Dylan pinned his cell phone against his shoulder with his pockmarked face, trying to shake fringes of blonde hair out of his eyes, and deftly rolled the small paper tube between his fingers. "Are you gonna be OK working with Hole tonight?" he asked.

"That's Mr. Hole to you," the female voice on the other end teased. "And I'll be fine."

Adjusting for the small amount of space in the passenger seat of the car, Dylan shifted. "You sure? That old bastard practically lives at Filmore's."

"Is that so?" she answered in a way that made Dylan picture her sly smile. "So, how do you know he's always at a strip club, hmmm?"

Dylan brought the joint he was working on to his lips. His tongue flicked out, quickly wetting the adhesive strip. "I can come by and visit on your break if you want," he offered.

"You're just using me as an excuse not to be around Gramber, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Dylan replied with a snort.

"I wish I could be there," she lamented. "Have fun and I'll see you later tonight."

Dylan heaved a heavy sigh. "Alright, babe. I'll see you later."

"Bye."

Wedging the joint between his lips and letting the phone slide to his lap, Dylan searched his pockets. "Shit," he cursed softly, turning to the owner of the car sitting in the driver seat, Graham. "You got a light?"

"Always," Graham responded, bringing what appeared to be a small revolver up to the joint. The already tiny lighter seemed even smaller in his huge, dark hand. He pulled the trigger and a blue flame shot out. As Dylan took the first hit, he asked, "Who's Hole?"

"That's Mr. Hole to you," Dylan replied around the joint. "He's the dick who fired me for coming in after finishing a roach." His words were marked by thin smoke as he held the joint out to Graham.

Graham took the offering readily. "Maybe your real problem is that you can't handle this shit, pussy." Proving his point, Graham took a long draw, letting the glowing ring at the end of the joint burn an extended trail of ash inwards.

"Whatever man," Dylan shook his head. "What time is it?"

Graham checked his watch. "Oh shit!" Stubbing the joint out, he rushed out of the car into the parking lot of Absinthe, Dylan following. Seconds later, they were at the table already staked out by Amber and Jared.

"You made it!" Amber said, standing to greet Graham. He practically slammed into her, pulling her close and embracing her in a deep kiss. His hands ran through her short, dyed-black hair, and the dozens of bracelets around her wrists clanged as she wrapped her arms around him. For a few moments the only sound from them was wet smacks.

Jared and Dylan rolled their eyes. "So, where's Ash?" Jared asked, turning to Dylan.

"Working."

"This late?"

"Inventory."

"Ah," Jared nodded and took a deep drink of his beer.

Finally breaking away from Amber to pour a pint from the pitcher of beer on the table, Graham said, "Of course I made it, I'm performing."

"And what are you gonna say about your new song?" Amber prodded.

Graham tilted his head back all the way and drained his drink in three gulps. "I'm not gonna say anything," he said with a gasp as he pounded the glass onto the table. "This is about letting the songs do the talking. Now, if you'll excuse me…" Graham grabbed Amber again, drawing her in for another short make-out before spinning and striding towards the stage.

"Wimp," Amber said, watching him leave. "He's too embarrassed to say his girlfriend helped him write a song."

"You don't know anything about music," Jared said, furrowing his brow as he adjusted his glasses.

"I wrote the lyrics."

Jared raised an eyebrow. "You didn't use your old poetry from high school, did you?"

"No," Amber shot back defensively. "God, do big brothers ever let you live anything down? No, I got the words from these scans my supervisor had me translate even though it would take him a few minutes to just look up the translations, because what else are grad students for, right?"

"So Graham's new song is like, some thousand year old chant?" Dylan asked. "Cool."

"It gets better." Amber leaned forward, lowering her voice to force Jared and Dylan to do the same to hear her over the din in the bar. "I never saw the real pages, just the scans, but the book they're from? It's all made from human flesh and written in blood."

"Damn," Dylan nodded his approval. "That's fuckin' metal."

Across the bar, a man dwarfed by the rest of the crowd held a microphone close to his mouth, but not too close. After all, there was no point to a live broadcast if the listeners couldn't tell from the roar of the crowd that it was live. "And now," he announced, "Our last band for the night, Violent Sects!"

A crash of cymbals followed by the rapid-fire beat of double-kicked bass drums immediately drowned out the deafening crowd. Seconds later, a screaming, high-speed melody was being tapped out on a guitar, while a tuned-down base grounded the rhythm.

The crush of people surrounding the stage heaved and pushed forward in time to the music, swelling and crashing against the walls and tables like waves breaking against the shore during a storm. At the centre of the noise, Graham smirked at the near violence in front of him. He grabbed the microphone in front of him, yanking it towards his face and flinging the stand to the floor of the stage.

"Demontos!" he bellowed from the depths of his lungs in a death growl. The audience responded, roaring loud enough to once again be heard over the music. "Kandar nostrata demontos!"

"Who did you say wrote that book again?" Jared called across the table to Amber.

"Legend calls them the Dark Ones!" she yelled back, barely audible over the music. "The language is Kandarian though!"

"What?" Jared shouted.

"Ires nosferatus!" Graham's deep scream cut across their conversation. "Kandar!"

