. It should be around there somewhere. The light traveled along the walls, giving him sights of the tools hanging on the racks hammered to the bricks that were intentionally left unpainted. Shining the light higher, he saw the box, metal, painted in a light gray color. And he was supposed to be happy when he saw it, because it meant that he would no longer have to worry about freezing to death, but he couldn't. Something was trapped inside of his throat, and he tried his hardest to swallow it down, because dripping from the inside of the fuse box– his potential life saver, was a crimson liquid, and on the metal that was supposed to be the handle were red fingerprints. He knew The Midnight Man had been down here, else it wouldn't have been able to lay its hands on the chainsaw, but he didn't know it would leave a surprise present for people who could think of turning the heaters back on. Taking in a breath, Jack debated if he should open the box. He was well aware that he didn't have much time, that he never had time in the first place. Thinking he had seen everything possible today– Simon's decapitated head, the limbs, the pools of blood that flooded the floor, the look of terror that was still plastered on Maurice's face, Jack decided against opening the box. He didn't want what was in there to scar him for life, that meaning he get out alive.

Reaching for the light switch on the wall, Jack turned on the lights in the basement. It was a dim light, orange-ish in color, and warm in a way that brought him comfort. Maybe he could just stay in there for the rest of the night. It wasn't like The Midnight Man could even survive in a lit space anyway. Instinctively, Jack searched his pocket for his phone, and fished it out. He stood, leaning on the wall, and press the small rectangular button on top of the device to turn it on. His home screen was a photo of his two ginger cats who were left in his townhouse, and on it displayed the time.

0:00.

Time stopped. That was what he got from the numbers. Jack knew The Midnight Man would find a way to cheat and make the game last longer, but he didn't know it would be like this. Having heard Ralph attempting to call for help, Jack thought it would be best if he didn't try to save his friend; it wouldn't work anyway. He had intentionally ignored Ralph's calls, knowing he could have gotten himself killed if he so much as tried to help. The redhead gripped the axe tighter, not realizing that he had been holding it all the time. At least he had a weapon and wasn't as defenseless as his friends. Maybe Jack could stand a chance against that thing. He opted not to go offensive though. If there was one lesson he learnt from slasher movies, it would be that the murderer would always out-violent you. It would be better if he stayed in the safety of the lights until the end of the game, even when it meant forever.

But the lightbulb, of course, couldn't work for that amount of time, and Jack knew he would have to face the darkness again soon. And when that happened, The Midnight Man would be waiting, drumming Roger's pale fingers impatiently against the floorboard above Jack's head like it was doing right now. Its eyes would watch as Jack moved out of his safe basement, helpless, for his only savior would be the artificial light hanging above his head in a material so fragile it would break the moment it touched the ground. Then the grin of the creature would widen, blood would paint its mouth and hands like a clown who decided to go all out.

Heat drained from his face at the thought. Jack gulped, trying to push the vision out of his head, now that he knew it could happen.

The light flickered.

The chainsaw dove through the cement ceiling as if the laws of physics didn't apply anymore. Dust fell down from the ceiling as that tiniest source of comfort was violently ripped away from Jack.

Fucked. He was completely, and utterly, fucked.

"Fucking heavy duty shit." He mumbled under his breath as his hands frantically gripping the door handle and turning it, still having hold of the axe. He couldn't let it go, especially in a situation like this, when defense was crucial. The chainsaw kept on with its horrendous song, successfully cutting through the lightbulb's wire as Jack pushed the door open and followed the momentum to fall face-flat on the floor. But he didn't have time to just lie on the ground. He pushed himself up with his elbows and started running. His breath hitched. He didn't have time. Fuck.

The cut-out cement crashed on the basement floor. Loudly. But Jack kept running. Why should he turn back? Why should he stand still, shell-shocked, when there was clearly time to escape? Fucking hell. Screw horror movies' protagonist tropes. He needed to survive. His lanky body leaned forward, bolting for the front door. He had seen all of it. Simon and Maurice's heads and all their dismembered bodies. They couldn't scare him more than they already had. All he did was run. Run away from what scared him. From things unbeknownst to him. His eyes started straining, unfamiliar with the dark surroundings. He had already become dependent on the light. Too dependent.

Static-like noises beat repeatedly against his eardrums. Jack swallowed as he ran, hoping he could gulp in some air. His hands blindly grasped everywhere. Goddammit. His breathing went erratic once again. The door handle must be somewhere in that fucking endless darkness. His head turned around as his feet carried him away, watching out for The Midnight Man. He swallowed. His pulse went crazy. And he bumped into the door.

It caught him off-guard, the cool surface of the polished oak wood and the slippery liquid seeping into his socked feet. He didn't want to know what the liquid was. He did. His throat dried out quickly as he opened his mouth to gasp for oxygen. Tangy and sour scents fought each other to attack his nostrils and esophagus, as if daring him to throw up. The exhaustion from running was catching up with him. Jack walked back a few steps, or, rather, tried to. The bones in his legs were noodles. Frail. Shaken. Unable to move. There was something even more terrifying than the knowledge of the liquid's name. Jack couldn't tell what it was, but he knew it existed.

