Further adventures in narrative acceleration await in the chopped-down nerve burner The Stalker: Part 2, directed by Jared M Reeder and Michelle Lewis, who also co-wrote the script with Jimmy Ace Lewis. Steve Hamilton (Chad Ayers) and his sons Hayden (Jimmy Ace Lewis) and Josh (J. Gaven Wilde) are still recovering from the aftermath of the first Stalker. His wife, Wendy (Jessie Bell), is still in jail for slaying one of the attackers. Officer Harrison (Paul Van Scott) meets with Warden Stillwater (Carl Bailey) about Wendy’s case. Turns out the slain attacker wasn’t an everyday meter reader after all but an accomplice of the sinister stalker, Marc (Sean Michael Nugent), whose body was never found.

“…Marc caves the reporter’s head in and takes the body out to the woods where he has been hiding.”
Wendy is released from prison and transferred to house arrest, much to the joy of her family. However, Wendy is haunted by horrifying visions and is far from okay. A reporter (Andrew Vilar) pulls up in a van outside the Mitchell house and tries to interview Hayden about Wendy. Hayden tells the reporter to leave their family alone and storms off. That is when Marc caves the reporter’s head in and takes the body out to the woods where he has been hiding. He hands over the reporter’s corpse to his new henchman Craig (Troy Fromin), to dissolve it in a vat of acid. Craig does what he is told, as Marc is entirely insane and homicidal. Marc has not yet finished with the Mitchells and giggles to himself as he plans a truly horrible evening for them, maybe their very last.
Some folks get their kicks from Champagne. Other folks smoke methaqualone from broken beer bottle stems until they fall onto concrete floors. The Stalker: Part 2 is the cinematic equivalent of the latter. It acts faster and hits stronger than your average thriller. In the script, Lewis and Lewis remove all the unnecessary padding that gets in the way of getting to the goods. So there isn’t any toe-tapping to be found in the 52-minute runtime. In the era of butt-numbing three-hour runtimes, films like this with leaner, meaner runtimes glisten like diamonds. It is just like how punk rock reacted in the progressive rock era of 17-minute tracks with three-minute wonders. Trimming the fat from the traditional narrative here doesn’t result in a no-frills package. Instead, it is an all-frills experience with nothing in the way.