Hi! Back, finally. And, good grief! THREE whole reviewers! I will keep writing this for you guys/girls seeing as you bothered to review it.

While I'm not sure dedicating a chapter from a psycho horror story is an apt thing to do, I would like to dedicate this to the Tsunami and Earthquake victims. I only wish there was some way of raising money from fan fiction. Rest in Peace.

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It was dark outside.

Mort stared.

I'm still here! We can't both be here!

"Hello, Mr Rainey."

Shooter stepped down off the bed. He reached up and removed his hat. He held it out to Mort.

"Take it."

If you take it, you know what'll happen.

Don't listen to him! Listen to me

"Mort…"

It was a distant, muffled voice. Dr Carlton was blinking alternately at him and then Shooter. Shooter glowered at her and drew back his hand…

…And suddenly it was Amy, cowering below him on the garden soil. A heavy, reassuring spade in his raised grasp…

And Mort Rainey saw a vision of what might have been.

And John Shooter smiled a ruthless smile.

And Amy Rainey saw her soon-to-be-divorced husband, heard her gibbering lover, and knew that this was it.

And Julie Carlton stared up at a man she knew wasn't there, knew didn't exist… A man she never wanted to see again.

Mort, like a man in a vat of toffee, reached out, and took the spade he knew wasn't there, and knocked the hat out of Shooter's hands. It skidded to the floor, and Shooter swiped out at him with his now spade-less hand.

Then he was gone.

"That was Mr Shooter."

"Oh."

Dr. Carlton picked herself up, and straightened her hair. Her hand shaking, she wrote something on her clipboard.

"I think we should start treating you for schizophrenia…"

"You saw him! I'm not crazy!"

"Goodbye Mr Rainey."

And out she went. Mort flopped back onto the bed, grinning. She'd seen Shooter!

The next day, a fat man waddled in. He had a handlebar moustache and a bald spot.

"Mr Rainey?"

"Yes?"

"As you know, you've been assigned Dr Carlton as your doctor. She will visit you daily for the foreseeable future. Her visits will start today… Dr Carlton?"

And in she came. Mort stared. First visit? She looked down her thin nose at him, over small, rectangular lenses.

"But, she saw John Shooter! She was here yesterday!"

The fat man smiled kindly, and whispered something to the doctor behind his hand. She scribbled something down on her clipboard, and he waddled out.

Mort looked up at her, confusion, and doubt beginning to rage in his mind. Maybe he was crazy after all.

"But, you were here, right?"

She peered over her lenses again, and bit her lip. Mort gripped the edge of the bed, feeling the floor shifting beneath his feet.

I am crazy. I'm a complete fruitcake.

That's right.

"I'm really sorry, Mort."

His head shot up. She'd remembered, therefore she had been here yesterday.

"I wasn't supposed to be here yesterday."

"Then why were you here?"

She dropped herself onto the hard wooden chair in the corner, and gave him a long, sincere look.

"Because I heard you screaming. No, no. I heard what you were screaming."

"So?"

"… I know John Shooter."

His voice was dry and cracked, scarcely believing his ears.

Don't listen; you're a mad man, Mr Rainey.

And you're an imaginary voice in a mad man's head.

"How?"

She shifted rather uneasily, for a mental doctor, Mort felt, and avoided his gaze.

"It doesn't matter. Anyway, I'm here to help you get through this mental problem, so…."

It was the desperate, wide-eyed stare of a man who's been pushed over the edge so many times he'd come back. Dr Carlton watched him like a scientist observing an experiment.

"Tell me. Please."

She's lying! How can she get rid of your imagination? "I don't think I should h…"

"No!"

Mort was on his feet, hands on the back of her chair, leaning over her, barring any escape possible.

"Mr Rainey!"

"Don't call me that!"

He stepped back, feeling his heart clamouring from escape from his ribs, pounding its way to the outside world. His breathing was sharp, and stinted. His fingers worked at the air by his sides in desperation.

"Look, please tell me. I can go home to my house, wife and…"

Mort could imagine the look in his own eyes. Horror, disbelief and shock. He sat on the bed, feeling ice trickling into his bloodstream.

"Your wife is dead, Mort."

"I know."

I know. I know you stupid bitch, I killed her!

"SHUT UP!"

Dr Carlton leaped in her seat. Mort pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing hard.

"Sorry, sorry, I wasn't talking to you…"

"What?"

"It's Shooter, he keeps, talking to me."

Dr Carlton stared at him.

"What? You saw him. He's real. Sometimes he takes over. I don't know why he's there! I don't want him there! He made me kill my wife, my lovely, beautiful wife! And then he torched my house!"

Mort felt the entire group of events threatening to overwhelm him. If it did, Shooter would be there, slipping happily into control and doing all sorts of evil things with Mort's body and DNA. He knew it.

"What could have triggered this, Mr Rainey?"

"Please, don't call me that!"

"Mort! Sorry, Mort."

He rested his head in his hands, and watched the world outside the window. Somewhere out there, people were getting married, living happily ever after, having children…

"…Amy, my wife… ex-wife, she…" he took a gulp "lost our baby."

The silence seemed unfittingly normal. He'd expected horror, pain, but all he got was a feeling of closure, of having said it, and it being out there, not eating at him.

Then something did happen. Dr Carlton stood up, put her clipboard neatly on her chair, and sat down next to him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I know."

"Really?"

"Hmmm. And I know something else too."

Mort blinked. He felt salty liquid splashing against his eyelashes. He raised a hand to wipe the tears away, hoping that Shooter wasn't paying attention in this moment of extreme vulnerability.

"What?"

"I know a way to make John Shooter go away."