"...we all have our bad dreams, and we all use them as best we can."
 -- Stephen King, Danse Macabre

 "Just what's the deal with the fake blood?"
 -- David Letterman, Late Night with David Letterman


1.

 "Ya know, I can't get enough of these Friday the 13th movies.  They keep
thinking up imaginative new ways to do away with the victims.  And that guy
that does Jason...  what an actor.  He probably was weened on the classics. 
Stuff like I Ate My Mommy for Breakfast (Then I Puked!)." 
 Johnny Dreadful continued to ramble incessantly about his idea of a
classic horror film -- tons of blood and gore, but little or no story.  The
video-store clerk, who was the object of Johnny's moronic monologue, inhaled
deeply.  He sighed loudly, in the hopes that Mr.  Dreadful would take the
hint.  Needless to say, he didn't.  
 God, how I hate this obnoxious twit! Why doesn't he take that blood-bag in
a box and get the hell out of here? Mr.  Video thought.  
  Johnny just kept on reading the sensationalistic blurb on the back of the
tape.  He flipped the box over...  "JASON'S BACK!! AND BOY, HE IS PISSED!!
FRIDAY THE 13th -- PART XII" the tape screamed at him -- all in a tasteless
blood-red scrawl.  
 "Say, you don't happen to have I Ate My Mommy for Breakfast, do you?" 
 "No, I don't." the clerk replied, sighing simultaneously.  
 "That's too bad...  I really enjoyed that one.  Well, I guess I should be going."
 Johnny paid for the blood-bag, and exited the store.  
 God should really do something about that dandruff.  John thought absurdly
as he brushed the snowflakes from his hair.  He zipped up his coat and
began the trek home.  Along the way, he whistled some lame old tune which
only he knew.  The sound echoed hauntingly, reverberating in the still
midwinter air.  
 That's strange, I could have sworn the ground was bare when I walked in
the store.  Now, only about five minutes later, all is blanketed in at least
an inch of the powdery stuff.  He shuddered involuntarily, then sprinted
home.  
 Dreadful arrived at his cozy cocoon, and popped the tape into his
never-dormant VCR.  Johnny pressed PLAY, then plopped down into a comfy
chair.  He turned on the TV, with the aid of a handy little remote, and
prepared himself for the shock-fest.  Much to his chagrin, he was not
greeted by Jason's hockey-masked face, but complete blackness.  
 Somebody forgot to rewind it!! What a louse-lair!! 
 Johnny reluctantly abandoned his seat, forcing himself to get up and press
REWIND.  He had his right index finger ready, pointing straight at the
plastic button.  John, unfortunately, was the type of guy with the hand-eye
coordination of a drunkard -- even when stone-cold sober.  He missed the
button by a good two or three inches, touching the metal POWER button
instead.  A spark jumped, hurtling through the air with lightning speed. 
Dreadful had just enough time to watch it travel from the button to his
forehead before he blacked out.  He lay beside the machine, a boy with a
lust for senseless violence.  Now he was the victim, and he couldn't just
press STOP if the horror was too much for him.


2.

 Johnny had gone blind.  At least he thought he had, for he was enveloped in
a cocoon of blackness which seemed boundless.  As far as he could tell, he
was neither floating nor standing on solid ground.  He was just there.  In a
fit of blind panic, Dreadful tried to ascertain his surroundings by touch. 
This proved quite difficult, for he soon realized that he had no hands.  
 He tried to scream, but had no mouth.  He had nothing, he was nothing, as
empty as the darkness in which he was enveloped.  He tried to cry, but
lacked eyes and tear ducts.  He could do nothing but wait.  And wait he did. 