By then, his eyes had adjusted to the dark. He scanned around the room, and knew better than to look down to his feet. Maybe there was something about the basement's light that made him think it was pitch black, because now he could briefly sense the moonlight shining in from one of the windows. Jack looked at the door once again. That panel of wood was the only thing separating him from the safety of the outside world. The Midnight Man was restraint to the mansion, he knew that. Smugly, Jack allowed the corners of his mouth to pull up. His hand reached out for the door knob, drenched in victory, completely forgetting about his suspicious advantage over the entity. His fingers curled around the metal, pushing it down with some force, and his arm was separated.

By a roaring chainsaw.

The upper arm touched the ground first. The forearm followed, laying flat on the wet floor, accompanied by five bony fingers. Wet, hot liquid flowed out of the open end, drowning the cut, ragged skin. A bit of the white bone showed, sickeningly tainted with crimson flesh. All hot colors looked cool in the moonlight. Cold colors looked even more so. The chainsaw stopped. But it had only been the start of its wonderful sonata.

Again, Jack ran. For his life. Not even bothering to cover his injury. He bolted where his feet would allow him to, functioning alone on the adrenaline pumping into his blood and pouring out from the open wound. He completely lost track of where he was. Unaware of his surroundings - ones that should have been much more familiar to him than anyone else. Static-like noises growled in his ears once again. But all he cared about was finding the way to escape the house. The adrenaline in his blood was running out. His wound started to sting. He had been unaware of its existence until he looked. Jack stopped. Dead in his track.

Run, you fucking dumbass.

But he didn't run. The more he stared at it, the more the knowledge of the missing limb seeped into his mind. The pain went up exponentially. And as cold breeze grazed against his flesh, he screamed. The sound of his voice teared through his dry throat, ripping apart his vocal cords. He didn't dare to touch it, knowing it would only make him worse. His knees couldn't stand the loss of blood. They collapsed, bringing his whole body down with them.

If you run now, you'll probably make it to the window before it catches up. He told himself, instantly doubting every word. Which floor he was on, he had no idea. His head started spinning, and his consciousness was visibly slipping away. Like sand in an hourglass. What if he just let The Midnight Man have what it wanted?

Jack choked at the thought. Giving up was an option, but he didn't know if he wanted to choose it or not. His face fell flat on the floor, a side of it lit by the moon. The brown flecks of freckles were covered by the blood splatters that he had just been aware of. He let out labored breaths as blood continued to flow out of the open wound, though the amount had declined. His fingers clenched tight, subconsciously gripping the axe's handle, now that he had stopped screaming, to hold in another outburst. If only The Midnight Man would just stop procrastinating on killing him, it would have been salvation. A quick kill was much more of a solution than waiting for him to lose blood, painfully and tediously, as he saw the light at the end of his tunnel.

Light.

As if triggered, Jack hoisted himself up, his head slamming into the wall as blood was still pouring out from him. He leaned on the wall and walked as his body pressed on it to the nearest light switch. His eyes glanced around the room to find any clues of a hidden attacker, but found none. Or maybe it was only the blood loss that was slackening his vision. Nevertheless, he kept walking. The knowledge of a missing arm was starting to take its toll on him. The more he thought about it, the more the pain intensified. But his shoulder touched the light switch, and all he could think of then was that he would be safe.

His hand reached the switch and pressed on it. The blinding light met his eyes, though it didn't matter because he was safe. Safe under the lights. Jack figured this one spot would have him backed up alright. He walked, uncoordinatedly, to the window, and looked down. Either he was on the second floor, or his orientation had gotten so fucked up that he mistook the third floor for the second. Jumping down was the decision that would either make or break the safe cocoon he had situated himself in.

Or did he?

When he turned around, The Midnight Man was there.

Waiting.

With the blinding lights still illuminating that corner of the hallway - his safe cocoon.

There were no sounds escaping his mouth, and there were none leaving the entity's. Roger's body, from the start, had only been a putrid, decomposing vessel that The Midnight Man used to survive in the light. He had been dead from the beginning of the game. There were no reasons left for Jack to even remotely consider it to be his friend.

"Good evening," it said, tone maliciously smooth. Inhuman.

Jack was frozen for a second as blood drained from the vessels underneath his face. His cheeks went cold as if he had been standing out in the snow for hours. There was something stuck in his throat that he couldn't quite swallow, though he couldn't just throw it up either. His eyes opened wide, but his pupils contracted. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead despite the lack of heat.

The Midnight Man didn't make a move either, so Jack acted on instinct. The blade of the axe slashed upward, making a cut on its way. It was only a shallow cut, as Jack, before all this came down, was completely dependent on his right hand. He couldn't do severe damage with his left, but at least he had something to defend himself with. He knew he had more strength than the body Roger had left behind, and he knew The Midnight Man was restricted to that body.

Was he?

