Chapter 6: The Eighteenth Hell

Chapter 6: The Eighteenth Hell

The silence was a wound. After the entity’s roaring tantrum, the absence of the jingle, of the chipper, murderous voice, was more unnerving than the noise had ever been. There was only the low hum of the lights, the distant, steady whoosh of the windmill, and the ragged, shallow sound of Leo’s own breathing. The game was no longer a game. It was an execution, and the executioner had grown impatient.

Holes 15, 16, and 17 were a grim, silent blur. The whimsical themes were gone, replaced by brutalist architecture of pure function. Spinning blades, crushing pistons, electrified floors. Putt Head’s demonstrations were no longer flamboyant displays of skill but curt, violent statements of fact. The mascot would appear, execute a shot with hateful precision, and vanish. There was no taunting, no commentary, just the cold, efficient presentation of a solvable, lethal equation.

For Leo, each shot was a descent deeper into his own personal hell. Every swing was a negotiation with the agony in his ribs; every step a fresh wave of fire from his broken arm. He moved through the motions, a ghost haunting the edges of the light. The cold focus that had kept him alive was now brittle, threatening to shatter. He was running on fumes, on the last dregs of a survival instinct that had been worn down to a raw nerve.

But with each successful plink, a dangerous, alien feeling began to take root in the frozen wasteland of his soul: hope.

Seventeen down. One to go.

The final hole. The last one. The thought was a mantra, a prayer. Just one more. Survive one more, and this is over. He didn't know what "over" meant—escape, release, waking up from the nightmare—but it had to be better than this. It had to be.

He limped out of the darkness and into the light of the eighteenth hole, and the nascent hope in his chest withered into a cold stone of dread.

It was a vision of damnation. The final green wasn’t a green at all, but a circular island of scorched black turf surrounded by a moat of what looked like shimmering, molten rock, bubbling with a malevolent, internal heat. In the center of the island, where the cup should have been, was the hole: the gaping, skeletal eye socket of a titanic, grinning skull. The skull was the size of a small car, crafted from some bone-like material that seemed to drink the light. Flames licked from its other eye and from cracks in its cranium, casting flickering, dancing shadows that made the grin seem to widen and warp. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and cooked meat. This was it. The Eighteenth Hell.

Putt Head was already there, standing beside the starting mat. The mascot was unnervingly still, a splash of garish color in the fiery landscape. For the first time, it didn't demonstrate the shot and vanish. It waited. For him. This wasn't just another puzzle. This was a final, personal confrontation.

Leo dragged himself to the mat, his rusty putter feeling impossibly heavy. He stood opposite the creature, separated by a few feet of stained concrete. The mascot’s blank, black eyes seemed to stare directly into him, peeling back the layers of his cold focus and seeing the terrified, broken man beneath.

Without warning, Putt Head placed its ball. It took its stance. Its swing was the culmination of all its previous movements—the impossible physics, the brutal force, the hateful precision—all combined into one fluid, perfect, and utterly damning motion.

The white ball became a streak of light. It skipped across the surface of the molten moat like a stone on water, three perfect bounces that left sizzling trails in its wake. It landed on the black turf of the island, rolled in a perfect arc around the curve of the skull’s jaw, and then, with just enough momentum, climbed the slight incline of the cheekbone and dropped directly into the void of the eye socket.

Plink.

The sound was swallowed by the roar of the flames. Putt Head didn’t move. It simply stood there, its yellow putter held at the end of its follow-through, a silent, mocking monument to its own perfection. Match that.

Leo’s hands were slick with a mixture of blood and sweat. This was it. Everything—the pain, the loss, the horror—it all came down to this single, final stroke. He could feel the ghosts of his friends standing behind him. Jon’s rage, Lissa’s terror, Aaron’s confusion, Kate’s final, betrayed scream. He was their last witness, their final, futile act of vengeance. He had to make this shot. For them. For himself.

He placed his battered ball on the mat. He tried to replicate the stance, but his body screamed in protest. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the fiery skull swam in his vision. He couldn't do it. The shot was too perfect, and he was too broken.

He was going to die here.

But as he looked at the grinning skull, at the arrogant, silent mascot, something other than fear or hope stirred within him. A single, cold ember of pure defiance. This creature, this god of a forgotten patch of dirt, had taken everything from him. It had tortured him, broken his body, and feasted on his despair. It thought it had won. It thought he was just a boring mimic, a puppet dancing on its strings.

No.

He closed his eyes and took a breath that felt like swallowing glass. He wasn't just a mimic. He was a survivor. He had watched. He had learned. He channeled every ounce of his remaining strength, every scrap of his focus, not just into his good arm, but into his whole, ruined body. He replayed the mascot’s shot in his mind’s eye, not as a video, but as a feeling. He felt the exact moment of impact, the precise angle of deflection.

He opened his eyes. The world had narrowed to a single path of light between his ball and the skull’s empty gaze.

He swung.

The world exploded in pain. He felt something tear in his shoulder, something else crack in his ribs. But the connection was pure. The ball flew. It hit the molten rock, skipping once, twice, three times, each bounce a heartbeat in the roaring silence. It landed on the turf, following the exact same impossible arc. It climbed the cheekbone. It teetered for one agonizing, eternal moment on the edge of the socket.

And it dropped.

Plink.

He had done it. He had won.

Relief, so potent and overwhelming it was almost painful, washed through him. He dropped the putter, which clattered on the ground. His legs gave out and he collapsed onto the concrete, gasping, sobbing, laughing all at once. It was over. He was alive.

The flames around the skull sputtered and died. The bubbling moat grew still. The entire course was plunged into darkness, and for a blissful second, there was absolute silence.

Then, a cacophony erupted. A triumphant, brassy fanfare blared from the speakers, ridiculously loud and bombastic. Strobe lights flashed from every corner of the park, illuminating the decaying attractions in strobing, manic bursts. In front of him, a massive, hidden sign above the skull flickered to life, its neon bulbs buzzing as they spelled out a message in huge, glowing letters.

Leo looked up, tears of relief streaming down his face, expecting to see the words "GAME OVER" or "YOU WIN."

But the sign read:

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'VE WON A FREE GAME!

The fanfare cut out abruptly. The strobe lights died. Every light in the park extinguished, plunging him back into total, suffocating darkness. The sign proclaiming his victory went dark. Leo’s laughter caught in his throat, turning into a choked, desperate gasp.

No. No, it can’t be.

Then, a single, familiar spotlight clicked on in the distance. It illuminated the starting mat of Hole 1. The little sign with the smiling frog. Lissa’s abandoned pink putter still lying by the water hazard.

And from all around him, the cheerful, out-of-tune ice cream truck jingle crackled to life, starting its maddening loop all over again.

The course had reset.

He hadn't won an escape. He had won a repeat performance. All his pain, all his suffering, all his survival, it hadn't been a victory. It was just the end of the first round.

In the darkness, Leo began to scream. It was a raw, hopeless sound, devoid of rage or defiance, the sound of a soul that had been pushed past its breaking point and had found only an endless, repeating abyss on the other side.