 Suddenly, something floated towards him.  It was vomited from Hell's
darkest depths, an image from one of his most nightmarish dreams.  A
finger -- dripping blood soundlessly into the blackness below.  He recognized
it as his own, the L-shaped scar on the tip giving it away.  
 The apparition shot past where Johnny's head should've been, and kept on
going.  All the while, it twitched, as if reaching for a button of some
sort.  
 Next, Dreadful was greeted by a walking skeleton.  Chains rattled
ominously, as the luminescent ghost -- whose bones seemed to be alight in a
brilliant greenish-white fire, drew ever closer.  
 He looks just like my brother's glow-in-the-dark Play-doh! his mind
jibbered inanely.  
 The walking anatomy lesson limped towards Johnny, moaning something about
not having a union.  It spoke, in a voice that sounded like sand being
rubbed across parchment:
  "I am the Ghost of Horrors Past! How'd you like my dramatic entrance?" 
 Johnny found his auditory faculties had been returned to him.  He wondered
if he now had a body.
 "Ahhhh...  Mr...." he stammered.
 "Just call me Horrors Past, or H.P. for short." was the reply.  Now, the
voice sounded like a Michael Anthony bass solo.  
 Dreadful did indeed have a body, though it was not as he expected.  As he
peered down at his limbs he was horrified to discover he had lost a little
weight, along with a little muscle, skin, and flesh.  He looked just like
H.P., who was now grinning insanely at him.  H.P.  started to laugh, his
belly shaking like a bowl full of chicken bones.  
 Johnny screamed at the ghost, and then began to get a sore throat. 
Considering he didn't have one, that was quite an accomplishment.  Mr. 
Dreadful regained his composure, and then became curious.  
 "W-W-Where am I?" Johnny shakily inquired.   "HAHAHAHAHAHA!! THAT'S FOR ME
TO KNOW AND YOU TO FIND OUT!! HAHAHAHA!!!" 
 The maniacal chuckling subsided and H.P's facial expression became
dead-serious.  He inhaled deeply, preparing himself for what lay ahead.
  "Johnny, do you know why you're here?" the greenish thing asked.  
 "No, I don't.  All I remember is going down to Mr.  Video, buying a tape,
then going home to watch it.  After that, I draw a blank.  I'm sure I didn't
do anything wrong...  I didn't kill anybody, did I?" 
 "As a matter of fact, Johnny, you did." 
 "HUH?" 
 "Not a person, mind you, but an art form.  Allow me to explain.  For each
quality horror story, there are at least ten exploitation flicks.  Stuff
like Bloody Mutilators, for example." 
 "But what does this have to do with me?"
 "Do you remember what film you bought earlier this evening?" 
 "Yes...  It was Friday the 13th--Part XII."
 "Okay, now do you recall the shelves overflowing with crap-shows,
leaving little room for classics like Ghost Story?" 
 "That's not my fault is it? I don't own the bloody store, do I?" 
 "What an apt description...  'the bloody store' as you call it.  Perhaps
that blood is the result of the classics being slain at the hands of Jason
and his henchmen.  What do you think, Johnny?" 
 "Look, I'm just an innocent boy who likes to have some good, clean fun. 
That doesn't make me a criminal, does it?" 
 H.P.  shook his head in disgust.  
 "Some people just never learn..."


3.

 Johnny needed to be taught a lesson, and H.P.  was a highly capable
teacher.  He mused silently, trying out various ideas in his mind.  After a
lengthy period of guru meditation, the ghost came up with something.  
 "Johnny, it's time we shed some light on this darkness.  In other words, we
shall be leaving this Netherworld.  Did you remember your American Express
card?" 
 "What?" 
 "Never mind..." 
 Unbelievably dense smoke drifted towards Dreadful and his spectral
companion, entombing them in an impenetrable fog.  Johnny found he could
neither speak nor move.  This paralysis proved temporary, however, as
Dreadful stumbled out of the cloud.  
 "Don't even bother asking where you are.  Try figuring it out for
yourself." the ghost murmured.
 Johnny peered reluctantly at his foreign surroundings...  To his right he
could see a slightly ominous castle, encircled by a moat whose muddy water
made it seem bottomless.  The rusty drawbridge, whose chains were a mess of
oxides, loomed before him.  It was open, beckoning him onward.  
 On his left, Dreadful observed a dilapidated road-sign whose blood-red
letters read:
  
  "To all who dare enter my humble abode 
 Where screams are heard, stories told, 
 Those brave few who heed not my warning 
 Seldom see the light of morning...  
 -- The Count" 
 
 "Why don't we steal a peek inside, Johnny? The Count's always eager for a
fresh pint of young blood." 
 "I-I don't th-think so.  Wh-why don't you g-go on ah-ahead?" 
 Johnny looked up at the moon, which was as full as his bladder.  He swore
he could see a skeletal frame, deep within the craterous satellite.  He
couldn't identify it, for it was enshrouded in some sort of gauze.  Dreadful
felt a vague pang of recognition...  but the figure turned, the shroud
became more dense...  
 Johnny had seen something, oh yes.  But his conscious mind, unable to
handle the trauma, had sent it along to his subconscious.  What had Johnny
seen? What could possibly be so terrible as to trigger the "safety valves"
that preserve one's sanity? 
 Dreadful had seen himself deep within the full moon.  He saw the gaping
hollows where his eyes had been, the blackened teeth...  A gauze was
wrapping itself around him -- in slow, steady, snakelike motions.  Johnny's
death-shroud pulsated, bulging at the edges.  A Boa Constrictor, forked
tongue glistening with saliva, slithered out of the bandages.  It paused
momentarily, allowing Dreadful to peer into its solid black eyes, then
continued up his chest.  The snake coiled itself around Johnny's neck.  It
squeezed...  applying hundreds of pounds of pressure.  He heard a crack, a
splinter of mind-numbing pain.  Johnny then realized he could rotate his
head 360 degrees...  
 Dreadful's skull toppled off, landing in a pool of urine which his bladder
had unconsciously emitted.  
 Johnny was no longer a skeleton, but decidedly human.  He had no time to
welcome his flesh back to his body, however, for there was work to be done. 

