Alex

Allegedly.

You actually have no idea if that really was Ghostface last night. The person didn't try to break in. It could have very well been someone else--even though Mellen is small, that doesn't mean there is an abundance of perverts. But this fact doesn't seem to ease your mind.

So that was that. You couldn't stay home in your warm, cozy bed because of your very reasonable fears. Unfortunately, there is only one other option.

Work.

Being a secretary isn't as aesthetic or kinky as the 2002 film as you thought it would be. That's mostly because the job is for a lumber store in the middle of fucking nowhere.

However, you never dwelt too much on your choices. When you moved away from your city, there was really nowhere else to go. Mellen was your best bet to find a place that you can live in and call home.

When your grandpa married your grandma, they settled down in this small town and built their own house. But your grandma had dreams and wants that Mellen didn't fit, so they left the house, turning it into a summer cabin up North.

You recount the August days you spent up here as a young child, waking up to chocolate chip pancakes, swimming in the lake, and running through the woods all day until you were covered in mosquito bites and sunburns.

Almost a decade ago, he died, and for some reason, your grandpa didn't give the house to your parents. In the will, the cabin, and all ten-acres that came with it, were yours.

You never understood why. You had cousins, but you never felt as though you were his favorite. In fact, you always felt like you were the black sheep of the family. Maybe he knew you would fail and needed a stable place to stay. To have a humble little town that acts as if everyone is family--but still talks shit behind their back--who's always willing to lend a helping hand.

The problem with that is you're a very independent person, and the only "helping hand" you've accepted was the cabin.

Ever since you moved in, it's been your safe place. Now that has been violated. Once again, you are forced to be dependent on others.

As the sleepy haze wears off, paranoia takes over, tugging your thoughts away from reminiscing and towards numerous anxiety-inducing scenarios.

You shove your bedsheets off and get ready for your workday, which, despite the situation, you still aren't excited for.

Before you leave your house, you make sure to feed the dogs and let them outside.

You lock the front door, tugging on the handle to make sure it's secure, and walk towards your truck. You sneak up on the red piece of crap, jumping over the bed to surprise whatever creep is hiding in there.

No one.

You really are losing your mind.

Content with your search, you hop in and drive off to work.

"Why the hell were you sleeping at work?"

You're in the cramped, stuffy office of your supervisor, Mr. Hardy, after wanting to simply shut your eyes. “Just for a couple of minutes,” left you face-first on your desk, drool streaming down your chin.

A chubby women walked into the front entrance, seeing your unconscious body, and assumed you were dead. Leading her running right out the door, screaming.

You have always been a deep sleeper.

Now you sit in your silent embarrassment. Mr. Hardy's obnoxious mouth-breathing fills the room, instead of what should be your explanation.

"Look, kid, if something is going on where you need to stay home, just tell me."

You snap up,

"No, I can't stay there!"

You take a gulp, surprised by the desperation in your voice.

"I'm sorry, I've just been really paranoid with Ghostface and all."

Mr. Hardy softens at your worries.

"Man, isn't that right. That son of a bitch is ruining everything. Our town used to be a peaceful, quiet little place. Now, it's in shambles, we can't trust the people we've known for decades, and we sure as hell aren't welcoming to newcomers anymore."

You nod along,

"I mean, anyone could be the freak."

He gets up from his chair, opening the door,

"I'm not going to make you go home, but you aren't there enough in the head to work. Go to Greta's, hang out with a friend, do something where you aren't alone."

"Okay, sounds like a good idea."

Giving Mr. Hardy a tight smile, you exit the lumber store.

See, the problem with Mr. Hardy's advice is that you have no friends. You have no one and that's how you like it.

Except now it's really kicking you in the ass.

In your truck, you brainstorm what to do. Sure, lunch at Greta's diner would be nice, but you can't stay there for hours. Greta and your coworkers are the only people you talk to on a semi-regular basis.

Well, there is one more person who would be interested in hanging out with.

Pleased that you may not have to be alone today, you open Instagram and send a long-awaited, not really, message.

At the diner, you really didn't have to wait long.

You found your seat at the bar and told Greta to wait for your order until your "plus one" gets here. To which she raised an eyebrow, assuming you were on some date.

"It's not a date, Greta, it's more of a get-together/we-have-serious-things-to-talk-about."

She laughs,

"Alright, honey, I hope you enjoy your 'we-have-serious-things-to-talk-about', then."

You smile to yourself, but Greta is right, this is awfully similar to a date. Did you get ready for it? No, you only asked your acquaintance if they wanted to get lunch.

Oh, God, why did you word it like that? You should have been more specific!

This is not a date. This is not a date. This is not a date.

"Ahem,"

A strong hand waves in your face.

"You're really lost in thought, huh?"

You snap out of it. Jed takes a seat beside you. He looks really put together. He is in dark gray pants, a light blue dress shirt, and a matching dark gray tie. Yes, he looks like he came straight out of an office, but he looks–

way better than you, that's for sure.

Mr. Hardy doesn't give two shits about what you wear, and neither do you. The last time you cared about how "aesthetically pleasing" you looked was before you decided to move to Mellen.

You have really let yourself go.

"No, just wondering why you look like you just got out of a meeting."

Either the playful jab wasn't funny, or Jed didn't get it. You decide to dig your grave deeper and explain.

"I'm saying you look way too formal for someone who doesn't have to go into work, as you know, your office is miles and miles away."

He looks down, analyzing your outfit. A vulnerable moment flares on his face as a faint blush shades his neck.

"Oh, yea, I–uhm–I thought this was–never mind. "

An awkward silence follows.

"Do you not work on Wednesdays?"

Jed asks you, probably wondering why you're dressing like a bum, or maybe the fact that you invited him to lunch at 2 in the afternoon.

You fiddle with your T-shirt. Suddenly, so aware and insecure of what you are wearing.

"No, I do, I just wasn't feeling up to it today, to be honest. Called in sick."

He nods; a small smirk forms on his lips.

"Ah, playing hooky. Even more dangerous when everyone is connected to each other. How do you know he isn't going to find out?"

You look up, a subtle word that shouldn't have grabbed your attention jumped out at you. "He".

You never told him anything about your boss, not even gender.

"You're right. In this town, secrets always get uncovered. So why try hiding it?"

You eye Jed. What is his game?

"So, I'm here with Jed Olsen, Wasau's number one investigative journalist. Is the Wausau Gazette okay with you spending valuable time hanging out at a local diner instead of writing?"

You joke, but you want to go throat for throat. You know things about him, too.

His smirk turns into a full-blown smile, just like the one he gave you the other day.

"You stalking me? Jeez, maybe you chose the wrong field."

"How do you know that I'm not a journalist too?"

