The craving hit me like a shovel to the teeth. I was still in the park, staring at her, the woman with the tote bag full of horror DVDs and the “I survived the Midnight Meat Train” hoodie. My stomach snarled. My jaw twitched. But something in her eyes held me in place. Not fear. Curiosity. She looked at me like I was a puzzle.
“You good, dude?” she asked, brushing her fringe behind her ear. I nodded stiffly, like someone pulling strings from behind my neck.
“Just hungry,” I muttered. She laughed, “Aren’t we all?”
Her name was Ivy. Big horror nerd. Loved physical media, hated streaming, and somehow thought my rotting mug was just killer SFX work. I didn’t correct her. I invited her back to the lair. Lola gave me a look like “Really? We’re doing guests now?” Then promptly curled up in disapproval. Ivy looked around my crypt like lounge, bones for candleholders, guts for curtains. I was smitten. We watched a stack of her DVDs. The Poughkeepsie Tapes, Angst, The Slumber Party Massacre II, Ivy had taste. But when we ran out of physical discs, she spotted the firestick plugged into the dusty CRT.
“What’s this weird thing?”
“Oh, that’s… new,” I said, suddenly tense. “Pawn shop special.”
Ivy, naturally, wanted to try it. I warned her it was cursed, possibly demonic, probably evil.
She grinned. “Perfect.” We booted it up. The screen fizzed. A single menu loaded: We clicked it. It didn’t ask for Wi-Fi. The screen showed static. Then snow. Then… her. Ivy. On screen. Running through a dark forest. Eyes wild. Being chased by a figure in a burlap mask and rusty shears. I reached for the remote. However it was too late. The screen exploded in white light, then swallowed us whole. I hit ground hard. Felt like I broke a few bones. Ivy landed next to me with a thud.
“Ughhh… did we just get… sucked into the tv?.” I looked around. The world was grainy. Like someone smeared Vaseline on reality.
“No,” I said, standing up. “We got recorded into the tv.”
The woods looked familiar. Identical to the ones on screen, up ahead I saw the glint of shears. Lola wasn’t here. My cursed lamp wasn’t here. Just Ivy and me. And the hunter.
The firestick had warped the air. Made it feel like an ‘80s VHS nightmare. Every sound was amplified, every branch crunched like bones.
“I think we’re in the movie,” Ivy whispered. “The one that doesn’t exist. The one no one can play. The cursed tape.” She looked at me. “I never told you, but… I found it when I was twelve. It was in a charity shop bin marked ‘Do not sell. Do not watch.’ I’ve carried it ever since and now we’re inside it?” She nodded. “My bad.”
We made it to an old barn. Classic horror stuff, creaky doors, flickering lights, hooks dangling from the ceiling. The door slammed. The Shearsman was here. He stepped forward sack over his head, boots scraping and raised the shears. But I wasn’t scared. I was starving. For the first time since I’d met Ivy… I wanted to eat someone else. My undead hands gripped his throat.
Ivy screamed, “Wait!” but I was too far gone. I bit. Hard. His skin didn’t peel like normal. Instead static, his whole body crumbled into screen fuzz. The world distorted. Trees flickered. My teeth sparked with electricity.
And then…
We were back.
On the couch.
TV off.
Lola was barking like hell.
Ivy blinked. “Did that happen?”
I nodded. “My jaw still tastes like Betamax.”
The firestick hissed. A new crack now ran down the side. And something whispered through the static on the screen.