 H.P.  beckoned with his right index finger...  
 "Come on, Johnny.  We have nothing to fear but fear itself, right?" 
 They entered Dracula's castle, and it wasn't as bad as Johnny thought it
would be...  it was worse.  
 If time had a smell, this castle's musty odor would be it.  It was the
fragrance of secrets long since abandoned, the aroma of drying blood.  The
walls were encased in slime, which seemed to have a life of its own.  Johnny
could see it (or thought he could) bubble.  
 Dreadful was led down a seemingly endless corridor, breathlessly following
H.P.  down the winding passage.  Left.  Right.  Then right again.  
 Johnny found himself in a dank tomb.  Slime covered these walls as well,
not bubbling, as before, but breathing (?).  Water, or some other liquid,
dripped annoyingly.  Peering up at the ceiling, Dreadful found the source of
the drip.  He saw something else.  A perch of some kind, rusted by the
water, hung above his head.  It was cemented into the ceiling...  serving as
a support for a creature that liked hanging upside- down.  
 H.P.  could see Johnny staring at the ceiling, his eyes transfixed on the
perch.  
 "I'll give you a hint," the ghost laughed "he can't see very well!!" 
 "You mean Dracula hangs here when he's a bat?" 
 "Way to go, Sherlock!!" was the bemused reply.  
 It was then that Dreadful saw the coffin for the first time.  He had no
idea why the sight of the Count's diurnal home had evaded him until now,
only that the very presence of it made his blood run cold.  
 "Go ahead...  open it.  I dare you!!" 
 Johnny somehow found the strength to obey H.P.  He shuddered as he stepped
closer to the pinewood box...  he then heard a whisper.  It took him a few
moments to identify the words...  Finally, they came to him.  
 "Welcome to my nightmare, Johnny...  Have a nice death..." 
 The coffin sprung open and Dracula rose up.  Johnny felt his neck being
pierced by razor-sharp fangs.  Warm blood flowed down his shirt and into his
jeans.....


4.