Jed shakes his head,

"Alright, fine, I'll admit it too, I did my research on you as well, but in my defense, it's literally my job."

Oh, so that's how he knew about your boss. You are so exhausted, holy shit. You need to give Jed a break.

"This boy again, sweetheart? Nice to see you're finally making some friends!"

Fucking Greta.

The old lady walks over, notepad in hand. She takes your orders and leaves, winking at Jed.

Fucking Greta.

You just pray he doesn't ask about the friend thing. Or anything about you. You remind yourself; this isn't some rendezvous with a hot–I mean random–man.

This is about Ghostface.

"So, I'll just come out and say it."

Jed leans closer, eyes dark and focused on you.

"I want to talk about Ghostface. Anything and everything. "

He raises an eyebrow, suprised.

"I'm talking about what you think his motives are, how he kills, patterns within his victims, and possible suspects."

He nods, immediately searching his messenger bag. He pulls out a black journal, falters, then quickly puts it back; instead, he reaches for a smaller red notebook.

Greta comes back, giving Jed his coffee.

"Coffee, really?"

He sets the book down.

"What, I thought you would be pleased."

"Hold on. A. I'm just surprised. B. You said you hated it last time, and C. It's 2 in the afternoon."

He smiles,

"Well, it grew on me. I don't know if you noticed,"

Jed waves his hand, directing your attention to his dark eye bags.

"I'm always tired."

"Didn't your mom ever tell you that 8 hours of sleep is vital?"

He shakes his head,

"My mother is complicated."

Noted. Jed shifts in his seat, opening the notebook and flipping through its pages. He settles on one that is filled with black ink.

"Alright, we will start off with the stuff I'm 100% sure about."

"Okay."

The journalist sips his coffee before reading, the steam fogging up his square glasses.

"Ghostface kills when his victims are lacking. Commonly, home invasions, but sometimes when they are working alone or out with friends. Either way, being surrounded by people is the way to go."

Well fuck. You suppose you have to rely on Jed now, but even then, that's not enough; it's not like he can stay in your house. You don't even trust him. You will have to go out of your comfort zone and make actual friends.

"Ghostface's weapon of choice is a knife; he likes to get messy. There is clear evidence that he plays with his food; victims often have numerous stab wounds and sometimes mutilations. Also, there is proof of strangling and beating, so there are clear signs of physical aggression before the murder."

You nod along, wishing you had also brought a little notebook to keep track of the information Jed gives you.

"And, while there is always a lot of blood on the crime scene, he never leaves a trail. This guy is a pro."

"So, is it also confirmed that Ghostface is a man?"

He laughs.

"No, it's not confirmed. If it is a woman, then she must be a brute."

You raise an eyebrow, prepared to give the speech about how women could be heartless serial killers, too.

"Look, you haven't seen the victims. They are covered in bruises and have extreme damage to internal organs, suggesting that these people were, quite literally, thrown around."

"Wait. You're only a journalist. How did you even get clearance to see the victim's bodies?"

"I thought we were here to discuss Ghostface, not interrogating me."

Jed was right, you are being jumpy and skeptical, but you have every right to be. Jed could very well be Ghostface; he's new, he knows way too much about the killer, and–well, that was it really, but still. You remember Mr. Hardy's words,

"I mean, anyone could be the freak."

"But I don't blame you. We live in dangerous times."

He looks like he is going to say something else, but Greta shoves your lunches in front of you. You ordered a nice juicy burger, and Jed has chicken tenders and fries. Your burger steals the attention away from Jed. You take a humongous bite out of it, practically moaning at the taste.

He watches you, and an amused look dances his face that he can't shake away, even when pleading his case.

"I bribe the medical examiners to show me the bodies."

You look up, a piece of lettuce hangs from your lips,

"How corrupt of you."

"I just want to have the best story, to beat all the other journalists. Partly because of my pride and partly because I want my boss off my ass."

You chuckle,

"Cheers to that."

The rest of your time at the diner consisted of discussing Ghostface, banter, and getting to know each other. It wasn't a half-bad time.

Eventually, it was time to leave–Greta was becoming more suspicious by the minute. Jed asked if you wanted to hang out again soon, and you only hesitantly agreed because of what Jed told you: the more friends you have, the safer you are.

You spent the day burning gas and going anywhere but home. Unfortunately, time is always against you.

When you got home, you completed your nightly routine quickly. Longing for your bed, maybe it couldn't protect you, but at least you can be granted peaceful sleep, a time where you won't be stressing about your possible death.

Janie and Willow sense your discomfort; they stick to your side like wolves in a pack. You all enter your room, and they jump onto the bed, but you're stuck standing there. You look out the window: no one. Under the bed: no one. In the closet: no one. You are in the clear, but it's not enough. You walk into the kitchen and grab a knife. You analyze the deadly thing. The metal catches the warm kitchen light, glinting slightly.

A quiet voice in the back of your mind wonders what it feels like to get cut, to have the knife dig into your flesh and be dragged across your body. You tap the tip of the knife, not hard enough to bleed, but enough to know that it's sharp.

Your phone rings, and you are instantly snapped out of your dazed state.

You stroll into your room and sit on the bed, Janie snuggling closer to you.

"No Caller ID"

Fuck no, you aren't picking up that damn phone.

You completely shut off your phone, shoving the knife under your pillow, pulling the covers over yourself, and forcing yourself to sleep.

Janie and Willow must have left sometime during the night. You lost your comfort, with your two fuzzy warm balls gone, you shiver under the comforter. You are unable to fall asleep, which is ironic because you practically gave a lady a heart attack with your eagernessfor slumber during work.

You toss and turn, wanting your dogs back, but too lazy to go and get them. You sigh and run a hand over your face. Just about to shove off the covers, you hear the creaking of floorboards. The sound was too heavy to be an animal.

Shaking, you retrieve the knife from its hiding spot. You cautiously stand up, pausing at the doorframe. You look around your dark cabin, and you don't see anyone. You aren't sure where the sound came from, and you debate whether it's best to go on offense or defense. You scour your mind, trying to remember what Jed told you about Ghostface.

"Ghostface kills when his victims are lacking. Commonly, home invasions, but sometimes when they are working alone or out with friends."

Well, that checks out.

You recall that Jed mentioned that he believes Ghostface stalks his victims extensively beforehand. If this is true, then he may know how to navigate your house already.

As you piece together the information, you realize more and more that the creeper from a couple of nights ago was definitely Ghostface.

Now that fact is useless, because he's come back, and this time, he wants to have actual contact.

You decide to go the offensive route, maybe you can catch him off guard. Tiptoeing in the darkness, you are ready to attack that son of a bitch. You check the kitchen, bathroom, and hallway, but there is no sign of Ghostface. That leaves one more room.

