Terry stared in terror at the face of the beast which until recently had been a very attractive, very nude Irish barmaid. What in God's name had he thought, coming down here with so much supernatural stuff going on around him? And what had she put in that beer? He didn't feel drunk, no, but he did feel . . . too trusting. Maybe that was why he had consented to come down here. Even now, he heard himself thinking that it all might not have been a bad idea at all, and even – oh horror – that this new creature was kinda hot, and probably didn't mean much harm.
But he wasn't drunk, and though Terry was not the kind of person to think up plans in the nick of time (not clever enough), he was the kind of person to stay devoted to a cause once he had signed on, and now as he faced almost certain death or supernatural enslavement, his thoughts turned to the girls and their grandparents for whose sake he was out here.
He had an idea.
Terry writhed his head as the Fiona-thing ran another finger down his cheek. Then, when he was facing the door to her room, he stopped the writhing and made his mouth go slack. Fake hope glimmered in his eyes for a moment.
Terry let loose the piteous cry of those begging to be saved. “Mr. O'Hara!!!”
Fiona, as he suspected she might, backed off him and turned, startled and apparently afraid, to the door. Before she could re-adjust, he brought his right fist up and slammed it into the side of her head.
“^*(^&^)(!!!!!” screeched the Fiona-thing, and though it was not in a language Terry understood he knew it was cursing. To his delight, the blow not only landed, but actually knocked the monster sprawling. Why was that? It had seemed made of steel as it held him down on the bed. Well, it was a monster; things didn't have to make sense. In the meantime, Terry had lept off the bed and raced to the door. He gave it a good solid yank and nearly dislocated his arm, for the door was, of course, locked. Not the brightest by a long shot, old Terry, but as he turned back to the room his attitude was not fear but grim determination. He had, mostly by gut instinct, come to a course of action: He would have to kill the creature (exorcism was preferable, as he did like Fiona, but Terry was no priest), then find the key so he could get out. And the best way to kill the creature, it seemed, was just to hit it.
The monster was on the ground by the bed, and Terry circled it, slowly advancing while looking for something to hit with. There was a chair to his right; he tried to approach it inconspicuously. Meanwhile, the monster was getting up. It held a hand to its face, but Terry could still see that his blow had gone through its flesh like an anvil through toilet paper. These things might have great reflexes and holding power, but they couldn't take a punch for anything.
Terry reached the chair, and tried to lift it, but it was too big and heavy. There was, however, a magic 8 ball on the desk nearby. He picked it up and palmed it as best he could, for the monster was now looking at him again. One side of its face was completely ruined, but there was no problem with its face as it screeched alien curses at him again. There was also, apparently, no problem with its legs, for it began sprinting towards Terry at a frightening pace – considering this was a small room. Terry, however, again had a plan.
Swinging on the ruined side of the monster's face, so as to avoid detection, Terry launched a vicious 8-ball right hook. The flesh-and-novelty mace smashed into the beast's neck and snapped it like tinder, so much so that the terrible head actually flew off and landed to their left. The 8-ball smashed on contact, and the liquid inside tumbled out – and burned. Terry screamed as it coated his right hand like a condensed forest fire and acid dip. At the same time, the monster's body – which was still acting autonomously, and travelling very fast (if off course, thanks to the punch) – smashed into Terry's and pinned them both against the desk. The monster's torso and legs were lying on their side and flailing on top of Terry, the wicked sharp claws slashing wildly and unpredictably. Terry instinctively brought his right hand in front of his face as a shield. As claws ripped into his already unbearable hand, Terry mercifully passed out in a haze of pain.