 Johnny woke up.  Not in his room, as he had hoped, but back in the
Netherworld.  His head felt like a couple hundred elephants had used it for
a stomping ground, but he was alive.  Dreadful's neck ached terribly, and he
unconsciously rubbed it.  His hand passed over a blood-clot, inadvertently
scratching it off.  Blood flowed down Dreadful's neck, staining his shirt
with yet more life fluid.  
 H.P.  casually handed him a handkerchief.  Johnny thanked him, and placed
the hankie on his neck.  He yelped in pain, a look of utter confusion
planted upon his face.  
 The ghost chortled at Dreadful's pain tolerance level, later explaining
that he had dowsed the rag in antiseptic.  
 Johnny returned the kerchief, which H.P.  tied to his spectral wrist.  
 H.P.  inhaled deeply, then seated himself cross-legged--Hindu style.  The
ghost mumbled an ancient incantation in a language which Johnny couldn't
even begin to comprehend: 
 "Naggasd Trqeewd Qttyyew ty Jokksjee, jhjffsge dfsgege jkklele jkklele
jkklele..." 
 "What th--" Dreadful inquired.  
 Johnny had stopped himself, seeing that any interference was futile.  H.P. 
rocked back and forth, his ethereal greenish-white glow becoming much more
intense.  The tempo of the chant became faster and faster...  until the
words were nothing but a blur.  
 Dreadful then felt something like a mosquito bite on his neck, a momentary
pinprick right where Dracula had bitten him.  His hand went up to his
neck...  the blood-clot had disappeared.  In its place were two scars, each
forming a jagged patch, covering the punctures Dracula had inflicted.  
 "And the curse of the Vampyre shall be lifted...  the victim is freed. 
Never again shall the Count hold domain over the subject's soul.  Nevermore. 
Nevermore.  Nevermore..." 
 "I-I don't know wh-what to s-say..." Dreadful began.  
 "No need to thank me.  Had I let you become a vamp you wouldn't be of much
use, now would you?" 
 "Y-You mean th-there's more?" 
 "Indeed.  Your journey towards fulfillment has just begun.  Shall we
proceed?" H.P.  replied.  
 Johnny expected smoke, but was quite surprised.  A trapdoor, concealed in
the darkness, opened beneath them.  Dreadful could feel something tugging at
his feet...  something with slimy tentacles.  Johnny and the ghost hurtled
through blackness...  pulled along by the unidentified many-tentacled thing. 
 Dreadful found himself back at Dracula's castle...  or so he thought.  It
looked the same, yet the atmosphere was quite different.  The air was thick
with the smell of...  now what was it?...  roses.  Yes, roses.  The floral
fragrance soothed Johnny's mind.  High on the pleasant scent, he strode
confidently into the castle.  
 The soothing smell of flowers dissipated, then the air became uncomfortably
warm.  Dreadful's nostrils picked up the cloying sickly- sweet aroma of
death, of rotting flesh.  He plugged his nose in repugnance.  
 He glanced around, expecting slime-covered walls, dank passages...  maybe
even a corpse or two.  Dreadful was in for quite a shock.  
 Johnny found himself not inside a mouldering old castle...  but a modern
school.  With dawning horror, he realized it was his own.  He could see a
bulletin board firmly attached to one wall, the usual blurbs plastered to
it: 
 "WHAT ARE YOU STANDING HERE FOR? THE VOLLEYBALL TEAM NEEDS YOU-- JOIN
TODAY!!" 
 "Money for Grad photos by the 11th, or we'll have your head!" 
 "Lost: Yellow SONY Walkman...  CASH REWARD!!" 
 Dreadful then saw something else...  He removed the card.  
 Black Olde English script, painstakingly written.  It read: 
 "Human Behavior 30.  All who are interested report to room 101... 
Especially at night, when the moon is full." 
 Dreadful arrived at the appointed room.  The door was open, beckoning him
inside.  He peered inward, disappointed by its emptiness.  Johnny entered
the room, seated himself near the back, and waited.  He was just about to
dose off when he heard somebody (or something) walk into the classroom. 
Dreadful just sat and stared at the lumbering hulk of a man which had
marched into the room.  He must have been at least eight feet tall, for he
had to crane his neck to fit in the doorway.  
 The beast seated himself in a custom-made chair, which had been reinforced
with steel bars.  He spoke, in a voice which was innocent, almost
childlike -- totally out of character for such a monster: 
 "Good evening.  My name is Frankenstein, and what may I call you?" 
 "J-John.  My n-name is John." 
 Frankenstein laughed politely.  "No need to be afraid.  Though my size is
quite intimidating, I lack the arrogance to yield my strength unwisely.  In
other words, 'I ain't gonna beat you up!'" 
 "I thought you were stupid...  I-I mean lacking in intellect." 
 "A common misconception, let me tell you.  Too many bad movies, no doubt. 
My temper is another element of my psyche which has been exaggerated...  to
tell you the truth, I'm about as hot-blooded as a lizard." 
 Johnny couldn't believe his ears...  Frankenstein wasn't a massive dullard,
bitterly enraged over what humanity had dealt him.  He was more like a... 
gentlemanly scholar.  Floored by this brilliant deduction, Dreadful failed
to notice the teacher walking into the classroom.  
 The prof cleared his throat before beginning.  He then spoke, in a deep
bass voice which thundered through the room: 
 "Good evening, class! Ah, I see we have a new student! And what is your
name, young man?" 
 "Johnny Dreadful." 
 "Mine is Victor Frankenstein." 
 It was then Johnny realized that the source of the deep, thunderous voice
was as ironic as the monster's behavior.  His teacher was a frail old man,
whose face was a mess of interconnecting networks of wrinkles-- forming
rivers and tributaries which led nowhere.  
 "Sir...  why did you name your creation after yourself? Why 
Frankenstein?" Dreadful asked.  
 "It's quite simple, really.  Simple and sad.  You see, I never had
children.  And I needed something to "fill the void", so to speak.  Thus,
Frankenstein became my child...  my baby." 
 Johnny heard Frankenstein mumble something...  he couldn't be sure, but it
sounded like a curse.  The monster stood, and his voice shattered the mask
of rationality forever:
  "MY CHILD! MY BABY! HOW GODDAMN PLEASANT!! YOU USED ME, YOU IMBECILE!! I
WAS JUST A PAWN! YOU CREATED LIFE...  BUT YOU CAN'T CHEAT DEATH!!" 
 Frankenstein was rotting...  gradually melting.  Flakes of skin flew off,
bits of flesh dropping to the floor.  The monster's eyeballs landed on the
desk, his hands reaching to catch them a moment too late.  Frankenstein
lumbered towards his Creator, various limbs amputating themselves as he
did.  The beast enclosed the teacher's neck in a viselike deathgrip with
his only remaining appendage.  Victor Frankenstein's spine snapped, and his
neck went limp.  The pathetic ease with which the scientist's head moved
reminded Johnny of what his cat felt like after it was run over by his
mother's car.  
 Dreadful lost all control...  he began to scream, again and again... 
Frankenstein was a mess of body parts, heaving up and down rhythmically. 
Johnny stopped screaming just long enough to hear the monster say
something, over and over, its last breath...  its final wish...  
 "I want to live...  I want to live...  I wan--"  Dreadful blacked out -- the
 sound of Frankenstein's last request ringing in his ears.


