As a mental health counselor with years of experience under my belt, I’ve seen my fair share of stories that tear at the heartstrings. This one, however, has left me utterly speechless. The brutality and cruelty depicted here are beyond comprehension, and it’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the sheer depth of despair and pain Allie is going through.
The highly anticipated sequel, ‘Terrifier 2’, was one of the decade’s most extreme slasher films. As horror enthusiasts eagerly anticipate the release of ‘Terrifier 3’, the novel adaptation of the second installment is now available to shock and disturb fans. This novel, penned by Tim Waggoner, is being shared exclusively by EbMaster, featuring a grisly excerpt from what is arguably the film’s most gruesome scene: Art the Clown’s prolonged torment of high school student Allie, where the malicious practical joker gets rather…salty.
Preorder the book here and read the excerpt below.
The glass of the back door was smashed, leaving fragments all over the ground indoors instead of outdoors. This implied that the breakage was caused by an intruder on the exterior. Thus, there might be an uninvited guest within our home at this moment.
Just then, she detected footsteps, swivelled to face their source, and observed a clown stroll into the kitchen, retrieve a glass from a cabinet, proceed to the sink, fill it with water from the tap carelessly, as if he resided there. He gulped down the entire contents at once, afterward setting the empty glass on the counter. Unmindful of Allie’s presence, he reached for items located across the sink. When he turned, she discerned that he held a scalpel in his left hand and surgical scissors in his right. Our household lacked such instruments. A shiver ran through her when she understood that he had brought them with him. He spotted her then, frozen in fear, and grinned before playing around with the scissors. Click-click!
“No! No!!”
She turned and ran like hell.
Initially, her instinctive reaction was primitive – “Flee towards your sanctuary!” And so, she hastened up the stairs. Just shy of reaching her destination, Art emerged before her, and it was indeed him – the genuine one, the killer, the nightmare figure from Sienna’s dreams; this fact she now accepted as truth. He had made a detour out of the kitchen to cut her off.
“No!” she shrieked.
She flew up the stairs, moving faster than she had in her life. She heard the thump-thump-thump of Art’s large boots on the steps behind her, felt the vibrations in her feet. When she reached the second floor, she dashed into her room.
Her cell phone was on her dresser, but she didn’t go for it. Art was right behind her, swiping the scalpel through the air, trying to cut her. She grabbed hold of the white bookcase holding various items of importance to her—a seashell she’d collected from Myrtle Beach when she was seven; a snow globe her father had gotten her for Christmas, the last one he spent with them before leaving; a cross stitch sampler Sienna had made for her that said, Keep Kicking Ass, Girl!; a second-place trophy from a spelling bee competition in middle school; and—most precious of all—a framed photo of Sienna, Brooke, and her splashing around in a wading pool when they’d been children. She pulled the shelves down in front of Art, hoping to trip him or at least slow him down for a couple of seconds. She didn’t care that her treasures tumbled to the floor when she did this. All she cared about was staying alive as long as she could.
“No!” she screamed again.
The bookcase fell, but Art saw it in time to stop so it didn’t strike him.
Allie hastily approached her window, fully opened it, and prepared to wriggle through, planning to jump out into the open space beyond. She anxiously hoped that she wouldn’t sustain such severe injuries upon landing on the grass below that she wouldn’t be able to stand up again and keep moving. She understood that her plan was extremely unlikely to work, but it was all she could think of at the moment.
Before she managed to escape, Art leaped across the shelves, caught hold of her sweater’s back, and dragged her from the window. He spun her towards the bed, pressed her face onto the mattress, grabbed a handful of her hair, and pulled her head backwards. In one swift movement, Art brought the scalpel’s edge along the left side of her face, making a straight cut from her forehead to her chin, severing her eyeball during the process. Allie felt as though her face was ablaze, and blood flowed from the injury, staining the front of her sweater. She let out a scream, and Art held her in this position for a brief moment, seeming to enjoy her agony and surprise, before tossing her onto the floor.
She turned onto her side and tried to scoot away from Art while keeping the clown within view, feeling the need to observe what was unfolding next. Despite Brooke’s repeated advice that she overthinks, she just couldn’t seem to stop mulling things over. And even with one eye damaged and bleeding profusely, her mind continued to race.
The sound escaped her involuntarily, a high-pitched noise that harmonized with Art’s attack. She was unable to suppress it.
As she arrived at her dressing table, she managed to stand upright. Yet, the sound of swift surgical snips filled the air, confirming Art had swapped one tool for another. Her reflection in the dresser mirror revealed Art advancing, and the insane joy on his face transformed him from human to something akin to a demonic figure.
“No! No!”
Art firmly gripped the back of her hair, keeping her gaze fixed towards the mirror. For the first time, she truly saw the gash from the scalpel, and it appeared surreal. Countless times had she stared into a mirror, scrutinizing her flawless visage – barring the usual zits. But this reflection didn’t match any she recognized before. It wasn’t merely the scalpel wound or the blood on her lips and chin that startled her; it was the raw fear in her one remaining eye, unfettered and irrational.
I’m an animal, she thought. Prey, ripe for slaughter.
Art seemed to understand Allie’s inner thoughts as he gently inserted the scissors into her scalp, then quickly began to cut. A series of sharp cries escaped her lips—”Ah! Ah! Ah!”—as he continued his work, blood from the fresh cuts trickling down her face and into her left eye, tinting her vision crimson, filling her mouth with the metallic taste of her own life. Once Art had completed his task, he tugged on her hair with an unexpected force. He pulled once, twice… and then her scalp came away with a gruesome, wet suction sound.
