Epilogue

The week that followed had been a long and arduous one. With Nica's background it was inevitable that she be questioned extensively by the police regarding the incidents at Green Acre. But with no evidence, no motive and the police scratching their heads as to how Nica could have even began to instigate the kind of bedlam that had occurred, they had no choice but to release her without charge and send her back to Green Acre. The first floor had been completely shut down, the patients moved as the scene was photographed by forensics, a detailed breakdown of events beginning to take shape as technicians monitored the log from the security system. Nica wasn't there long though. With the unfortunate demise of Dr Roland Abner had come good news, as his fellow board member Dr Harold Winstead had flown in from San Diego and given the green light to plans for Nica to fly back with him. Ethlandrone had been heralded a success and now Nica was to finally reap the benefits of assisted living that had once seemed so ugly, so demeaning. It was something the board at Etho-Lab Pharmaceuticals had been quick to push through, no red tape, they wanted to cement this thing and have it approved as quickly as possible. This was, in their words, to be the late, great, Dr Abner's legacy. One that promised a better future for all in similar predicaments as Nica. David hadn't been as lucky. Spending two weeks in hospital, treated for the trauma from his ongoing concussion before finally discharging himself, against the doctor's advice. He had been in touch with Nica and had now arranged to visit her in San Diego. He'd sounded rough on the phone, not knowing what to say and still struggling with a slight amnesia, but seemingly remembering everything about Nica. But she knew how such an event could mess with the head and was sure a trip to the west coast would do him good. She now sat looking forward to his arrival. Any time now.

As the cab approached the end of the street the driver felt a hand on his shoulder. Slightly unusual, but nothing to be alarmed about, this wasn't the kind of neighbourhood for trouble, he turned to face his passenger.

"What's up man?" The driver asked.

"This is the street?"

"Yeah we're almost there." The driver replied.

"Forget it, just drop me here. I'll need a cigarette before I get there."

"Hey, you're the boss." He looked at the display and turned back to his passenger. "That'll be $25 man." The money landed in his hand before he even finished the sentence, $40.

"Consider that a tip my good friend."

"Hey thanks man. You got a name? You give me a holler when you're headed back to airport and I'll squeeze you in!" The cab driver raised his voice.

The passenger turned, his sports bag thrown over his shoulder, cigarette hanging from his lip as he cupped his hands and struck the flint of the lighter.

"Yeah, the name's Jacobs." He replied shouting back to the driver, a gust of nicotine infused smoke leaving his lips. "David Jacobs."

"See you around then David Jacobs." The cab driver yelled, laughing as he wound his window up putting the money in his wallet before safely stowing it under the driver's seat. If he kept this up then maybe he'd take the kids bowling tonight. With that he hit the gas and headed off, the radio exploding into life with news of another call.

As he walked down the narrow street, he couldn't help but notice the dwellings all bore a striking resemblance. All were bungalows, which was to be expected, this was an assisted living complex, but each one looked exactly the same, nothing unique about them whatsoever. Blandness oozed from every brick, the same little manicured garden sitting out front, each with the same driveway and the same gates. He felt a little sick looking at it all to be honest. As he finally reached the house and looked up from the hand written note bearing the address he was satisfied he'd got the right one. This one was the only one with a ramp, doing over the course of ten metres what 2 steps could do in the matter a couple of feet. He took one last puff on the cigarette and dropped it casually to the floor, stubbing it out with his boot before looking round and feeling the beginning of summer wash over him. He hated summer, with a passion. He much preferred the shorter days and longer, colder nights of winter. He always had ever since he was a child. Opening the gate and stepping through onto the path he jumped up the steps and rang the doorbell, taking another look at the house number. This was it, number 13. Suddenly the door swung inwards and he was greeted by the beautiful smiling face of Nica, she beamed from ear to ear ash she saw him.

"David!" She gushed putting her arms out. "I had no idea you'd be here yet, my god!"

"Hey Nica," He said as she grabbed him. He handed her a bunch of yellow flowers, hoping she'd appreciate the gesture. "I picked these up for you. Hope you like them."

"David I love them." She said, wheeling back with the flowers on her lap, welcoming him in.

He stepped inside and dropped his bag from his shoulder, before placing it carefully on the floor of the hall. Nica noticed it looked heavy, and full.

"Wow, what you got in that thing?" She asked, laughing.

"Ah, just this and that." He said standing straight. "Something smells good, what you having?"

"Oh, just some stew a friend gave me. I'd offer you some, but there's hardly any, I was just about to eat if you want to share."

"No, no, it's fine, I ate on the plane." He replied.

Just then something dawned on Nica.

"Shit." She spat, remembering something. "I forgot a spoon." She turned to wheel herself off and He stopped her, placing his hands on the back of her wheelchair. He leaned over and placed his head next to hers.

"I'll get it. Where's the kitchen?" He asked.

"Er... Down the hallway, can't miss it." Nica gratefully acknowledged, surprised.

With that Nica wheeled herself into the living room and picked up her bowl of piping hot stew, flicking the remote as the TV fired into life. He set off down the hallway and soon reached the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers looking for the cutlery. Pretty quickly he found the drawer he was looking for. His eyes igniting as his pupils dilated and a smile crossed his face. Reaching into the drawer he grabbed the moulded plastic handle of the butcher knife and removed it from the drawer, holding it tightly and turning it, admiring the blade. His mind suddenly flashed back to that night, the storm, the ambulance, everything, and he was glad he seized the opportunity when he did. The treatment for concussion, the hospital, all of it, for nothing, a waste of time. Of course he didn't remember his date of birth, his mother's maiden name, even his own name. The reason? How could he? He didn't know these things in the first place! What he did remember was the night of November 9th 1988, the last time he had had felt so alive, the last time he'd felt actual flesh crawl with energy. Until recently that was. Thinking back, he remembered that night in the ambulance, as the man that was David Jacobs lay unconscious, unsuspecting, unable to fight back, and finally as Chucky seized his chance, Charles Lee Ray was resurrected, born again in a baptism of fire and lightning, the soul of David Jacobs cast into a never ending pit of torment. Looking into the blade of the knife and seeing the reflection of a complete stranger, Charles Lee Ray smirked before turning on the spot and lifting his head, eyes filled with hate as he looked down the hallway. The sound of the TV echoing along. An malevolent smile spread across his face, the knife clenched tightly, the life of David Jacobs was about to get interesting.

Very interesting indeed.

With that he set off towards the living room.

Towards Nica...