The guitarist whipped into his solo, his fingers a blur as he plucked out a staccato tune with his left hand. The drummer kept up, pounding syncopated rhythms along with him, as Graham took a long pull from a hip flask he'd carried to the stage in his pocket. A few members of the audience screamed approval, and finished their drinks at the same time.

"Kandar!" Graham roared as the guitar returned to its original rhythm. "Demontos Kandar! Kandar!"

Graham stretched the last syllable of his growl, holding it for a moment after the guitar, drums and bass had all gone silent. After his scream was cut off, the audience replied with a deafening scream back. Graham turned to look at his band mates. "Guess that means they like us," he grinned.

"Alright!" the radio announcer enthused, climbing up onto the stage. "That was Violent Sects with… What was that song called?" He held the microphone up the Graham's face.

"Necronomicon."

"That was Necronomicon! Remember to stick around folks, we'll be announcing EDMC's favourite band for the night in just an hour!" The announcer left the stage, not giving Graham or Violent Sects a second glance. "And remember to keep listening to EDMC: Where Metal Lives!"

Graham shook his head. That guy looked like he was more into easy listening than metal, and he was the one they sent to judge? Violent Sects left the stage, and Graham headed back to Amber, Dylan and Jared.

"God, I need a smoke," he said as he passed them.

"Why, was it good for you too?" Dylan asked. "Wait, I want one, too," he called, nearly knocking over drinks as he clumsily stumbled to his feet and jogging after Graham.

Jared sighed as they left and Amber smirked in response. "Stop that."

"What?"

"You're wondering what she sees in him."

"No!" Jared said defensively. "I mean, I like her, but…"

"Ugh, stop being such a Nice Guy," Amber shook her head.

"Hey…" Jared held up his hands in an appeasing gesture. "I'm happy if she's happy."

Outside, Graham and Dylan stood with a crowd inside what looked like a fog-bank. They gathered at the edge of the parking lot, where it met the club and the entrance road. On every other side, the lot was bordered by trees. As they took their first puffs from the cigarettes, a few of the smokers recognized Graham. A couple even clapped him on the back, congratulating him on the show.

"Good job, man," a man with a beard and long, red hair. "You guys were definitely the best ones up there."

"Thanks. I hope the judge thinks so, too."

"They'd have to be deaf not to," a girl with long, blonde hair butted in. "I mean –"

The fan was cut off by the sound of wood cracking. It echoed across the parking lot, far away despite its volume. The chatter among the smokers stopped as they listened for a moment, before they all laughed at their surprise.

"A tree must have fallen in the woods," Dylan mused.

"Guess we know whether it makes a sound, now," Graham joked.

Another crack cut off the polite titters. "Maybe it took out another tree on the way down?" Dylan whispered. There was a third crash, then a fourth, before the sounds became indistinguishable from each other, a cacophony of destruction getting louder as it got closer.

"Shit, what the fuck is that?" someone screeched.

The trees parted on the opposite side of the parking lot, pushed aside by an invisible force. The night, including the pack of smokers, was completely still for a second, until something unseen crashed into the car closest to the trees, crumpling its back half and shoving it out of the way. Another car was sent bouncing across the pavement to the street, and several twitched to the side, as if glanced by a hit and run.

The group of smokers gawked, open mouthed, their cigarettes forgotten. A bee line through the woods and parking lot rapidly cleared itself of obstacles. Some of the observers started to back up towards the door, but couldn't turn their eyes away as they tried to understand what was happening. As two-thirds of them packed into the small alcove in Absinthe's entranceway, the rest stood frozen, staring.

Two cars parked right outside the entrance suddenly shot apart, as if a giant wedge had forced itself between them. A few scattered gasps went up from the crowd, until one girl flew backwards on her heels, into the brick wall of the club's unadorned façade, and the gasps turned to shrieks. She hovered a few feet above the sidewalk, screaming, as if pinned. Her legs and arms flailed, writhing, as she struggled against the force holding her in place, while the throng of people kept their distance, unsure how to help or even react.

With a thud, the girl abruptly fell, crumpling on the ground. The night went completely still and quiet again, and the girl didn't move, apparently unconscious. The only sound was the panicked breathing of the confused crowd.

Hey guys! I just wanted to say near the start of this thing why I'm writing this. Recently there was a minor mention in the news of Sam Raimi saying he was going to make an Evil Dead 4, and the fans did rejoice. I was definitely intrigued, since I really want to know how a continuation of the Evil Dead series would be handled, especially twenty years after Army of Darkness. Anyways, literally the next day Sam Raimi said he'd been taken out of context, asked leading questions, etc., etc., and I was pretty disappointed. So for fun, I decided to think about how I would handle Evil Dead 4. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it and please don't hesitate to leave a review no matter what you think :)

Oh yeah, one last thing... Anyone who's read my stories before may know I have a habit of being totally shameless in my attempts to get my original work noticed. I've been published once, and if you did enjoy my writing you may want to check it out at www dot tinyurl dot com slash ApproachingOne, and I hope to announce another publication soon on my twitter account SeaLenz. We now return to your scheduled programming.