Ok, I thought that that movie lacked an ending. Yes, I know that it was supposed to be that way and that this will be yet another reason for you all to kill me but I'm going to do it anyway.
As the sheriff turned to walk away, Mort stared at his back, thinking how vulnerable it was and how easy it would be to kill him. He didn't even need the 22 caliber that he kept in his bottom right hand drawer. He didn't need a knife or noose. He wouldn't even use his bare hands. Never let crazy people play with pointy objects he mused, turning the little yellow things for spearing corn over and over in his hands. He heard the clock tick. Louder and louder. He couldn't hear anything but the clock. It was consuming him. Mort Rainey felt the tick of the clock coursing through him until he noticed how badly his hands were twitching. They slipped and he poked himself in the finger with them. He fell on the floor screaming and twitching. Blood was everywhere! Shooter...it was all Shooter's fault. That damn son of a bitch.No...he wasn't real. No blood. Shooter was never real. So who was standing in the doorway? Wake up Mort! he thought furiously. Not real. Not good. Not real.
"WAKE UP" He slammed himself into the bookcase. "You're not real! Go away! Why ...!" he was unable to finish the question. His hands were twitching again. But that didn't matter; not now. Shooter was in the doorway. NO! he thought GODDAMNIT! NOT REAL! NOT GOOD! Shooter grabbed the fire poker and swung it at Mort. Blood! EVERYWHERE BLOOD. No, not real... he had trouble believing this himself. "YOU'RE NOT REAL!!!!!" he screamed. At no one. Nobody was there. No blood. No corn thingeys. Nothing. Nobody. Nothing. "shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." he muttered and went to lie down on the sofa. He lay down with a groan and made to pull off his watch. No watch. Where was it? Oh yes...in the lake. Gone. Should I go get it? he wondered sleepily as he pulled off his glasses. He leaned back against those horrible couch cushions that his freaky cleaning lady had put there. I'm goanna kill her someday. Something crunched. Whatever it was poked into his back meanly. Prepared to see a human skull or a screwdriver or something, he reached behind himself and pulled out the offending object. Ha ha. It was a manuscript.
Chuckling softly to himself, Mort Rainey put his glasses back on and squinted at the paper. His eyebrows rose two inches or so and his head flew away from the paper. He held it away from him knowing that he held Secret Window, the story that he had written, the story had had started this whole mess and killed these people. "Not my fault." he said to the air. "The story did it. I did nothing."
"Are you sure about that Mr. Rainey?" came the voice of Shooter from out of the shadows of his house.
Alright. Enough for now. I'm not really sure where this is going...R&R please.