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Frank Morrison

At first remembering what a complete asshole he is, he'll make fun of you. He'll take your white cane, perform stupid acrobatic tricks with it, and tell you to look at him. "Ah right, my dumbass. You're blind." at this point he can even make fun of himself and his jokes genuinely aren't funny.

You can be sure he'll turn your matches into hell. At some point the disrespect Frank shows you will start spreading to the others too. And when he finds out about it, sorry but he won't be pleased. "You fucking legged idiots aren't ashamed of messing with a blind person!?" he says while running up and driving his knife into someone's back without even looking at who they are. "Pick on someone your own size!"

Frank definitely doesn't consider himself to be in the same category as them. He's an egotistical meathead. Now he'll act as if nothing bad ever happened between the two of you.

"How many?" he held up two fingers right in front of your face and waited for an answer. "But Frank, I can't see—" He cut you off without a second thought. He was stubborn as a mule. "Yeah, but that doesn't stop you using your brain."

Frowning, you threw out a number without thinking much about it. "One?" There was silence between the two of you. Frank lowered the middle finger he had been showing you and grunted. "No, it was five."

What more is there to say? He's a complete asshole, but a lovable asshole.

Hillbilly

Oh, poor baby. His mind is going to be so thoroughly scrambled. Because of the life he's lived, he's never met a blind person before. At first he'll simply assume you’re clumsy and, without giving it much thought, try to kill you just like he does everyone else. But later during a sudden collision between the two of you, instead of screaming in fear, you reach out and touch whatever you ran into—Max's chest. Then with a small breath and hesitant uncertainty, you murmur "David?" and he just freezes.

His entire life, he'd been forced to endure disgusted stares crawling across his skin, he'd spent years fighting against screams that chased him as though they had a physical form of their own, but none of the pain he had ever experienced could have prepared him for this moment.

Not knowing what to do, he'll hurriedly leave. It won't take long for guilt to settle in after abandoning you there. He'll come back. Assuming you can't really get around on your own, he'll at least hope to guide you somewhere safe and keep you away from the carnage.

Of course, the moment he sees Leon—someone he already can't stand—holding your hand and leading you toward the generators, his mood will sour very quickly.

Deciding to leave you and Leon alone for a while, he'll turn his attention toward another survivor. Hoping to put an end to the battle between his heart and his mind, he'll keep dragging his chainsaw through bone.

Albert Wesker

Wesker wasn't stupid. During a chase, he knew exactly what the stick you were holding in the distance was when he caught sight of it from the corner of his eye. To be honest, he couldn’t help but feel a little curious in that moment. Was the Entity really cruel enough to bring a blind person here?

Still, this was Albert Wesker we were talking about. He never distinguished between the obstacles standing in the way of his victory. And you were no exception. Well, you were for a time...

You were far too kind. Not because you possessed a pure heart, but because you believed fighting with another person would gain you nothing. Perhaps that was why, despite the people who looked down on you and saw you as useless, you never used your blindness as a tool to turn your back on them. No, you caught even the smallest pained whimper like a hunter and continued helping others despite suffering yourself. And that fascinated him. He told himself it was nothing unusual. He had seen plenty of self sacrificing fools like that before, yet he could never stop himself from being drawn to you.

As he came to believe that you were remarkably intelligent and had interesting ideas, his interest in you became increasingly obvious. Which meant he would stop killing you. "Seven minutes...I'll give you only seven minutes." He said it while watching you study his face with eyes that couldn't see, unaware of the excitement shining within them after the familiarity built over such a long time.

If only you could have seen the savage hunger with which those bright eyes looked at you.

Caleb Quinn

One of Caleb's favorite things was targeting survivors from distances where he could truly show off his marksmanship. Naturally, that would make him notice you very quickly. When he aimed at you, instead of checking behind yourself, running and weaving back and forth like the others, he saw you trailing your hands along walls and finding your way through sound.

But the biggest thing that stopped Caleb was something else. The thing he knew best was the smell of helplessness.

He had faced strong opponents and exceptionally skilled ones, even the most dishonorable kinds, but never someone weak and without the chance to see. That went against his cowboy way too much. For a while he would simply watch you from afar, unsure of what to do with you.

Eventually, there would be times when he let you escape. There were moments when he not even allowed you to live during matches he was destined to lose. He tried not to cause unnecessary pain, and that applied not only to killing but to chases as well. While he hunted others directly with his rifle, he would usually take advantage of your condition and catch you with his hands instead.

