A razor with demonic symbols opens a gate for the God of the Razor to live inside a man's head.
John Valentine starts in borrowed darkness. He folds the story into Campfire Screams, names The Gristmill, Scott Hickey, CBS Mystery Radio Theater, and Joe R. Lansdale, then steps back as the tale takes over. Then the razor starts talking. A bad shave, odd symbols on the handle, and blood on the blade do not feel like accident. They feel like instructions. The gate is open. The speaker says the God of the Razor has moved into his head, which keeps the horror tight and nasty, less grand curse than private infestation. Donnie hangs over everything. He is tied to the Ripper's words, an old sacrificial altar, and a blade said to reach back to Druids. The house does not just sit there, either. Its strange angles, remembered from childhood games and rigged back-window boards, start to feel deliberate under the full moon. Even coffee sounds nervous. A dark, slow cloud presses down, and the whole conversation feels like a trap trying to act casual. The murders are not hidden in implication. The decapitator has been in papers and on television, and Donnie's shifts make the speaker connect bloodshed with the moon. When it wanes, Donnie calms down. At its height, he gets evasive, quick, and drawn back to the old house. Suspicion turns into watching. The speaker follows him, loses him, then waits where childhood, geometry, and sacrifice have been pointing all along. Jackie appears. The credits bring back the names and craft, but the warning at the end leaves the old power close enough to knock.