You turn the corner, entering the living room, but there is once again no one there. Where is Ghostface? You search the room looking for a trace of his existence, but everything is where you left it.

Maybe you're safe.

All day, you've recognized your exhaustion; the stress of last night got to you. You just want to lie down, close your eyes, and go back to your normal routine.

Shuffling towards the archway of your living room, you lose your adrenaline, and the reminiscing of your bed induces melatonin.

And you were so close to getting what you wanted.

"Don't want to pick up my calls, huh?"

A blood-curdling scream that you didn't realize was yours until you feel a flash of heat on the side of your stomach. A gloved hand covers your mouth, muting any sound that escapes your lips. Not that screaming would help.

You live in the middle of ten acres of dense woods.

You kick, punch, and bite at your attacker, who holds you to him. You flail helplessly as he pushes the knife further into your torso. You try to elbow him, but his grip is too strong. Hot, burning pain washes over you, eyes tearing. It's so extreme that you can't even make a sound.

"Stop fighting, I just want to chat."

You stomp on his foot hard, but his hold on you does not relent.

"You bitch!"

Your attacker suddenly rips the knife from your side and kicks you with his boot to the floor. The wind gets knocked out of you, and you curl into a ball, trying to regain your breath.

It's a pathetic sight.

Not even two minutes into the attack, and you have already given up. You just lie there and cry, holding yourself for a useless attempt at comfort in your final moments.

You watch your attacker through watery eyes. It's the one and only Ghostface.

He wears a Halloween costume mask: a ghastly face with white skin, long black eyes, and a mouth that appears to be silently screaming. Ghostface has a towering build, dressed in all black and combat boots. His leather gloves are balled into a pulsing fist, holding the knife that is drenched in your blood.

He tilts his head, in mock sympathy, even he thinks you're pathetic.

"What's wrong, little deer, you've given up already?"

The sight of his amusement produces an intense rage that intrudes into every inch of your body. You don't want to die, not like this, and certainly not by this son of a bitch. You won't die a failure, a lazy quitter;

a loser.

You are losing blood fast, which causes you to feel lightheaded, but you push your weakening body away from the tall man. Each feeble scooch is met with Ghostface taking a taunting step towards you. When he chuckles you realize exactly what he is doing:

He's playing with his food.

"Fuck you."

You grunt. A sudden burst of energy courses through you from your anger. You push yourself off the ground, the bleeding wound punishing you. For a moment, pain blinds you, but your fear yells at you to run.

Ghostface chases after you, boots stomping behind you. You can't reach the front door; you would have to circle back. You are heading straight for a dead end, but at least your room has a lock. You sprint for the door, slipping on the hardwood floor. You scramble back up to your feet, shutting the door and locking it. Not allowing yourself time to catch your breath, Ghostface pounds on the door.

"You think this is gonna stop me?"

He kicks the door.

"I thought you were smarter than this."

You get up from the cold floor, holding your side and limping towards the window. Your left arm is covered in blood when you force the glass open.

Ghostface slams his foot through your wooden door. His gloved hand pokes through and fiddles with your door handle, trying to unlock it.

You're running out of time.

You practically jump out the window, your body thumps against the grass. The adrenaline that spikes through you is kind enough to let the pain go unnoticed as you force yourself off the ground.

"Time's up."

Those two words are what send you half-sprinting-half-limping into the woods.

Trees flash by you as you run further and further into the night, towards the road. Not stopping even as your body is begging for a break, even as you feel like you cannot breathe.

When you cannot run anymore, you walk, chest heaving. When you cannot walk, you crawl. When you cannot crawl, you drag your helpless body towards the two-lane highway. Twigs and branches dig into your skin, shaking hands fist the earth as you pull yourself to the concrete. You cannot move; you have exerted yourself too much. You wheeze; it feels as though your lung has collapsed. You can feel the blood rising up in your throat before you cough it out.

Everything hurts, you're so tired you just want to sleep.

Sleep.

It sounds so nice to close your eyes and rest. Just for a moment. Then you can keep going. Or maybe, the universe will be merciful enough to let you go before you wake up.

Your eyes flutter shut. At least now you have made your death an honorable one. You fought back; you escaped.

But you won't survive.

No.

You force your eyes open.

You won't be another victim, a story in the paper, or a news station. You won't be a face that is only remembered because of Ghostface. You are not going to let someone else control your fate. This is your life, and you won't give it up.

If only your sheer willpower were enough to get you up on your feet, unfortunately, it's not. Your arms are sore from your journey to the road; you resort to moving like an inchworm up the road in the direction of what you think is Mellen.

Minutes feel like centuries as you make your way, your blood leaving a crimson trail. Your body stutters and shakes; you can't do this anymore.

Just as your brain begins to shut down, blinding headlights shine in your face. A truck trails on the road, salvation. You just need the driver to see you. You scooch yourself towards the middle of the road, but the truck doesn't slow down.

You try to scream, but a hoarse rasp is all that comes out.

Please, help me.

You chant in your head as the truck drives past you.

So, this is it. You are going to bleed out on this road. In the middle of nowhere. You don't remember when you started crying, you just know that there is a deep sadness that overtakes you, leaving a pit in your stomach.

Car breaks screech. The truck reverses and stops a couple of feet away from your helpless body.

"John, I told you there was somethin' on the road!"

The doors to the truck slam, and you hear someone hop out of the truck.

"Calm down, Ellen, you know it's probably a deer."

How wrong they were.

"Anything is possible. We never thought there would be a serial killer running around town but look where we are."

The lady, Ellen, walks around the truck bed.

"Dear lord!"

She exclaims and rushes towards your limp figure. John leans over her shoulder and gasps at the sight of you. Ellen holds you in her arms, and you look up through half-shut eyes.

"We need to get her to a hospital!"

John doesn't move,

"Are you alright?"

You can't respond. Ellen slaps him.

"Of course, she ain't okay, she is bleeding out! We have to get her to a hospital now."

Allegedly.

You actually have no idea if that really was Ghostface last night. The person didn't try to break in. It could have very well been someone else--even though Mellen is small, that doesn't mean there is an abundance of perverts. But this fact doesn't seem to ease your mind.

So that was that. You couldn't stay home in your warm, cozy bed because of your very reasonable fears. Unfortunately, there is only one other option.

Work.

Being a secretary isn't as aesthetic or kinky as the 2002 film as you thought it would be. That's mostly because the job is for a lumber store in the middle of fucking nowhere.

However, you never dwelt too much on your choices. When you moved away from your city, there was really nowhere else to go. Mellen was your best bet to find a place that you can live in and call home.