In the reflection of the mirror, she briefly saw herself with a bald, wounded, and bloodied scalp atop her head.
Art violently pushed her down onto the floor and utilized scissors to remove her garments, much like medical professionals do with severely injured patients in emergency rooms. She believed he would also remove her bra and underwear, but it appeared the clown had no intention of committing such a violent act. Instead, he grabbed her upper arm, lifted her back up, and tossed her onto the bed once more.
In the realm of cinema, I found myself flat on my tummy, before I could even wriggle an inch, Art’s hand gently rested on my shoulder for support. With a swift motion, he traced a horizontal line on my back, just beneath the strap of my bra. The agony that ensued was unlike anything I could have ever fathomed. It was almost comical, the irony – I had aspired to be a healer, and here I was, enduring this gruesome ordeal at the hands of surgical instruments. A masterstroke of irony, perhaps intentionally designed by Art himself.
He ceased slicing and instead delivered numerous strikes to her back, each blow harsh, each wound severe. He yanked on her tissue, tore off a piece, discarded it casually. Then one hand seized the upper section of her left arm, the other her wrist, and he yanked, causing a fracture at the joint. He started twisting the forearm back and forth, back and forth, forcing it beyond its limits, pressing, pressing…
Next, he exerted significant force, causing her arm to detach from her body at the wound, spurting blood. A wave of anguish swept over her, and despite the intensity of the pain, a solitary idea surfaced within her – a hidden corner where such torment couldn’t penetrate.
I’m… sorry… I… complimented… your… fucking… outfit…
Art flung her arm to the ground, subsequently turning her over onto her back, grasped her right hand, and hoisted it upwards. He pinched her ring finger and pinkie with his left hand, while holding her thumb and forefinger in his right hand – then he yanked them in opposite directions. Allie’s unscathed eye flooded with blood and tears, but for a brief moment, her sight became clear, and she caught a glimpse of Art’s eyes. They were lifeless, glossy, void, and alarmingly inhuman. Eyes that resembled a lizard or a shark…
As a lifelong sufferer of chronic pain, I can attest to the overwhelming and debilitating nature of this condition. Each day is a battle, with the pain reaching new heights that seem unbearable. One time, the agony was so severe that it felt as if my arm had been split down the middle all the way to the elbow. The sensation was indescribably intense, and the pain seemed to seep into the very depths of my being. I was certain I was screaming, but I couldn’t hear myself over the deafening roar in my ears. It felt as though I was trapped in a vortex of agony, with no escape in sight. In those moments, it feels as if life has become nothing more than an endless struggle to survive each day.
Looking up at the ceiling, she noticed a craft she’d created herself – a golden geometric heart design that was her nightly sight before drifting off to sleep. Hanging from it were three items: first, the word “Happy” with a little heart attached to the bottom ‘P’, then a strip of paper saying “PRETTY IN PINK!”, and finally, a series of three black-and-white photos – one each of Allie, Sienna, and Brooke, captured in a Coney Island photobooth last summer.
Love… you… guys…
After Art made six swift cuts across the woman’s chest with his scalpel, spraying blood into the air each time, he leaped off the bed and hurried out of the room like a performer exiting the stage after completing his act. Allie, writhing in pain, slid off the bed and landed on the floor. She barely registered the fall. With her arm split down the middle, she managed to crawl as best she could, propelling herself forward with her feet and pulling herself along with what remained of her arm. Her body was a sea of blood, and the bedding and carpet beneath her were soaked in red liquid.
“No,” she breathed, so softly the word was barely audible. “No, no, no…”
Without a specific place to go, or a strategy in hand, her thoughts ceased to flow. The girl who was always thinking found herself unable to ponder, devoid of mental capacity. She had become little more than a composite of skin, nerves, and internal organs – many of which were injured or absent – a malfunctioning, wounded mass of flesh that continued to move only to attempt escaping the agony. Yet, escape was unattainable because she had become the pain itself; there was no other existence left for her.
Then, she heard an unfamiliar yet somehow familiar sequence of melodious tones. These tones persisted and managed to penetrate the discomfort, reaching a part of Allie’s mind that was dormant. It was her phone ringing. Could it be Sienna calling? A flicker of something stirred within her, reminiscent of hope. If only she could grasp her phone…
The gadget was perched on her wardrobe, and she partially got up and slid over the rug, going as swiftly as her hurt body could manage. “Don’t disconnect, don’t disconnect…” (emphasis added)
After that, Art dashed back into the room, beaming broadly, holding an unsealed bottle of bleach in one hand and a box of salt in the other, both items clearly visible.
No!
As a passionate film enthusiast, I might rephrase it like this: “I drenched Allie in bleach, ensuring her entire form was soaked. Once done, I carelessly discarded the empty bottle, and then, quite cruelly, I sprinkled salt on her injuries.
Allie then recognized that the so-called ‘ultimate pain’ she thought she felt was merely an illusion. In truth, she understood, pain is boundless, and there are constantly deeper levels yet to be unveiled.
Despite remaining utterly quiet throughout, it struck her strangely that he might be laughing now – not a single breath had given him away earlier, yet she sensed laughter.
And laugh…
And laugh.
In my critique as a moviegoer, I must address an unsettling scene where the character forcefully applied salt to various wounds on another character’s body. He vigorously rubbed it onto her back, head, and facial wound – the latter being the first one he inflicted himself. To add more horror, he delved his fingers into her injured eye, yanked on the surrounding flesh, and brutally peeled off a large portion of skin from her face. This scene left an indelible impression, not for its artistic merit, but rather its graphic and disturbing nature.
And Allie experienced yet another new level.
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2024-10-01 18:51