You bolt for the front door, but for some reason it's now locked? When did that happen, you think, as your fingers clumsily struggle to move both locks. You can hear footsteps behind you lumbering down the stairs. Why won't these locks move? You slide the last bolt through and fling the door open just as the axeman hits the last step. You hurl yourself through the open door as he swings his axe with all his might. You almost make it, but the last inch of your middle finger is caught in the way of the gorgeous blade, and you watch it fly to the floor with a stream of blood so perfect it looks directed by Burton, himself. You scream, and, pushed forward by a rush of adrenaline, you sprint faster than you ever have into the moonless night, screaming down the drive, down the road, your legs pump wildly until you reach your car.