As though answering his question, Roger's frail body collapsed on the ground. The chainsaw fell heavily on the wooden floor, and nothing was in front of Jack anymore. But there was still something, an ethereal presence that prevented him from letting out the relieved breath he had been holding in for so long. The lights were still on, but he had realized that they made no difference.

The ethereal presence started to take a form. It looked like a humanoid figure, but was too vague to actually tell. Dull pigments started coloring it, save for the insides. The figure made its way toward Jack, and the closer it was to him, the more vivid it appeared. Its body was divided to two uneven halves, with the exception of the head. Organs were barely kept inside their container and fell out in messy globs. The figure gave off a rancid scent, something along the lines of stomach acid and decaying corpses. Its head tipped sideway, almost falling off the neck.

Jack could now identify the figure by the tell-tale blond hair. He crawled backward with his elbow and feet, not wanting to fight Ralph, knowing he would have no chance of survival in a state like that against some dead person who only came alive for vengeance. Ralph's body bent down so that he could reach the chainsaw. He was see-through, yet the chainsaw was steadily held. His mouth opened wide, revealing a seemingly endless black void, and from that voice came screams of pain. Of despair. Of hopelessness.

"Jack!"

Ralph inched closer as Jack moved further away. He was almost at the boundary between the light and the dark. But what difference would it make anyway?

"Help!"

The voice teared its way through his ear canal, imprinting itself on the wrinkles of his brain. It multiplied, slurring together, but still clear as ever. His chest rose and fell quickly, making shallow breaths escape his gaping mouth. He wasn't so dumb as to try and throw the axe - his only weapon - at the attacker. He knew it wouldn't affect an already-dead body. So he kept crawling backward, getting himself ready to be immersed in darkness once again. At least then he wouldn't have to see his fear.

But his back touched something cold. That something gripped into his shoulders, sharp claws buried so deep in his flesh blood started to flow out again. Jack looked up, seeing nothing but the ceiling. And Ralph. Some of the blood from a dangling intestine dropped to his stomach. Fetid. The chainsaw's blade lied directly on top of his left arm, just an inch away from his armpit. The screams were still on-going, and he doubted that they would ever stop. The chainsaw was activated. And something kept Jack's arm flat on the ground. Unable to move. Powerless. Incapable of self-defense.

The inhuman voice rang in his ears again.

"He wants revenge." It whispered.

The chainsaw was jammed down. Jack's scream became one with that of Ralph. His hair turned damp from the warm liquid inside of his own body as his remaining arm was disconnected from his body. A drop of tear rolled down from the corner of his eye, the water that was on there blurred the world that he could see. The pain ripped through his chest, straight up to his brain. His heartbeat skyrocketed as he winced to conceal the pain. His body still heavy as lead. Still couldn't move. But the rotating blade had already been hovering on top of his legs.

Screams. Shouts. Blood.

"Help me! Help! Jack! Help! Jack! Jack!"

His mouth opened wide to take in some air that wasn't going to be too precious. His lungs burnt out from the endless shrieks and cries of agony. His nerves raised with signals from countless nociceptors. The heart continued to pump blood in a hurry, having no idea that none of it would be circulating the body. Jack didn't dare to open his eyes. He didn't dare to look. He didn't dare to accept it. That he had become a limbless torso.

But he had to open his eyes. Not that he wanted to. His eyelids were cut off by some invisible force, and he shrieked once more. Red splattered on the whites of his eyeballs. It stung. But he had no arms left to wipe that away. He saw the empty ceiling again. Something forced him to look at the figure. It stepped away from him, handing the chainsaw to the corpse that had just risen from the floor. Pallor skin bore holes and rips from decomposition. Eyes discolored and dead just like any other lifeless body. Roger– It took the chainsaw in its hand and walked to Jack.

"You have to see your executioner, don't you?" The inhuman voice rose again. It sounded near, as if the speaker was sitting right next to him. "After all, he also wants his revenge."

The corpse's mouth opened as it approached.

"--Jack..he..l...p--"

There had been a phone call.

[--You have reached Jack Merridew's voice mail. Please leave a message after "meat"--]

[--Meat--]

[--Hey, this may not be the perfect time for this, but can you come over? I need your help. Long story short, I accidentally summoned a ghost thing to my house that will murder me on sight and--..amn..t signal--]

[--Fuck, okay, I really need y--]

[--Come here righ--]

[--Pick the fuck up! Jack! Help me!--]

[--HELP! JAC--]

[--Jack..he..l..p--]

The rotating blade hovered above his neck.

"It was his fault." Jack whispered, barely audible, trying to decipher what he was feeling. "He played the game. H-he–"

The head joined other body parts in their crimson pool party.

The inhuman voice laughed, calmly and smoothly, as the corpse crashed on the ground with a working chainsaw.

"Hell is boring. Didn't you know?"

...

Yeah, sorry if the ending is a little confusing, and I couldn't help but add some humor into it, so this isn't really your traditional horror story where some people live, though I feel like it's a good way to end the story. (Feel free to ask me though if you are really confused about the ending and can't decipher it no matter how much of a genius you are!)

Happy New Year everyone! Hope all of you will have a great 2017!