Gale leaned back in her seat, eyes sharp. “Prep the compact. We’ll hide it in a window and tape tonight’s festivities.”

He fiddled with the camera, small enough to hide in his palm. “Control board’s glitched. We can’t carry a live picture.”

“What’s the delay?” she asked.

“Thirty seconds.”

“As long as it records, I don’t give a shit. We’re not doing a remote.”

Before Kenny could respond, the van door slid open. Gale stepped out, heels crunching gravel—only to nearly scream when a hand touched her shoulder. She spun, heart stopping.

Dewey stood there, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Evening, ma’am.”

“Deputy,” Gale exhaled, hand pressed to her chest. “Good evening.”

They chatted—her about breaking stories, him about “keeping an eye on things”—until finally Gale snatched the camera from Kenny, winked, and followed Dewey toward the house.

⸻

Inside the kitchen things were way less tense. The microwave beeped as popcorn popped, and the air smelled like cheap beer and junk food.

Y/N leaned against the counter, half-watching as Sidney, Stu, and Tatum tore through bags of chips and candy like it was a feast. Other teens drifted in and out, the whole place buzzing with music and laughter. Randy barged in with an armful of VHS tapes, dumping them dramatically on the counter.

“I thought we’d make it a Blockbuster night,” he announced proudly.

Stu grinned, “I thought everything was checked out.”

“Nah,” Randy smirked. “Had ‘em hid in the foreign section.”

Sidney picked one up, squinting. “The Fog. Terror Train. Prom Night. Why is Jamie Lee Curtis in, like, all of these?”

“She’s the Scream Queen,” Randy said like it was gospel.

“With lungs like hers, she should be,” Stu added with a smirk.

Tatum nudged Sid. “Tits. See?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, snorting into her drink. Typical.

⸻

Later in the living room the party had hit full swing. Teens piled on couches, on the floor, basically anywhere they could sit. Y/N sat cross-legged near the TV, watching Randy try to lead a vote like he was running for president.

“How many Evil Dead’s?” he asked. Hands shot up. “How many Hellraiser’s?”

Arguments broke out—half-serious, half just drunk yelling. Y/N just grinned, sipping her drink, happy to be an observer.

The doorbell rang. Stu, already buzzed, stumbled toward the door.

“I got it! …Tatum, get me a beer. They’re in the garage fridge.”

Tatum groaned. “What am I, the beer wench?”

Before anyone could laugh, Stu’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Hey, guess who’s here? It’s that chick from Inside Story!”

Every head turned. Dewey walked in first, Gale on his arm.

“Tatum,” Y/N muttered under her breath, “is about to lose her mind.”

And she did. “Shit, Dewey! What is she doing here?”

“She’s with me,” Dewey said casually. “Just checking things out.”

The guys in the room couldn’t stop staring at Gale, practically drooling. Even Stu’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights.

“Of course,” Tatum muttered, storming off toward the kitchen.

Y/N stayed put, watching the room shift instantly. Gale knew how to own a room—everyone’s attention went straight to her, even with the music blaring and drinks flowing.

“Wanna interview us?” one kid asked eagerly.

Randy jumped in. “We’ll say really nice things about our slaughtered friends. Real tragic.”

Stu smirked, “I can cry on cue.”

Y/N rolled her eyes again but made a mental note: Gale wasn’t just here to “hang out.” She was up to something.

he party kept pulsing in the living room, Randy now mid-rant about horror rules while half the crowd heckled him.

Stu suddenly leaned into the kitchen doorway, voice cutting through the noise.

“Hey, Tatum! Grab me another beer, babe. Fridge in the garage.”

Tatum shot him a glare so sharp Y/N swore it could’ve cut glass.

“What am I, the beer wench?” she snapped, but she grabbed the empty bottles anyway, muttering as she pushed past.

The door slammed behind her, leaving everyone to their chaos. Y/N stretched out on the couch, a little uneasy but chalked it up to the claustrophobic crush of bodies in the house. It’s just a party. Chill.

⸻

INT. GARAGE – NIGHT

The door creaked open as Tatum stepped inside, the flicker of a single overhead bulb casting harsh shadows on the walls. The hum of the beer fridge filled the silence.

She tugged the fridge open, cold light spilling across her face. “Beer, beer, beer… why are boys so helpless?”

The garage door behind her groaned. She froze. Slowly turned.

A figure in black stood by the steps. The mask—white, long-mouthed, hollow-eyed.

“Really?” Tatum laughed nervously, clutching the bottles against her chest. “Nice try, Randy. Cute costume, but you’re not scaring me.”

The figure tilted its head, saying nothing.

“Okay, seriously, you’re starting to freak me out. Cut it out, Stu, if that’s you.”

The figure lunged.

Bottles shattered against the concrete as Tatum stumbled back, shrieking, dodging the knife that sliced through air. She scrambled toward the garage door controls, slamming her hand on the button. The door whirred open—only for the figure to grab her, slam her down.

“Get the hell off me!” she screamed, kicking hard. For a moment, she wriggled free, sprinting toward the doggy door built into the garage door.

Her shoulders wedged through. Hips stuck.

The door clicked. Whirred.

Tatum’s head snapped up as the garage door started rising, dragging her with it. She screamed, arms flailing, but it was no use. The door lifted higher, higher, until—

SNAP.

The light bulb above flickered once. Twice. Then steadied.

Her body dangled limp, blood dripping onto the floor below.

⸻

INT. LIVING ROOM – SAME TIME

No one noticed. The movie was too loud, laughter too sharp, arguments too ridiculous. Stu howled at Randy’s “rules of horror movies” speech, Y/N burying her face in a pillow to muffle her own laughter at how worked up he got.

“Number one!” Randy shouted, holding up a finger. “You can never have sex.”

The room erupted in boos and laughs.

“Number two!” he continued, ignoring them. “You can never drink or do drugs.”

Half the crowd raised their beers defiantly, chanting “Bullshit!”

Y/N chuckled, sinking further into the couch cushions. If only you knew what’s really happening out there…