When your grandpa married your grandma, they settled down in this small town and built their own house. But your grandma had dreams and wants that Mellen didn't fit, so they left the house, turning it into a summer cabin up North.

You recount the August days you spent up here as a young child, waking up to chocolate chip pancakes, swimming in the lake, and running through the woods all day until you were covered in mosquito bites and sunburns.

Almost a decade ago, he died, and for some reason, your grandpa didn't give the house to your parents. In the will, the cabin, and all ten-acres that came with it, were yours.

You never understood why. You had cousins, but you never felt as though you were his favorite. In fact, you always felt like you were the black sheep of the family. Maybe he knew you would fail and needed a stable place to stay. To have a humble little town that acts as if everyone is family--but still talks shit behind their back--who's always willing to lend a helping hand.

The problem with that is you're a very independent person, and the only "helping hand" you've accepted was the cabin.

Ever since you moved in, it's been your safe place. Now that has been violated. Once again, you are forced to be dependent on others.

As the sleepy haze wears off, paranoia takes over, tugging your thoughts away from reminiscing and towards numerous anxiety-inducing scenarios.

You shove your bedsheets off and get ready for your workday, which, despite the situation, you still aren't excited for.

Before you leave your house, you make sure to feed the dogs and let them outside.

You lock the front door, tugging on the handle to make sure it's secure, and walk towards your truck. You sneak up on the red piece of crap, jumping over the bed to surprise whatever creep is hiding in there.

No one.

You really are losing your mind.

Content with your search, you hop in and drive off to work.

"Why the hell were you sleeping at work?"

You're in the cramped, stuffy office of your supervisor, Mr. Hardy, after wanting to simply shut your eyes. “Just for a couple of minutes,” left you face-first on your desk, drool streaming down your chin.

A chubby women walked into the front entrance, seeing your unconscious body, and assumed you were dead. Leading her running right out the door, screaming.

You have always been a deep sleeper.

Now you sit in your silent embarrassment. Mr. Hardy's obnoxious mouth-breathing fills the room, instead of what should be your explanation.

"Look, kid, if something is going on where you need to stay home, just tell me."

You snap up,

"No, I can't stay there!"

You take a gulp, surprised by the desperation in your voice.

"I'm sorry, I've just been really paranoid with Ghostface and all."

Mr. Hardy softens at your worries.

"Man, isn't that right. That son of a bitch is ruining everything. Our town used to be a peaceful, quiet little place. Now, it's in shambles, we can't trust the people we've known for decades, and we sure as hell aren't welcoming to newcomers anymore."

You nod along,

"I mean, anyone could be the freak."

He gets up from his chair, opening the door,

"I'm not going to make you go home, but you aren't there enough in the head to work. Go to Greta's, hang out with a friend, do something where you aren't alone."

"Okay, sounds like a good idea."

Giving Mr. Hardy a tight smile, you exit the lumber store.

See, the problem with Mr. Hardy's advice is that you have no friends. You have no one and that's how you like it.

Except now it's really kicking you in the ass.

In your truck, you brainstorm what to do. Sure, lunch at Greta's diner would be nice, but you can't stay there for hours. Greta and your coworkers are the only people you talk to on a semi-regular basis.

Well, there is one more person who would be interested in hanging out with.

Pleased that you may not have to be alone today, you open Instagram and send a long-awaited, not really, message.

At the diner, you really didn't have to wait long.

You found your seat at the bar and told Greta to wait for your order until your "plus one" gets here. To which she raised an eyebrow, assuming you were on some date.

"It's not a date, Greta, it's more of a get-together/we-have-serious-things-to-talk-about."

She laughs,

"Alright, honey, I hope you enjoy your 'we-have-serious-things-to-talk-about', then."

You smile to yourself, but Greta is right, this is awfully similar to a date. Did you get ready for it? No, you only asked your acquaintance if they wanted to get lunch.

Oh, God, why did you word it like that? You should have been more specific!

This is not a date. This is not a date. This is not a date.

"Ahem,"

A strong hand waves in your face.

"You're really lost in thought, huh?"

You snap out of it. Jed takes a seat beside you. He looks really put together. He is in dark gray pants, a light blue dress shirt, and a matching dark gray tie. Yes, he looks like he came straight out of an office, but he looks–

way better than you, that's for sure.

Mr. Hardy doesn't give two shits about what you wear, and neither do you. The last time you cared about how "aesthetically pleasing" you looked was before you decided to move to Mellen.

You have really let yourself go.

"No, just wondering why you look like you just got out of a meeting."

Either the playful jab wasn't funny, or Jed didn't get it. You decide to dig your grave deeper and explain.

"I'm saying you look way too formal for someone who doesn't have to go into work, as you know, your office is miles and miles away."

He looks down, analyzing your outfit. A vulnerable moment flares on his face as a faint blush shades his neck.

"Oh, yea, I–uhm–I thought this was–never mind. "

An awkward silence follows.

"Do you not work on Wednesdays?"

Jed asks you, probably wondering why you're dressing like a bum, or maybe the fact that you invited him to lunch at 2 in the afternoon.

You fiddle with your T-shirt. Suddenly, so aware and insecure of what you are wearing.

"No, I do, I just wasn't feeling up to it today, to be honest. Called in sick."

He nods; a small smirk forms on his lips.

"Ah, playing hooky. Even more dangerous when everyone is connected to each other. How do you know he isn't going to find out?"

You look up, a subtle word that shouldn't have grabbed your attention jumped out at you. "He".

You never told him anything about your boss, not even gender.

"You're right. In this town, secrets always get uncovered. So why try hiding it?"

You eye Jed. What is his game?

"So, I'm here with Jed Olsen, Wasau's number one investigative journalist. Is the Wausau Gazette okay with you spending valuable time hanging out at a local diner instead of writing?"

You joke, but you want to go throat for throat. You know things about him, too.

His smirk turns into a full-blown smile, just like the one he gave you the other day.

"You stalking me? Jeez, maybe you chose the wrong field."

"How do you know that I'm not a journalist too?"

Jed shakes his head,

"Alright, fine, I'll admit it too, I did my research on you as well, but in my defense, it's literally my job."

Oh, so that's how he knew about your boss. You are so exhausted, holy shit. You need to give Jed a break.

"This boy again, sweetheart? Nice to see you're finally making some friends!"

Fucking Greta.

The old lady walks over, notepad in hand. She takes your orders and leaves, winking at Jed.

Fucking Greta.

You just pray he doesn't ask about the friend thing. Or anything about you. You remind yourself; this isn't some rendezvous with a hot–I mean random–man.

This is about Ghostface.

"So, I'll just come out and say it."

Jed leans closer, eyes dark and focused on you.

"I want to talk about Ghostface. Anything and everything. "

He raises an eyebrow, suprised.

