After a few agonizing moments of silence, the door shuddered violently—then splintered, blown inward with a thunderous crash. It flew straight at Sasha, striking her in the chest and sending her stumbling backward.
"Sam!" she screamed, voice raw with terror.
But it wasn't Sam. It was Sketch.
The stitched abomination stood framed in the door's ruin, grinning ear to ear, its eyes two black pinholes twitching with ecstasy. Blood dripped from its sewn-up lips, and its crooked arms twitched as if held together by spite alone.
"Oh boy," Sketch giggled, his voice like tearing silk, "three more souls and he can finally free us."
He lunged.
But Sasha was quicker.
With a desperate scream, she rammed a rusted blade deep into his chest before he could reach her. It sank in with a wet crunch, just above where his heart might've been—if he even had one.
Sketch's mouth opened in surprise, and then, laughter.
Meanwhile, Mina and Ed were already gone.
They ran through the trees toward the old forest cabin, their footsteps muffled by wet leaves and ash. In Ed's backpack clinked the lighter, the diary, the deck of cursed cards, and the flamethrower.
Their breath came in white clouds, sharp and ragged, blending with the rising mist as the woods watched in silence.
They arrived at the cabin, half-collapsed and smelling of charred wood and secrets. Inside, the air was thick with rot, as if something ancient had died here but refused to leave.
They lit all the candles.
The flickering light cast shifting shadows—faces in the corners, shapes behind the furniture. The cabin had always felt alive, but now, it breathed. Whispered.
Mina sat cross-legged on the floor and shuffled the deck.
She drew three cards.
Hope. Love. Betrayal.
Her fingers trembled.
"...This isn't right," she whispered. "These are my cards."
Ed leaned over. "What does it mean?"
She stared at the inked images—abstract, bleeding, almost moving. "I think something's changed. I'll do yours."
She flipped his three cards slowly, like pulling back the skin from a wound.
Greedy. Traitor. Death.
The air grew colder.
Mina stared at him, her voice trembling. "Will you betray me?"
"No. No, I'd never do that to you."
"The cards never lie."
"Mina, I swear—"
"Liar!"
She stood, shaking, holding the diary in her hand. Her thumb brushed the torn leather, where names had been scratched out and re-written in blood.
She lit the lighter.
But before the flame could touch the pages, her fingers locked. Her body jerked backward, as if a marionette's strings had been yanked.
Her head twisted toward the ceiling, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Whispers filled the room like gas:
"You will never escape Death."
"You will never save anyone with your cards."
"You are perfect for my ingredients."
Mina pressed her palms to her ears. "Stop... STOP!"
Ed grabbed her shoulders. "Mina! What's happening?!"
"Make them stop!"
"Who?"
She screamed.
"THEM."
He turned toward the window—and froze.
A man in a pitch-black suit stood just outside, expressionless, holding an axe slick with blood.
Ed spun to the other window.
Lorie. Smiling wide, her face stretched unnaturally, eyes alight with mockery.
"Knock knock, sweetie," she cooed. "Did you miss me? 'Cause I definitely missed you."
"Burn the diary," Mina gasped.
"What—how important is this thing?"
"It holds everything. How they were created. How they can be revived."
Ed hesitated only a second, then struck the lighter and touched it to the corner.
The diary burst into flames.
He threw it toward the window where Lorie stood. The fire licked up the curtains, casting shadows like clawed hands across the floorboards.
They turned to run.
Only one could make it.
Because the cards had said so. Mina knew. Ed knew.
Mina moved first—she grabbed the flamethrower and crawled toward the hidden trapdoor, the secret passage beneath the cabin. But Ed hesitated. Something uncoiled in him. Something dark.
A thought echoed in his mind: The only way to reverse the cards is to kill their owner.
He looked down at Mina, crawling away.
The betrayal in the cards. The death. His own salvation.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
He ripped the flamethrower from her back and shoved her aside. Her head hit the floorboards.
"No! What are you doing?!" she cried.
He aimed the flamethrower at her.
"I have to live. I have to."
The flame didn't ignite, but the metal nozzle cracked her shoulder with a sickening thud.
She screamed, not from pain—but from heartbreak.
"You were the only one I trusted…" she sobbed.
"I never asked for that."
She tried to crawl under the trapdoor. But the floor groaned.
A hand, not human, reached out and gripped her ankle.
She shrieked, kicking, grasping at the floor, at Ed, at anything.
The drawers burst open. Cabinets slammed. Books flew like birds with torn wings. The cabin turned violent—like it had waited for this betrayal.
Mina reached for a dresser—but flames licked the top.
She screamed as her hand burned.
The cabinet above her tipped forward. She had only enough time to look up—and scream. It crushed her.
Her skull split. Her body twitched once, then caught fire. Lorie watched from the window, delighted.
She reached in, pulling the charred body out like a ragdoll. Ed stood frozen. Then he ran. He escaped through the side exit—but the man in black was waiting.
Ed's breath caught. He ran through the trees, branches clawing his face.
He tried to ignite the flamethrower. It clicked. Nothing. He looked into the nozzle. Whoosh. A column of fire burst out and caught his face. He fell, screaming, half-blind.
The man caught up. One strike. Two. Three. The axe carved into Ed's chest like butter.
"You cruel little traitor," the man whispered, voice calm as a lullaby. "You deserve this." He took the flamethrower and walked away—toward the house. He moved faster than anything human. A blur. A curse in motion.
He reached the house and sprayed fire through the shattered windows and front door.
Inside, Sketch turned at the wrong moment.
A burst of flame slammed into him.
His body ignited, twitched, and collapsed.
Blood splattered Sasha's face, mingling with the blood already there.
Dex, Sasha, and McLaurel made a break for it.
But as Sasha stepped outside— the man was waiting. He turned the flamethrower on her, flames licking the air just inches from her body.
She screamed—a sound of pure terror, deep and guttural.
It echoed across the forest. Lorie turned at the sound. And she smiled.
They ran—down the path, toward the main road, smoke and fire chasing them, and behind it all…
…the promise of death yet to come.