The End?

Every movie has to end sometime. But this one refuses to stay dead.

Oct 31, 2025

This story was written for prompt #31 (the end 🥺) of

Bradley Ramsey

’s First Indulgence.

Promotional image for The First Indulgence: Week Five – Horror Roulette, part of the Domain of the Devourer event. The background shows a roulette wheel and a skeletal figure in a suit and top hat holding a book. The text reads: Prompt #31: The Final Prompt Awaits. Writers are asked to create a story or poem inspired by the image below, which depicts a decaying hand gripping a person’s ankle with the caption “The End.” Submissions must begin with the words “The End.”

“The End” is what the screen said.

But I didn’t feel like my story was over. I mean, death didn’t stop me before, so why should some rolling credits and strangers walking out of a theater stop me now?

With that in mind, I watched. I waited. And soon enough, the next screening began.

It seemed like no time at all before I was invited into someone’s home — another stranger, yes. But there I was… invited into their most intimate spaces while they lounged comfortably on their couch in sweats and pajamas, munching on snacks and screaming as I slaughtered the little bitches at that summer camp.

I felt quite welcome and appreciated, though they didn’t offer to share the popcorn.

Then the nasty little slut said something unforgivable.

“This is kinda trite. I feel like the monster serial killer attacking cheerleaders at a camp has been done to death. Where’s the originality?”

Trite? Me?

Oh, hell no.

Bitch must die.

Unfortunately, it turned out that was easier said than done. I was trapped inside the damn box on their wall, and they never even approached it, managing every interaction from a distance with their remote.

Why couldn’t I have been created before remote controls?

So I began to plot. She’d find out just how ‘trite’ I was as I ate her innards.

I figured I had two options. I could either figure out how to get them close to the screen, which would give me momentary satisfaction, but would leave me ultimately in the same position. Or… I could find a way out of the screen.

One of the perks of being a houseguest is full access to your host’s streaming library. It seemed this couple subscribed to every streaming service ever created. Lucky me!

I began to consult other professionals within the various movies and shows available.

I spoke extensively with a nice chap by the name of Freddy. Terrible complexion. He explained how I might attack through a victim’s dreams. We argued about dream logic until sunrise — he’s a real nightmare to debate. Fascinating idea, but it seemed somehow less visceral than a direct physical attack, so I moved on.

I spoke with a witch inhabiting a Ouija board, who made some interesting suggestions about utilizing demons and magic, but that felt beneath me somehow. Plus, she kept spelling out ‘run,’ which felt rude.

Met a prolific knife artist named Michael, but he didn’t talk much. I admired his work, but unfortunately didn’t get much from our one-sided conversations. Bit stabby.

I finally found my answer in the oddest place — it wasn’t even in the horror genre. It didn’t even have a killer as its star, if you can imagine such a thing. How could it have possibly been a hit?

Perhaps it wasn’t. But it did offer me an answer. It was titled “Last Action Hero,” a title that seemed to suggest that the one who stopped the killers was the star. Odd choice.

In the movie, the alleged villains managed to use some kind of magic movie ticket to escape. Perfect!

And so I visited three women claiming to be witches — the Sanderson sisters — who apparently liked eating children, when they could manage to catch them. They claimed they were only eating life forces to stay young, but what’s the point if you aren’t getting a real meal out of it?

I explained my needs, and after some entertaining negotiations in which I nearly sliced the eldest one’s throat, they agreed to help me. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.

In the end, I got what I needed, and I made my plans.

The next time my watchers left the TV on and unattended, I used my golden ticket to escape the brutal box in which I’d been trapped.

I WAS FREE!

But… there were a few unexpected side effects.

Damn Sandersons probably screwed up their spell on purpose.

I was out in the world and free to act, but I didn’t look quite the same as I had back in the cheerleader camp. I’d been a debonair sort then. I wore a Guy Fawkes mask for effect — not because I needed it. Never had any trouble with the ladies whether I carried a knife or not.

Now I look a bit… different.

When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I was actually startled for a moment. I’m scaly and a shadowy grey color that seems to absorb the light, and I have these wicked-looking spikes. And claws for days…

I don’t even need a knife anymore.

I suppose I now look on the outside the way I always was on the inside. Or maybe they finally gave me the monster makeover I deserved.

And my first stop is my hostess’ bedroom. I’ll be hiding there and waiting when she comes to bed tonight.

It will be: The End.

And next time, maybe it’ll be yours…

A cartoon-style illustration of a retro CRT television showing the words “THE END” over static. A clawed, monstrous hand bursts through the screen toward the viewer, shards of glass and static flying. The image evokes a late-1980s VHS horror poster—comic, eerie, and full of energy.

—

‼️ If you liked this story, you may want to read some of my other fiction.

Or share with a friend who watches too many horror movies.

💀 Did this tale give you the urge to watch Freddy, Jason or Michael Myers? Buy me a cup of existential dread to say thanks, and then go watch! Just be sure to turn the TV off when you’re done…