"I'm talking about what you think his motives are, how he kills, patterns within his victims, and possible suspects."

He nods, immediately searching his messenger bag. He pulls out a black journal, falters, then quickly puts it back; instead, he reaches for a smaller red notebook.

Greta comes back, giving Jed his coffee.

"Coffee, really?"

He sets the book down.

"What, I thought you would be pleased."

"Hold on. A. I'm just surprised. B. You said you hated it last time, and C. It's 2 in the afternoon."

He smiles,

"Well, it grew on me. I don't know if you noticed,"

Jed waves his hand, directing your attention to his dark eye bags.

"I'm always tired."

"Didn't your mom ever tell you that 8 hours of sleep is vital?"

He shakes his head,

"My mother is complicated."

Noted. Jed shifts in his seat, opening the notebook and flipping through its pages. He settles on one that is filled with black ink.

"Alright, we will start off with the stuff I'm 100% sure about."

"Okay."

The journalist sips his coffee before reading, the steam fogging up his square glasses.

"Ghostface kills when his victims are lacking. Commonly, home invasions, but sometimes when they are working alone or out with friends. Either way, being surrounded by people is the way to go."

Well fuck. You suppose you have to rely on Jed now, but even then, that's not enough; it's not like he can stay in your house. You don't even trust him. You will have to go out of your comfort zone and make actual friends.

"Ghostface's weapon of choice is a knife; he likes to get messy. There is clear evidence that he plays with his food; victims often have numerous stab wounds and sometimes mutilations. Also, there is proof of strangling and beating, so there are clear signs of physical aggression before the murder."

You nod along, wishing you had also brought a little notebook to keep track of the information Jed gives you.

"And, while there is always a lot of blood on the crime scene, he never leaves a trail. This guy is a pro."

"So, is it also confirmed that Ghostface is a man?"

He laughs.

"No, it's not confirmed. If it is a woman, then she must be a brute."

You raise an eyebrow, prepared to give the speech about how women could be heartless serial killers, too.

"Look, you haven't seen the victims. They are covered in bruises and have extreme damage to internal organs, suggesting that these people were, quite literally, thrown around."

"Wait. You're only a journalist. How did you even get clearance to see the victim's bodies?"

"I thought we were here to discuss Ghostface, not interrogating me."

Jed was right, you are being jumpy and skeptical, but you have every right to be. Jed could very well be Ghostface; he's new, he knows way too much about the killer, and–well, that was it really, but still. You remember Mr. Hardy's words,

"I mean, anyone could be the freak."

"But I don't blame you. We live in dangerous times."

He looks like he is going to say something else, but Greta shoves your lunches in front of you. You ordered a nice juicy burger, and Jed has chicken tenders and fries. Your burger steals the attention away from Jed. You take a humongous bite out of it, practically moaning at the taste.

He watches you, and an amused look dances his face that he can't shake away, even when pleading his case.

"I bribe the medical examiners to show me the bodies."

You look up, a piece of lettuce hangs from your lips,

"How corrupt of you."

"I just want to have the best story, to beat all the other journalists. Partly because of my pride and partly because I want my boss off my ass."

You chuckle,

"Cheers to that."

The rest of your time at the diner consisted of discussing Ghostface, banter, and getting to know each other. It wasn't a half-bad time.

Eventually, it was time to leave–Greta was becoming more suspicious by the minute. Jed asked if you wanted to hang out again soon, and you only hesitantly agreed because of what Jed told you: the more friends you have, the safer you are.

You spent the day burning gas and going anywhere but home. Unfortunately, time is always against you.

When you got home, you completed your nightly routine quickly. Longing for your bed, maybe it couldn't protect you, but at least you can be granted peaceful sleep, a time where you won't be stressing about your possible death.

Janie and Willow sense your discomfort; they stick to your side like wolves in a pack. You all enter your room, and they jump onto the bed, but you're stuck standing there. You look out the window: no one. Under the bed: no one. In the closet: no one. You are in the clear, but it's not enough. You walk into the kitchen and grab a knife. You analyze the deadly thing. The metal catches the warm kitchen light, glinting slightly.

A quiet voice in the back of your mind wonders what it feels like to get cut, to have the knife dig into your flesh and be dragged across your body. You tap the tip of the knife, not hard enough to bleed, but enough to know that it's sharp.

Your phone rings, and you are instantly snapped out of your dazed state.

You stroll into your room and sit on the bed, Janie snuggling closer to you.

"No Caller ID"

Fuck no, you aren't picking up that damn phone.

You completely shut off your phone, shoving the knife under your pillow, pulling the covers over yourself, and forcing yourself to sleep.

Janie and Willow must have left sometime during the night. You lost your comfort, with your two fuzzy warm balls gone, you shiver under the comforter. You are unable to fall asleep, which is ironic because you practically gave a lady a heart attack with your eagernessfor slumber during work.

You toss and turn, wanting your dogs back, but too lazy to go and get them. You sigh and run a hand over your face. Just about to shove off the covers, you hear the creaking of floorboards. The sound was too heavy to be an animal.

Shaking, you retrieve the knife from its hiding spot. You cautiously stand up, pausing at the doorframe. You look around your dark cabin, and you don't see anyone. You aren't sure where the sound came from, and you debate whether it's best to go on offense or defense. You scour your mind, trying to remember what Jed told you about Ghostface.

"Ghostface kills when his victims are lacking. Commonly, home invasions, but sometimes when they are working alone or out with friends."

Well, that checks out.

You recall that Jed mentioned that he believes Ghostface stalks his victims extensively beforehand. If this is true, then he may know how to navigate your house already.

As you piece together the information, you realize more and more that the creeper from a couple of nights ago was definitely Ghostface.

Now that fact is useless, because he's come back, and this time, he wants to have actual contact.

You decide to go the offensive route, maybe you can catch him off guard. Tiptoeing in the darkness, you are ready to attack that son of a bitch. You check the kitchen, bathroom, and hallway, but there is no sign of Ghostface. That leaves one more room.

You turn the corner, entering the living room, but there is once again no one there. Where is Ghostface? You search the room looking for a trace of his existence, but everything is where you left it.

Maybe you're safe.

All day, you've recognized your exhaustion; the stress of last night got to you. You just want to lie down, close your eyes, and go back to your normal routine.

Shuffling towards the archway of your living room, you lose your adrenaline, and the reminiscing of your bed induces melatonin.

And you were so close to getting what you wanted.

"Don't want to pick up my calls, huh?"

A blood-curdling scream that you didn't realize was yours until you feel a flash of heat on the side of your stomach. A gloved hand covers your mouth, muting any sound that escapes your lips. Not that screaming would help.