5.

  "That'll teach man not to stick his big fat...  nose where it doesn't
belong.  Some things are better left unsaid, some secrets best left untold. 
For example, death is a mystery and burial is a secret..." 
 Johnny heard a different voice this time...  he swore it was that of a
child.  He opened his eyes, finding himself back in the Netherworld.  
 Dreadful stared at the four-foot-tall apparition.  He was right, he had
heard a child.  The luminiferous glow which eminated from within the ghost's
bones was brighter than H.P.'s, as if he were not only younger, but
stronger.  
 "Let me guess...  You're the G-Ghost of Horrors Present, r-right?" 
 "Correct.  I am indeed.  You may call me H.P.  as well.  My predecessor has
retired for the night, so the confusion should be minimal." 
 "Look, I've learned my l-lesson.  No more senseless vi-violence for me. 
Now, where do I g-go to check out of this place?" Johnny was becoming
desperate.  
 "I'm sorry, Dreadful, but I have a job to do.  You're not the only one, you
know.  I've saved many a soul, rescuing quite a few minds from the gutter in
the process.  Either come peacefully or I'll take you by force!" H.P.  was
becoming angry.  
 Johnny waited...  for smoke, a trapdoor, anything.  Just as he was
beginning to lose his patience, something startled him.  Dreadful could see
a tiny pinprick of light.  It was increasing in size and intensity very
rapidly.  He shielded his eyes from the glare...   Johnny removed the
impromptu sunglasses and found himself in his own back yard.  The sun shone
down, and it looked like a fine summer's day.  Except something was wrong... 
terribly wrong.  Everything was dying, or in the process of it.  The grass,
which usually was very well-kept, was almost completely brown.  It crackled
as he strode upon it, as if it hadn't been watered for weeks, maybe months. 
All the flowers, the trees, everything had just withered away.  
 Even the fifty-year-old oak, from which a tire-swing hung, was ready to
throw in the towel.  He ran his hand along the brittle bark, and it just
flaked off -- reminding him of the experience with Frankenstein.  
 Dreadful began to cry.  He remembered seeing the tree for the first time,
he must've been only five or six.  His father had just bought the house, and
was in the process of putting up the tire-swing: 
 "Now Johnny, what do you want to call it?" his father had asked.  
 "Owen.  I call it Owen." 
 His father laughed.  "That's a silly name for a tree, but why not? Okay,
John, we'll call him Owen." 
 Owen the precious oak tree was slowly rotting and there was nothing Johnny
or anyone else could do.  Dreadful sobbed quietly, feeling himself die as
the tree withered.  
 Owen had been a terrific confident, always ready to listen...  but never
asking anything in return.  Johnny had spent hours on the tire, his feet
hanging down, forming a rut in the grass.  
  Dreadful opened the back door and let himself in.  The pungent odor of
death again, along with the nauseating scent of rotting vomit.  He
cautiously explored his own home.  He entered the kitchen...  nothing.  The
living-room held a few dark secrets, however, and they were about to be
uncovered.  
 The death-smell became much stronger...  Johnny plugged his nostrils in
disgust.  Yellowed newspapers were strewn about the room.  They were all
dated June 22, 2001.  The front page headline, at least two-inches high,
screamed: 
 "INFLUENZA EPIDEMIC HITS NORTH AMERICA!!! RAPIDLY-SHIFTING VIRUS MAKES
VACCINE IMPOSSIBLE!!"
  Then he saw the book.  It lay on the coffee table, face up.  On the cover
was a face...  not quite human but somehow bestial.  Dreadful could see the
fires of hell burning in its eyes, and something else.  The outline of a
beak.  When he stared at the picture for too long the image changed...  now
he could see a raven, now a human...  it flip-flopped back and forth
hypnotically.  
 Johnny read the book's title: "The Stand by Stephen King".  He flipped the
novel over and read the blurb on the back: 
 "June 16, 2001.  That is when the horror began.  The evil that started in a
laboratory and..." 
 The book slipped through his fingers, its pages flapping.  Dreadful blood
ran cold as he heard a cackle.  Maniacal laughter that sounded like the
war-cry of a flock of vultures as they swooped down on a fly-ridden carcass. 
He ran screaming from the hellhole, just as he witnessed the book take
flight, transforming into a raven while in midair.  The bird was the color
of midnight, a drop of blood hanging from its razor-sharp beak.  
 Johnny tripped on a body on the way out, or more like four bodies.  His
mother, father, and two brothers all dead.  Their necks were swelled up like
tire tubes, purplish-blue marks around their throats.  They were all
bloated, looking like a nightmarish parody of the elephantine woman at
every circus freakshow.  Enormous brown pouches hung below their eyes... 
Then he saw the worst part.  Mounds of dried vomit and mucus encircled their
mouths -- gluing their lips together just as fine as you please.  
 Dreadful ran screaming out the front door.  He had to get help...  but
where? The neighbors, try the neighbors.  Johnny entered The Savard's home,
and found the same thing...  bloated necks, mucus, vomit...  but no help. 
He tried the phone.  Nothing but silence.  Everyone along his street had
died the same horrible death, it seemed.  The Nighswanders, the Smythes, the
Good-Old-Average-Two-Car-Two-Kid-Two-Incomes.  
 Dreadful ran down Maple Street, then stopped dead in his tracks.  A man was
in front of him.  Maybe he could be of some help! 
 The voice of a wolf, a raven, a psychotic murder: 
 "Hello, Johnny! How do you like my amusement park? I call it Earth, what
do you call it?" 
 "W-Who are you?" Johnny croaked.
 "I'm your worst nightmare come true.  The boogie man, the thing hiding in
your closet and under your bed, the psycho who rapes little children before
turning them into hamburger.  I'm all of these things, and I want YOU!" 
 Dreadful was touched by the Dark Man, and he felt all the strength sapped
out of his soul.  Hands that felt like cold steel snapped his collarbones
like pencils.  Johnny was thrown like a rag doll, landing in the gutter. 
Dreadful was kicked about the street, his lifeless body becoming a soccer
ball.  Bluish-white sparks of ozone sizzled through the air, originating
from the Dark Man's hair.  He became bored, giving Johnny one last kick
before abandoning him...  He whistled casually, walking down Maple and
surveying his handiwork.  
 There was still so much to be done...