He would never make you experience the pain of his harpoon even once, because shooting prey that couldn't properly run went against his cowboy pride.

Caleb never forgot what life had taken from him. Because of that, he wouldn't see your blindness as a 'flaw' but as 'one of life's dirty tricks played on you.' and with time, he would even start trying to have conversations with you.

Trickster

You're an insult to his existence. If someone were to come up and ask what he thought of you, he'd give a brief and straightforward answer. The Entity dragged this boring thing here to punish me.

To him, you're a loser. And as if not being able to see him wasn't enough, you're completely indifferent to his insults because you don't even know korean. "찌질이." When he throws one of his knives at you from a record breaking distance while you're running around with the help of your cane, he'll call out after you like that.

His voice is so low and wild that it sounds less like an insult and more like a term of endearment. Ji-woon shouldn't lie to himself, but he absolutely enjoys messing with you. And much like the affection he once accepted from his fans, he'll gradually begin admitting to himself that he likes your presence too.

"너 완전 루저야" (You're a complete loser) As he says it, he'll sign one of his favorite cassette tapes and tuck it into the side of your pants. Ah and if despite not understanding his strange behavior, you approach him politely instead of rudely...Ji-woon will melt. As this sick obsession of his grows over time, he'll begin writing music for you. During matches, he'll always leave you for last and constantly make sure the generators don't get finished so he can spend plenty of time with you.

Eventually, Ji-woon will remember that not being able to see his perfection doesn't stop you from feeling it, and after gently taking hold of your wrists and placing kisses against your palms that tickle your skin, he'll bow his head slightly before you and guide your hands up to his face.

The Knight

He definitely won't pity you. The moment he finds you he'll take care of you without hesitation, sooner he's rid of you, the better. But somehow, he'll occasionally find himself absentmindedly watching you.

Knight had seen far too many things before. The wounded, maimed, countless people clinging to life in agony despite missing limbs or having their faces completely shattered..He shouldn't have been affected by it and yet, here he was.

Drawn toward the scent of blood, you had reached out to him by following the sounds he made. One hand clung to his arm while you held a medkit in the other, looking at him with quiet concern. You were pathetic enough to mistake him for an injured teammate because of the smell of blood. "Let me help you."

With a grunt from beneath his helmet, he grabbed you by the arm, then shifted his hold to your waist. Ignoring your startled cry and the frightened struggling that came with your sudden realization, he carried you to the hatch.

If we ignore the part where he tossed you into the darkness like a sack of shit, it was actually gentlemanly.

Chucky

"Oh my God, is this shit a gift for me? It isn't even my birthday!" After killing everyone else, Chucky shouted that toward the sky as if someone up there was listening while enjoying the pleasure of finally meeting the new survivor. Damn it, he's going to make fun of you so much that at some point you might genuinely start praying for him to kill you.

"Don't stare at me like that! Although…you don't actually know where you're looking, do you?" Chucky laughed mockingly at you as you stood with your back to the generator, struggling to figure out what was happening around you. He would constantly compare your helplessness to that of a newborn baby, yet he generally wouldn't touch the cane you needed so badly. No, alright maybe he'd take it sometimes but he'd genuinely try not to interfere with it too much. "Well, you can't do anything without that shited thing either, can you? I'm the same way," he said while stroking the knife in his hand as though it were something seductive. "It's as inseparable from me as my dick."

Don't really question Chucky and his philosophy on life. As much of a little shit as he is, he'd definitely look after you too. I mean, come on he's tiny and you're blind! What a great match, right? Sometimes he'd try to play games with you, games that wouldn't hurt you, of course. Things like hide and seek. "My god, you were made for this game, trust me!" he said while punching your leg in an attempt to reassure you. Though what happened a few minutes later didn't really support his words. Taking full advantage of your blindness, he'd practically run circles around your fingertips. "I'm over here…no I'm over here! Look, follow my voice…oops, you walked into a wall! Now that's a classic!"

But the strangest thing is that he'd let you carry him. "RUN AT THAT ASSHOLE! RUNNNN!" To Chucky, you were the body he needed and he was the only eyes you could ever have. How romantic…right?

