The world dissolved into a screaming, splintering nightmare. The chainsaw was no longer just a sound; it was a physical presence, chewing through the door of Room 217 with the casual violence of a lion gnawing on a bone. The air filled with the smell of gasoline, sawdust, and a deeper, more metallic scent that Ben, in his final moments, would have been able to identify.
Leo hit the asphalt of the parking lot with a jarring thud, his ankle twisting beneath him. He didn't feel the pain, not yet. Adrenaline was a fire in his veins. He scrambled away from the wall on all fours, his eyes wide with terror.
A second later, Ray half-fell, half-slid down the remaining length of the bedsheet rope, landing in a crouch beside him. He didn't hesitate, grabbing Leo by the collar and hauling him to his feet. "Run! Don't look back!"
They ran. Their legs were rubber, their hearts trying to beat their way out of their chests. They didn't get far—maybe twenty feet—before they collided with a solid, waiting figure.
Ethan.
He was standing there, arms crossed, tapping his foot with an expression of profound impatience, like a man waiting for a chronically late bus. The sheer, audacious normalcy of his posture in the midst of the carnage was more disorienting than the chainsaw itself.
"Took you long enough," Ethan said, his voice dry. "I was about to send a search party. A very small, one-man search party that would have given up almost immediately."
Ray's fear and shock instantly curdled into a white-hot rage. All the terror of the last few minutes—the screams from Room 213, the faceless man, the disintegration of their own door, the desperate escape—focused into a single, crystalline point of fury directed at the man before him. Without a word, his body moving before his brain could form a coherent thought, Ray drew back his arm and delivered a slap across Ethan's face that cracked through the night air like a gunshot.
It was a fine slap, a masterpiece of pent-up frustration and betrayal. Ethan's head snapped to the side. He blinked, slowly, and brought a hand up to his stinging cheek.
"Okay," he said, his voice remarkably even. "I suppose I had that coming. A little warning next time, though? My face is a national treasure. Or at least a municipal curiosity."
Leo, hobbling and panting, stared from Ray to Ethan, his own fear momentarily eclipsed by a similar, burning sense of injustice. "You left us! You left Ben! You just… climbed out the window and left us to die!"
"Correction," Ethan said, holding up a finger. "I created a viable escape route and utilized it in a timely manner. I can't be held responsible for your collective failure to recognize a golden opportunity when it's literally dangling in front of you. It was a group project, and I, for once, did all the work."
"The group project was surviving, you asshole!" Leo screamed, his voice cracking. Then, the reality of what they had just escaped came crashing back. "Ben… he was right behind me… he was…" He trailed off, the image of the chainsaw blade erupting through the door, and Ben's frozen, terrified face, flashing in his mind. He turned away and vomited onto the asphalt.
The sound seemed to snap Ray back to the immediate crisis. "The cops. We have to call the cops. Now." He patted his pockets, his movements frantic. Nothing. Leo, wiping his mouth, did the same, his face growing paler. Their phones, their wallets, their keys—everything was still in the room. The room that was currently being remodeled by a homicidal businessman.
"We… we left them inside," Leo whispered, the horror compounding.
Ethan sighed, a long, theatrical sound of exasperation. He reached into the pocket of his jacket—a jacket he had, of course, thought to put on before his daring escape—and pulled out his smartphone. The screen glowed, clean and unscathed, a tiny beacon of civilization in the primal dark.
Leo and Ray stared at the phone, then at Ethan's utterly unapologetic face. The sheer, calculated preparedness was somehow more offensive than the cowardice.
"You…" Leo stammered, pointing a shaking finger. "You had time to grab your phone? But you left Ben!"
"Priorities," Ethan said with a shrug, already unlocking the screen. "Communication is key in an emergency situation. Also, I need it for GPS. And to document things for my eventual lawsuit against this motel. The TripAdvisor review is going to be scathing."
That was the final straw for Leo. The grief, the terror, the sheer absurdity of it all, coalesced into a single, impulsive act. He lunged forward and slapped Ethan across the other cheek. It wasn't as powerful as Ray's, but it was filled with a potent mix of anguish and fury.