You live in the middle of ten acres of dense woods.

You kick, punch, and bite at your attacker, who holds you to him. You flail helplessly as he pushes the knife further into your torso. You try to elbow him, but his grip is too strong. Hot, burning pain washes over you, eyes tearing. It's so extreme that you can't even make a sound.

"Stop fighting, I just want to chat."

You stomp on his foot hard, but his hold on you does not relent.

"You bitch!"

Your attacker suddenly rips the knife from your side and kicks you with his boot to the floor. The wind gets knocked out of you, and you curl into a ball, trying to regain your breath.

It's a pathetic sight.

Not even two minutes into the attack, and you have already given up. You just lie there and cry, holding yourself for a useless attempt at comfort in your final moments.

You watch your attacker through watery eyes. It's the one and only Ghostface.

He wears a Halloween costume mask: a ghastly face with white skin, long black eyes, and a mouth that appears to be silently screaming. Ghostface has a towering build, dressed in all black and combat boots. His leather gloves are balled into a pulsing fist, holding the knife that is drenched in your blood.

He tilts his head, in mock sympathy, even he thinks you're pathetic.

"What's wrong, little deer, you've given up already?"

The sight of his amusement produces an intense rage that intrudes into every inch of your body. You don't want to die, not like this, and certainly not by this son of a bitch. You won't die a failure, a lazy quitter;

a loser.

You are losing blood fast, which causes you to feel lightheaded, but you push your weakening body away from the tall man. Each feeble scooch is met with Ghostface taking a taunting step towards you. When he chuckles you realize exactly what he is doing:

He's playing with his food.

"Fuck you."

You grunt. A sudden burst of energy courses through you from your anger. You push yourself off the ground, the bleeding wound punishing you. For a moment, pain blinds you, but your fear yells at you to run.

Ghostface chases after you, boots stomping behind you. You can't reach the front door; you would have to circle back. You are heading straight for a dead end, but at least your room has a lock. You sprint for the door, slipping on the hardwood floor. You scramble back up to your feet, shutting the door and locking it. Not allowing yourself time to catch your breath, Ghostface pounds on the door.

"You think this is gonna stop me?"

He kicks the door.

"I thought you were smarter than this."

You get up from the cold floor, holding your side and limping towards the window. Your left arm is covered in blood when you force the glass open.

Ghostface slams his foot through your wooden door. His gloved hand pokes through and fiddles with your door handle, trying to unlock it.

You're running out of time.

You practically jump out the window, your body thumps against the grass. The adrenaline that spikes through you is kind enough to let the pain go unnoticed as you force yourself off the ground.

"Time's up."

Those two words are what send you half-sprinting-half-limping into the woods.

Trees flash by you as you run further and further into the night, towards the road. Not stopping even as your body is begging for a break, even as you feel like you cannot breathe.

When you cannot run anymore, you walk, chest heaving. When you cannot walk, you crawl. When you cannot crawl, you drag your helpless body towards the two-lane highway. Twigs and branches dig into your skin, shaking hands fist the earth as you pull yourself to the concrete. You cannot move; you have exerted yourself too much. You wheeze; it feels as though your lung has collapsed. You can feel the blood rising up in your throat before you cough it out.

Everything hurts, you're so tired you just want to sleep.

Sleep.

It sounds so nice to close your eyes and rest. Just for a moment. Then you can keep going. Or maybe, the universe will be merciful enough to let you go before you wake up.

Your eyes flutter shut. At least now you have made your death an honorable one. You fought back; you escaped.

But you won't survive.

No.

You force your eyes open.

You won't be another victim, a story in the paper, or a news station. You won't be a face that is only remembered because of Ghostface. You are not going to let someone else control your fate. This is your life, and you won't give it up.

If only your sheer willpower were enough to get you up on your feet, unfortunately, it's not. Your arms are sore from your journey to the road; you resort to moving like an inchworm up the road in the direction of what you think is Mellen.

Minutes feel like centuries as you make your way, your blood leaving a crimson trail. Your body stutters and shakes; you can't do this anymore.

Just as your brain begins to shut down, blinding headlights shine in your face. A truck trails on the road, salvation. You just need the driver to see you. You scooch yourself towards the middle of the road, but the truck doesn't slow down.

You try to scream, but a hoarse rasp is all that comes out.

Please, help me.

You chant in your head as the truck drives past you.

So, this is it. You are going to bleed out on this road. In the middle of nowhere. You don't remember when you started crying, you just know that there is a deep sadness that overtakes you, leaving a pit in your stomach.

Car breaks screech. The truck reverses and stops a couple of feet away from your helpless body.

"John, I told you there was somethin' on the road!"

The doors to the truck slam, and you hear someone hop out of the truck.

"Calm down, Ellen, you know it's probably a deer."

How wrong they were.

"Anything is possible. We never thought there would be a serial killer running around town but look where we are."

The lady, Ellen, walks around the truck bed.

"Dear lord!"

She exclaims and rushes towards your limp figure. John leans over her shoulder and gasps at the sight of you. Ellen holds you in her arms, and you look up through half-shut eyes.

"We need to get her to a hospital!"

John doesn't move,

"Are you alright?"

You can't respond. Ellen slaps him.

"Of course, she ain't okay, she is bleeding out! We have to get her to a hospital now."

Driving back into town on a calm Thursday morning, moving disgustingly slow all for the sake of being as close to late as possible. Not because you're a bad employee, but because of how draining your job is. A boss that doesn’t even have half a brain, and gossiping conservative colleagues, –this is partially your fault, you had the bright idea to move to the rural Midwest, dumbass–and the constant reminder of what a failure you are. Starting your music career at 16 and now, years later, that dream is hanging on by a thread. 

Wanting to stall some more, you parked your busted-up 1996 Toyota Tacoma in the number one gas station of Mellen–it was the only gas station in a 30-minute radius–and strolled up to the front door. Opening it with ease, you hear a faint, but familiar, tune playing on the speakers. As you peruse the various shelves, you try to work through the static of the radio to hear what was playing. You flop the Twinkies onto the counter, pulling out your wallet. Then, it hits you.

It’s your song on the radio.

In your dream-like state, you barely miss the intruding body, creeping up in the grass. But when another joins the being in your periphery, you snap up. Heart racing, you give a sigh of relief. Not wolves. It’s only deer. Your dogs, still intact, are busy n rolling in the damp soil. The two brown animals stand, noticing your fear; they stare at you, exemplifying the same emotion you felt a couple of seconds ago.

Stupid things. 

You think to yourself.

“Why do you stand there?” 

You ask them. No response. You shake your head, disappointment for creatures that don’t know any better.

“You’re all scared, yet you stay there. Waiting. For what? For you both to realize that you can trust me?”

