We don’t have to kill you. People don’t get that. We barely have to scare you. All we really have to do is point you in a direction, and you’ll find something to scare yourself with. Where are you? A museum? Those shoes on your right belonged to children who are now dead. Ah, your nasty little brain is already firing in full gear, conjuring ghosts and zombies rising from the grave in search of lost boots, Wizard of Oz style. Even if you weren’t, I bet you are now. It really is pitiful how susceptible you are. I mean, watch this:
You’re tied to a table in an operating room. No, wait, not tied, paralyzed. You can’t move, can’t even lift your tongue to scream, but you feel everything. All you can do is watch as the smiling doctors lean over you and-
Boom. You’re dead. Didn’t even need to finish the story. I bet you did, though. I bet you embellished too—you added rusty medical equipment or bloodstains or manic, panicked eyeblinks. You couldn’t help but incorporate chains and smeared brains and a hundred different kinds of pain.
We’ve killed you SO MANY times in your head. Or rather, you’ve killed you. We open the door a crack, and you break it down. Masochists. It’s delicious the way you seek out pain.
Why would monsters come to a physical space where you can run and hide? Here in your minds, all we do is open our mouths, and you start dousing yourself in sauce. Why tell you? Because, what are you gonna do about it?
You’re being torn, limb from limb, by a snarling, foamy mouthed pack of wolves. You hear pops and cracks as your skin folds away and you’re revealed for the meal that you are.
Heh. Too easy.