Chapter 5: The Frustration of a God

Chapter 5: The Frustration of a God

The rhythm had become a strange, agonizing comfort. Light blazes on, revealing a new mechanical horror. The mascot appears, a silent, flawless executioner. Leo watches, his mind a cold sponge, absorbing every angle, every nuance of force. He limps to the mat, his body a symphony of shrieking nerves. He mimics. The ball drops. Plink. The light dies. He shuffles through the darkness to the next island of garish, buzzing light.

Pain was the metronome counting out the beat. With each hole, his broken arm throbbed with a deeper, more insistent pulse. The fire in his ribs made every breath a calculated risk. But the cold focus held. Grief was a luxury, a warmth he couldn't afford. The memories of his friends—Lissa's shriek, Jon's crumpled form, Aaron's surprise, Kate's final, horrified gaze—were ghosts he had locked in a steel vault in his mind. He was surviving on muscle memory and spite.

But as the lights for Hole 14 flickered to life, the rhythm broke.

The cheerful jingle, his constant, maddening companion, began to stutter. It warped, the notes slurring and dropping in pitch, like a cassette tape being eaten by a cheap player. It finally ground to a halt with a drawn-out, distorted groan, leaving a silence that felt heavy and charged with static.

“Are… you… even… trying?”

The voice from the speakers was different. The artificial, high-pitched pep was gone, replaced by a low, guttural sound, thick with digital distortion, as if it were being forced through a cheese grater. It was the sound of a mask cracking.

Hole 14 was a volcano. A cheap plaster mountain painted in angry reds and oranges, with a plume of theatrical smoke puffing from its peak. The path to the hole spiraled around its base, over a narrow, crumbling bridge.

The Putt Head mascot materialized on the starting mat. It didn't wait. There was no theatrical bow, no patient pause. It slammed its ball down onto the turf. Its posture was no longer gracefully precise; it was rigid, coiled with a palpable tension.

“You’re supposed to be scared,” the distorted voice growled, seeming to emanate directly from the mascot itself now. “You’re supposed to run. To cry. To beg. That’s the game.”

The mascot drew back its putter, not with the fluid grace of before, but with a short, violent jerk. It swung, and the sound wasn't a clean tap, but a vicious CRACK. The ball shot forward with impossible speed, a white blur of pure force. It didn't follow a clever path of ricochets. It slammed directly into the plaster side of the volcano, shattering a chunk of the mountain and sending painted rock chips flying. The impact barely slowed the ball, which then rocketed over the bridge and smashed into the back of the cup with enough force to dent the metal ring before dropping in.

It was a display of raw, unrestrained power. A tantrum disguised as a golf shot. A message. This is how easily I can break things. This is how easily I can break YOU.

Leo watched, his one good hand gripping his rusty putter. The cold box in his mind where he’d locked his fear began to rattle. The old horror was predictable. A puzzle has a solution. But this? This was the rage of a petulant child with the power to unmake the world. The horror was no longer in the course’s traps; it was in the unpredictable wrath of its master.

He limped forward, his body screaming with every step. He had to mimic the shot. But he couldn't generate that kind of force. His broken body wouldn't allow it. He wasn't a supernatural entity; he was just a man made of fragile bone and fraying nerve endings.

He placed his ball, his hand trembling.

“What’s the matter?” the voice seethed from the speakers, the static crackling around the words. “Losing your nerve? What would Kate think? She thought you were a coward. She told you so, didn't she? Right before she died.”

Leo flinched as if struck. The ghost of Kate was out of its vault, her last, hateful words echoing in the buzzing silence. You’re just… nothing!

“And Jon,” the voice continued, relentless, probing for a weakness. “He tried to fight. He was brave. Stupid, but brave. Not like you. You just watch. You just copy. A pathetic little mimic.”

Leo squeezed his eyes shut. He saw Jon’s face, contorted in a final, defiant roar. He saw Lissa being dragged into the dark. He saw Aaron’s logical world shattered by a steel beak. The grief and the guilt threatened to drown him, to pull him down into the warm, welcoming sea of despair.

No.

He opened his eyes. The unwavering stare was back, burning with a cold fire. The entity wanted a reaction. It wanted fear. It wanted despair. That was the real goal of the game. He would give it nothing.

He couldn't replicate the raw power of the mascot's shot. But he could replicate the intent. He adjusted his stance, angling his body to use gravity and a sharp, twisting motion from his hips to generate a burst of speed he didn't truly possess. It sent a bolt of pure agony through his shattered ribs, and he bit back a scream, tasting blood.

He focused on the shattered point of impact on the volcano wall. That was his target. He swung.

The rusty putter connected, the impact jarring his broken arm. The ball flew, a perfect imitation. It struck the broken plaster, caromed over the bridge, and hit the back of the cup.

Plink.

The sound, so small and insignificant, was an act of ultimate defiance.

For a moment, there was only the hiss of static. Then, the entire course began to shake. A low, rumbling growl vibrated up through the concrete, a sound of pure geological fury. The lights flickered wildly, strobing between blinding white and absolute black. The volcano on Hole 14 didn’t puff smoke anymore; it erupted. A wave of genuine, searing heat washed over Leo as the plaster mountain cracked apart, spewing not theatrical smoke, but thick, oily black clouds that smelled of ozone and rage.

The Putt Head mascot began to convulse. Its oversized head spun 360 degrees with a sound of grinding gears. Its limbs twitched and jerked in a chaotic, impossible dance.

“YOU’RE. NOT. FUN!” a voice roared, no longer distorted but a deafening blast of pure static and rage that felt like it was tearing the air apart. “YOU DON’T SCREAM! YOU DON’T CRY! YOU ARE BORING ME!”

The very ground at Leo's feet cracked. The carefully constructed reality of the mini-golf course was glitching, the mask slipping to reveal the howling, formless chaos beneath. The entity wasn't just angry at being matched; it was furious at being denied its entertainment. It was a god, and its congregation of one was refusing to worship with the proper terror.

Leo fell to his knees, clutching his head as the sonic assault hammered him. He had survived the traps. He had survived the monster. But now he faced the monster’s boredom, and he had a terrifying feeling that was the most dangerous thing in this entire, accursed place.

The tantrum subsided as quickly as it began. The shaking stopped. The roaring static cut out, leaving a ringing silence. The broken volcano smoldered. The mascot stood unnervingly still once more.

The lights of Hole 14 died. And in the oppressive, heavy darkness, the lights of Hole 15 clicked on. There was no jingle. No voice. Just the light, the silence, and the cold, waiting green. Leo knew, with a certainty that chilled him to his very soul, that the rules had just changed again. Mimicry had kept him alive, but it had also pushed his captor to the brink. Now, the game was personal.