You descend down the stairs, and the two deer take a cautious step back.

“It’s too dangerous to freeze in the face of death, or to be hopeful that your predator shows mercy.”

Janie, an energetic little thing, snaps her head towards the deer, tail going ecstatic. The blonde dog barks a few times before running after the pair. They go sprinting back into the forest as they came.

Deciding that was enough outside time for today, you beckon your pets inside and slam the door shut. You shiver, damn weather, changing so fast your wardrobe is extremely disorganized. You just pulled out your summer clothes from the attic, and soon enough, you didn’t need them. Wanting to curl up somewhere warm, you cuddle up on your couch and turn on the TV. You switch channels until you realize that nothing good is on and settle on just letting the news station drone as you do something productive: scroll on social media for hours.

Eventually, natural desires take over, and you find yourself grabbing materials in your kitchen for a nice hearty lunch of a turkey sandwich with mayo on white bread. The TV’s audio is still noticeable as you spread the creamy sauce on your bread slices. Suddenly, the lightheartedness of the station switches completely.

“This just in, the Ashland County Sheriff is warning residents to beware when walking home alone, being out in the dark and at any time where you are possibly in a vulnerable situation.”

What the hell is this about?

You live in Mellen, Wisconsin, population of not even 700 people. Ashland County being just as sparsely populated, nothing really bad happens here, other than the occasional animal attack or getting lost in the woods, so what could this be about?

Sticking your two halves together, you carry your plate into the living room, returning back to your comfy position. You munch on your lunch as the reporter continues,

“The sheriff has been working with Iron and Vilas’ county’s sheriffs to predict where the infamous ‘Ghostface’ will strike next. Their data predicts it’s here.”

You scoff to yourself, obviously this douchebag serial killer wants to make a name for himself, so why strike in a secluded area no one has ever heard of? More people can live in fear if this guy reigned terror on a more densely populated place. You sigh, why are you trying to understand a psycho-killer's motives?

“We sent a reporter to interview the sheriff, while she was quite dismissive she did leave us with this,”

An audio plays a recording of the sheriff’s stern voice,

“Do not get cocky, or arrogant enough to think that this, Ghostface–”

She spits his name with pure resentment.

“Will not cross your path. That is how he murders his victims. He thinks he is smart when in reality, he feeds off of the ignorance of innocents. Do not forget this. Make our jobs easier, and save your life, too.”

You nod, wiping the white crumbs from your mouth.

“Damn right.”

Not willing to hear more bad news, you shut off the TV. For the rest of the day, you busy yourself with mindless activities: brushing the dogs, reading a book, playing your guitar, until bittersweet sleep takes you under.

Darkness. The crunching of leaves and strong winds overwhelm your hearing. You can’t breathe, the wind was knocked out. Nonetheless, you run. Why were you just standing there before, frozen? Why didn’t you fight? Why did you just start sprinting now?

Stupid little deer.

Mocking, condescension, that’s all you know about this mysterious thing you are running from. Jumping over fallen branches and avoiding all the sharp edges of the forest, your heart beats faster till the point where it feels on the verge of explosion. Yet, you don’t stop, you move further and further into the night. That is, until your legs give out and your body slams to the ground.

The ringing of your alarm clock jolts you awake.

“Thank god, it was only a dream.”

You shove the covers off, running a hand over your face. The rest of the morning is a blur. You turn on the shower head, the next thing you know you're fully clothed, then feeding your dogs and heading to your truck, fiddling with the radio till it reaches the right music.

You woke up early enough to stop at your favorite diner, taking a seat at the bar. Greta, the plump, graying lady who owns the place, approaches you with her warm smile.

“Good morning, honey, the usual today?”

You nod and say “thank you.”

Your coffee comes out first; no sugar; no cream. You sip it, almost gagging. It’s horrible.

It’s perfect.

The bell to the diner chimes as you scroll on your phone, paying no attention to the newcomer. Old friends partying, favorite artist performing in your hometown, and more depressing things to really dampen the mood of the already gloomy establishment. You put your phone down, instead focusing on the warmth of your shitty drink. 

“Oh my god, this is disgusting.”

You hear the stranger sitting a couple stools away from you choke. A small smile cracks up on your lips, reminding you of the first time you stopped into Greta’s Diner.

You were tired from the long drive and in a raggedy outfit, Greta strolled up to you, calling you “sugar” and showing you to a stool, which you later regretted as you were practically put on display. You ordered a black coffee and was shocked at the low-quality of the stimulant. Soon, it became a regular in your routine and a fan favorite.

“Never had Greta’s world famous coffee before?”

You don’t look up from your cup, rubbing the sides of the mug, a nervous habit. You see the stranger give you a sideways glance and a crooked smile. There is a feeling of unease that fills the diner air when the man in your peripheral looks at you. You note how his voice is smooth as he replies,

“If this is world famous then it must be for negative reasons.”

You chuckle warily, not sure what to make of your inner turmoil, you still don’t meet his gaze.

“This stuff is the shit.”

You lift the ceramic to your mouth, raising it so the cup covers your nose as you finally turn to peek at your neighbor. His smile turns wolfish,

“This is shit, not the shit.”

Tired, dark eyes, square glasses, and black hair that is brushed back besides a strand that lingers on his forehead, is what your curious glance rewards you with. You lower the mug, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey, Greta is around here somewhere, be nice.”

He takes his coffee, eyes on yours as he takes a slow sip. 

Is that him trying to be sexy?

Well, you do think he is hot, in a way, but you don’t know this man. There’s a goddamn serial killer on the loose, you really can’t be too cautious, but he seems nice.

“I thought having it for the second time would make it better, I was wrong.”

“Please, you don’t know what real coffee is.”

You roll your eyes,

 “You are just dragging this to get a reaction out of me.”

He barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling.

“Maybe I can show you some real coffee sometime…” 

Oh my god he is flirting with you.

He drags out the last syllable to imply him asking for your name.

Before you bite the hook, Greta comes back with your food.

“Here you go, sweetheart, jus’ how you like it.”

She places the steaming plate in front of you, your mouth begins to water.

As you devour your meal, you continue conversing with the man. You pretend like he never asked for your name–technically he didn’t, but you knew what he meant–or tried to flirt with you. Slowly, the skepticism wears away, but it lingers, almost like how you forget about the annoying buzzing of your fridge at night or the check engine-light that has been glowing for five months on your dashboard. You really need to get that checked out.

“So, what brings you to Mellen.”

You say as you scrap your plate clean. The man shifts uncomfortably in his stool. He adjusts his glasses before speaking,

“Well, it’s a little dark, I will say.”