"Ow! Okay, we're even! Two slaps, we're square!" Ethan protested, rubbing his now-symmetrically stinging face. "Let's not devolve into a slap-fight while there's a chainsaw-wielding minimalist artist on the loose."
He deftly dialed 911, putting the phone on speaker.
"911, what's your emergency?" a calm, female voice answered.
"Yes, hello," Ethan began, his voice shifting into a polite, slightly annoyed tone, as if reporting a noisy neighbor. "I'm at the Mistwood Motor Lodge. There appears to be a gentleman here with a power tool who is… how do I put this… actively disassembling the guests. Non-consensually."
The dispatcher's voice sharpened. "Sir, can you clarify? Is there an assault in progress?"
"An assault? I'd call it a full-scale renovation. He's wearing a white shirt and a blank mask. Very distinctive. He's already… redecorated… Room 213 and was working on 217 when we left. Yes, a chainsaw. No, I don't think he's a licensed contractor."
Ray snatched the phone from his hand. "There's a man with a chainsaw killing people! At the Mistwood Motor Lodge! He's on the second floor! Send everyone you have! Now!" He gave the address, his voice raw with panic, before shoving the phone back at Ethan.
The three of them stood there for a moment, the silence after the call feeling fragile. From their position behind the dumpster, they had a clear, horrifying view of the motel's second-floor walkway. The door to 217 was a gaping, splintered wound. There was no sign of the Man. Or of Ben.
The dispatcher's voice, tinny from the phone's speaker, was saying something about units being en route, about staying on the line, about finding a safe place to hide.
And then, a new sound sliced through the night.
It wasn't the chainsaw. It was screaming. High-pitched, terrified, unmistakably female screams. They came from the other wing of the motel, the wing housing the female students. Lina. Hazel. Mira. Others.
The sound was a gut-punch. Leo and Ray froze, their eyes locked on the distant wing, their faces masks of fresh horror. Their own narrow escape was instantly reframed. They were safe, for now, but their friends were not.
It was in that moment of paralyzing fear, listening to the screams of their classmates, that the same bizarrely coherent thought struck both of them for the second time that night.
The world was ending in a symphony of screams and gasoline engines, and it was too quiet beside them.
They turned, slowly, to look at Ethan.
He was gone.
Again.
A fresh wave of bitter, cold betrayal washed over them. Of course. He'd called the cops, his civic duty was done. Now it was time for phase two of the "Ethan Graves Survival Protocol": Save His Own Skin.
"He ran," Leo said, his voice hollow. "The bastard ran again."
Ray scanned the dark parking lot, his fists clenching. "Where? Where did he even go? There's nothing out here but woods!"
Their eyes swept the darkness, expecting to see the coward's silhouette fleeing into the tree line. But they saw nothing. The space where Ethan had been standing was empty.
Then, a movement caught Ray's eye. A flicker of motion not away from the motel, but towards it. He squinted, his brain refusing to process what he was seeing.
There, sprinting across the open parking lot, not with the panicked flail of a scared man, but with the determined, grim focus of a soldier charging into a firefight, was Ethan.
He wasn't heading for the woods. He wasn't heading for the road.
He was running straight for the source of the female screams. He was running directly towards the wing of the motel where the chainsaw's roar was now starting up again, a fresh, hungry snarl that promised more carnage.
He had his phone in one hand, the flashlight activated, casting a jerking beam ahead of him. And in his other hand, he was holding… was that a fire extinguisher? Where had he even gotten a fire extinguisher?
Leo and Ray stood in stunned silence, their mouths agape for the third time that night. The betrayal they had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a confusion so profound it was dizzying.
"He… he's going towards it?" Leo whispered, unable to comprehend the reversal.
Ray just stared, watching the idiot, the coward, the most frustratingly pragmatic survivor he had ever met, charge headlong into a nightmare to do what they, in their terror, had not even considered: try to save someone else.
Ethan didn't look back. He just ran, his figure growing smaller as he closed in on the hellish screams and the deafening roar of the chainsaw, a lone, sarcastic knight errant armed with a smartphone and a potential blunt-force object, utterly ruining their perception of him forever.