 "And that, my boy, is horror.  Past and present.  Any questions?" 
 "Yes...  What about the future?" Dreadful inquired.  
 "It's difficult to say, really.  We'll probably have a lot of stories
dealing with future-shock.  In other words, people horrified by change." 
 "I understand it all now...  what horror really is.  It's all in the mind. 
Psychological terror is much more important than blood being splashed
across the screen needlessly." 
 "You are to be congratulated, Johnny.  Your journey has been a long and
arduous one, and you have survived.  Well, I guess my job is complete.  I
thank you for your patience, and sincerely wish you pleasant dreams.  So
long, my boy..." 
 "Goodbye, H.P.  Oh, before you go...  I'd just like you to know that you
and Horrors Past are the nicest bunch of spirits a guy could ever hope to
meet.  See you in Dreamland!!"
  H.P.  laughed. "Yes, in Dreamland! For now, farewell, and may your God go
with you!!" 
 The specter turned, waved slowly, and marched happily away.  Johnny could
see its chains had disappeared, as well as its limp.  He laughed... 
grinning from ear to ear.  It was the happiest day of his life...  
 
 Johnny woke up, and found himself back in his own living room.  The tape
lay beside the machine.  He picked it up and promptly returned it to Mr. 
Video.  He dedicated the next few weeks to the classics.  Johnny began with
Frankenstein, a pang of sadness temporarily overshadowing his joy... 
 
 "Some things are better left unsaid, some secrets best left untold...
			
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