He looks at you, maybe someone watching your conversation would not think his demeanor changed at all, that he was only a little nervous to share why he is in your small town, not that he had bad intentions. But, you felt in that moment that this man is not the charming thing he acts like. Your heart races and panic creeps into your throat.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the Ghostface murders, correct?”

His dark brown eyes seem to switch to an all-consuming black. You gulp, eyes wide,

“Yeah, what does that have to do with you?”

The man’s eyes run over your face, analyzing. You can see the moment it clicks in his head that you're scared, he straightens, you didn’t even notice he was leaning towards you. He gives an awkward half-chuckle, half-clearing-his-throat.

“Woah, I worded that horrible, I apologize. I am a journalist. I have been running all around Northern Wisconsin documenting his heinous crimes.”

You give him a pursed smile, signaling you understand, but the suspicion in you returns and more potent. You unconsciously position your body away from him.

“You don’t believe me, jeez.”

He clutches his heart in mock heartbreak. It’s an uncomfortable silence when you don’t laugh.

“Look, here is my business card, since you're rightfully skeptical of my reasons for being in your little town.”

“Thanks, I’ll put it in my phone case so I don’t forget to stalk you later.”

You take the card and reach for your phone.

Oh shit.

The screen informs you that it’s 8:30. You are late. You were so focused on the conversation that you completely lost track of time. You slam $20 on the counter, and fly off the barstool.

“Wait, can I at least get your name?”

You hear the man call out behind you as you rush out the diner.

The engine of your busted-pickup roars to life as you turn the key. You slam on the accelerator leaving the parking lot.

You slow down to turn onto the dirt road that leads up to your house, headlights illuminating the thick woods. The lights cast an eerie shadow throughout the path. Your breath finally slows once you reach your humble abode. The cosy cabin has a warm glow on the porch from your lanterns. As you turn off the engine of your truck, you see Willow looking out the window, wagging her tail as she waits for your arrival. 

You toss your keys on the counter, unable to hear the sound of the metal clashing with your wooden counter as the rampage that is your two pets thunders in your ears. Janie jumps on top of you, the huge golden retriever almost knocking you down, while Willow rubs her fur on your legs. You push off Janie in surrender and pull out the heavy bag of dog food.  You pour an equal amount for Willow and Janie, taking a longer time than necessary as you have to fight to protect the bowls from their eager hunger.

Your horrible day has left you not in any mood to eat, the only thing on your mind is a nice, hot shower. You turn the knob all the way to the left, waiting for the steam to build up before you jump in. With a sigh, you grasp the edges of the sink and look into the mirror; only to be disappointed. Your mascara has left dark smudges under your eyes and your lips dry and cracked from hours of nervously tugging at the skin. Thankfully, the steam begins to cloud the mirror, stopping you from further self-loathing and pity.

The shower was perfect. You closed your eyes, the warmth of the water running over your curves left your mind blank. Worry free. The smell of lavender and eucalyptus from your soap and body wash fills the bathroom. The atmosphere created by your shower leaves all the worry outside the small room.

Bark!

You roll your eyes,

“Jesus, Janie, let me have some peace.”

You shut your eyes again, slowly drifting back into that relaxed state. You now lean back, your head being directly under the showerhead, you sigh–

Bark! Bark! Bark!

Now both of your dogs are barking, viciously. They don’t go that crazy unless there is someone on the property. Fear sneaks up on you. You turn off the shower, quickly drying yourself off with the towel and throwing your clothes back on. If this is an intruder you aren’t getting chased in a damn towel, this isn’t some perverted horror movie. 

And you aren’t a dumb, big-boobed bimbo who gets killed, that’s for sure. 

You open the door, the steam piles out as the contrasting cold of your home kisses your exposed bathroom. You creep out, finding your dogs staring out the back window of your living room. You approach beside them, peaking out the window. You meet empty land. You squint your eyes focusing on the tree line; you don’t see anyone. You stand up, still not content, but convince yourself that you are being paranoid, it’s just another case of the availability heuristic. 

You shuffle to the master bedroom, taking deep breaths after tonight's scare. You walk into your room, and shut the door, eyes adjusting to the dark. The pitch black void that is your bedroom engulfs you. The darkness makes you feel safe, you can go unnoticed, you can hide. You remove your clothes from today and slip into your pajamas–which only consists of an oversized tee. 

A prickling feeling travels down from the back of your neck to your spine as you pull the shirt over your body. You whip your head around, there is something at your window. Your breath hitches; eyes wide and alert. It’s too dark to see what it is, but you can feel its taunting eyes on you. You stand there, legs rooted to the floor. You don’t know how long you freeze for, even after the shadow slips away, you are still stuck, as if someone nailed your feet to the ground. 

Ten minutes pass. At least, you think it’s been ten minutes.

What are you doing? You just froze and now that thing is either lingering or already found a way to get in. Move bitch! Call the police or something!!

The police.

You fumble with your phone, slamming the numbers 911 into the keypad.

The call is short, you tell them there was someone looking through your window, and is intruding on your property. The man on the line didn’t seem to care, but you told him you have a perfectly rational reason for needing the police, with Ghostface running around your county. 

Twenty minutes later, one cop showed up and scanned the area.

Nothing. The cop was nice enough, but you could tell she was annoyed under the facade. Having to drive all the way out to your house, just for a faux perception. 

“Probably just a deer or something.”

The officer shrugs.

She tells you to be safe and leaves. You shut the front door, locking it, then double checking. Triple checking.

It’s gone, nothing to worry about now. Right?

That night, you couldn’t bring yourself to go to bed. You scrolled on Tik Tok until you finally decided you should go to sleep. Afterall, work was going to be a bitch. You set your phone on the nightstand and close your eyes.

One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…

“Damnit.”

You pick back up your phone.

“What is this?”

You look at the white paper in your case. It comes all back to you then. The diner, the man and his strange vibe, his eyes.

You pull the card out of the plastic phone case.

“Jed Olsen.”

You read off of the card. 

Jed Olsen

Investigative Journalist

The Wausau Gazette

Plugging his name into Google, his articles pop up.

“MASKED SERIAL KILLER STRIKES SMALL NORTHERN WISCONSIN TOWN.”

“KILLER COSTUME: THE TOMAHAWK TERROR CONTINUES FROM MASKED KILLER.”

“MURDER ON THE MOVE: INFAMOUS ‘GHOSTFACE’ KILLER BRUTALLY MURDERED TWO TEENAGERS IN IRONWOOD.”

“So, this guy knows all about Ghostface, huh?”

You don’t know what compels you to click on the “photo” button, but nonetheless, you do. Pictures of Jed fill your screen. Him giving a crooked smile, his college graduation, an oldc high school newsletter. You spend the night stalking this poor man.