Everything from the 2016 Halloween ones. Especially the descriptions. Take this one from "To Make The Perfect Man"...
Ellen had long since been banned from practicing surgery, but they couldn't stop her in time from barricading the men's bathroom door and filling the room with her clothes and soup cans. Police weren't able to make it to the hospital just yet, so until then the staff would have to make sure no one came in or out. It's not like Ellen was capable of much in there anyway.
Until Jerry stopped by to use the bathroom.
Ellen had been screening each potential suitor through a self-made peephole in the door, and finally she found someone knocking on the door who suited her tastes. He just needed a few adjustments.
***
By the time police finally burst open the door and took Ellen away, Jerry was gone. He stumbled out of the room in a daze, shuffling past his car in the parking lot and onto the long stretch of lonesome road towards home. As his skin loosened around the puncture holes, every step jangled the staples in his face more and more, scraping against the open nerves under his flesh. He couldn't feel it, nor could he care. He was beautiful.
The blood had congealed over his left eye, shutting it completely. But his right eye could still see through the pinhole of the mask to the outside world, to the mirror in front of him. And what he saw was breathtaking. A bold push-broom mustache, the likes of which he could never grow himself. A strong nose, proud brow. Everything was smooth and pliable. He had achieved his dreams.
It was a shame, he realized, that the rest of him didn't match up. Everywhere else he looked, he saw the flabby, rough, pale skin of his former self. It sickened him that his old body couldn't live up to the promise of his new face.
He dug in deep to the skin in the crook of his arm, and pulled. Like wet tissue paper, it sloughed off with a bare squick. He saw the tendons underneath, the beautiful bone. He grabbed more, pulling up his forearm until the flesh inverted around the bones of his fingers like a glove.
He grasped at the skin above his pectorals, his scapulas, his trapezius, peeling them off in globs and strips. The pile of blood and gristle grew at his feet as he shredded more and more of himself in a drug-fueled stupor. All the while, he never took his eye off of his new, beautiful face.
He reached for his kneecaps, but the blood loss caused him to lose his balance and he fell over, breaking his arms in the process. His exposed muscles twitched and flexed like a symphony in red, writhing like a fish out of water, covering the bathroom tile in his slop.
He was finally perfect, he thought, before the spark went out in his brain forever.
Andrew had a lot of adjusting to do after moving into the house. He never met the guy whose room he would be inheriting, but he sure collected a lot of men's beauty magazines. The other guy was always hogging the bathroom and never had much to say. And then there was Mr. Shadows.
The rules of the house, which were posted inside Mr. Shadows' water heater closet where he slept, detailed exactly what humans were and weren't. When they were alive, they were not food. When they were dead and rotting, they were food. If the cops arrived before you could eat the body, they weren't food anymore. And human food was for humans.
Mr. Shadows would abuse this last rule time and again, like when he crawled into the refrigerator once the lightbulb broke, or when he ordered raw sausage casings on Amazon as "snacks for everyone." The cake was the last straw, something Andrew's girlfriend left for him in anticipation of his birthday tomorrow. Mr. Shadows saw the cake sort of looked like him, and decided to have it all to himself. He even lit the candle, assuming that's just what one does before eating cake. Of course, lighting it from a distance took some work, and the closer he brought his face to the flame, the more his nose disappeared. He tried to be careful about that, but this time he was just too excited.
Now it was all over the floor, ruined. Andrew threw it away and scolded Shadows for going through his cupboard. Then he retired to the living room, where he slept on the couch while Jerry was still in the process of moving out.
The sound of wet gristle slapping on the floor woke Andrew up later in the evening. He sat upright on the couch, rubbing his eyes. Then he saw Mr. Shadows, staring out the window.
A house was on fire some number of streets down, illuminating everything in its faraway flicker. It was just bright enough that it managed to shine faintly on Mr. Shadows' face, carving the front of his head away from sight. Only the hollow interior of the back of his head was visible, like a broken mannequin inside an empty store. Then it spoke.
"So many rules," he said to Andrew. "So many little rules." He turned to look at the couch and the half of his face furthest from the window returned to view, revealing half of a wide set of incisors bent in a crooked smile.
They both heard a muddy thud from the bathroom. Like a body falling. Andrew looked in its direction, praying that Shadows would look too. But he just stared at Andrew with his one visible eye.
"Sleep well," he said, before turning the lights on and skittering to the bathroom. Andrew fell asleep to the churning sounds of chewing and slurping, organs vanishing into an unseen dimension, blood wiping itself off the tile with the sound of deep, sensuous licking.
It was the last peaceful night's sleep Andrew would get.
Take into account "The Plot Twist Killer". If you thought the killer was the cameraman, think again.:
He stalked in the night, waiting for the time to strike. With every blink, he whisked away to another location, another angle, hidden in plain sight. He laid with the rat in the wall, peering back to see the scratchings of its words. He watched the arms of Mr. Shadows stretch into the bathroom, watched the faint burst of light in the distance wash away the creature's features like an acid bath. He witnessed the stitches and staples threading the flesh of Jerry Klobb, heard Ellen's piercing laughter as she punctured his body. When he was finished, he would delete them from existence with a pitch-black shroud and the words THE END. If he chose to restart their cycle of want and torture, he did so with a press of a button. Their lives hung, and hung, and hung again in the balance of his murderous fingers.
Then, when he was through with destroying and rebooting realities, he closed his browser window and resumed working. He never thought much about these lives after he was done with them. He might show the extent of his cruelty to a friend, and see whether they laughed or not. Perhaps sometimes, he'd leave a comment - a humorous pun, a meme, the phrase "I Am the Plot Twist Killer" - but he never, ever, ever cared.
, In The Mouth Of Madness