Jason Voorhees

He learned that you were blind in the worst possible way, at the worst possible time. Jason still carried the fragility and anger born from the bullying he had endured throughout his life deep within his bones. And when he saw the bullying directed at you, he didn't stop to think not even for a moment. He shouldn't have cared, yet despite the command of his mother still echoing in his ears, he immediately strode toward you and without giving the person who had shoved you to the ground a chance to react, grabbed them by the throat and lifted them into the air. Bringing his machete down upon their chest with ruthless force, he would shatter their ribcage.

Behind him, he had already forgotten about you, crawling away from the screams on the ground while crying in fear and searching for your cane. In that moment the only thing he was focused on was the sack of flesh in his hands. With every blow he struck, he remembered the faces of those who had gotten away after what they had done to him. One day he would leave this place, find every last one of them and punish them.

But for now...he let the body in his grasp fall to the ground with a disgusting thud, as though it were nothing. Taking muffled breaths behind his mask, he would finally turn toward you. Without thinking much about it he'd walk over, pick up your cane lying far away from where you were on the ground, then grab you by the arm and haul you to your feet as if you were a rag doll. Ignoring your screams and pleas, he'd place the cane back into your hand and walk away.

He was a victim too, but he would never allow that number to grow.

Pyramid Head

In a single word, he couldn't find anything about you that deserved punishment. The moment he met your eyes—eyes that didn't even know where to look or move in their fear—he lowered the massive sword in his hand.

And your hesitant "Hello?" in response to the deep, rasping breaths coming from him didn't help at all. You were completely unaware of the giant standing before you. He had come here to punish, yet all he could see in you was innocence.

Of course you would be terrified of him. He wasn't a caring or considerate giant. Him constantly grabbing you by the collar, holding your body to drag you somewhere, or forcing you into a seat after depositing you in a corner certainly didn't make things any easier. And that's not even mentioning the touches that left anything for privacy. Still you could see traces of kindness in him. Not only during your own matches with him—even in matches with two killers, he wouldn't allow his partner to lay a finger on you.

He was incredibly possessive. The sound of metal grinding, which once made your heart pound so hard it felt ready to burst from your chest, had become a source of comfort. It was a sign that he was there and while he was there, no one could hurt you. Even friends whose company you missed couldn't get close to you. You had learned a long time ago in the worst way possible, that he would never tolerate anyone making contact with you.

He was very possessive, and all that really meant was getting used to the scent of metal stained with blood and rust.

Ghostface

"Baby, you're holding the flashlight wrong." you quickly turned toward the voice and pointed the flashlight in that direction, but it was no use. Looking at the flashlight aimed directly at his chest, Danny let out a deep sigh. God, you were exhausting. But just as unique. "Hey sweetheart, if you want to blind the killer, you have to point the light at the right place! My face—" the moment you lifted the flashlight toward the sky, he couldn't help but laugh.

"Damn, please don't do that Mr. Blindborn! I can't take on Batman!"

Danny was someone who always found a way to entertain himself, but you were something else entirely. A different kind of flavor—one that melted away on the tongue and left you thirsty, yet somehow made you want more. Danny preferred having control no matter the situation. And what he liked about your blindness was how, sooner or later it could leave you dependent on someone. A lovely little sheep dependent on his guidance.

Of course, he killed you in the beginning. He savored every scream he managed to draw from you. He enjoyed making you hate him, making you fear him, making you become wary of the feeling of being watched that you had grown so used to. And in the end, somehow he made you come back to his arms. He paid no mind to your trembling or your struggles within the tight, warm embrace that surrounded you. He simply locked your bodies together as though the two of you had been lovers since the dawn of the world itself.

To him, this wasn't an unhealthy obsession. No, this was love itself—thing he had never thought he would get to experience. And Danny was starving for it.

Huntress

Ah, you poor baby...that was what flowed from the depths of Anna's mind the thoughts no one ever cared to wonder about—when she first saw you. It's difficult to say what Anna truly thought of you but one thing was certain, it wasn't healthy. Your first match was filled with the terror brought by her dreadful hatchet. Poor you, having only just recognized the sound of it voice, you looked like a dying fawn when the hatchet buried itself into your body.

And this triggered something in her, something powerful enough to overshadow even her desire to kill. You weren't something that needed to be removed—no, you needed to be protected. That was why life had brought you to this cruel, miserable pit. One truth of this place was that pain was inevitable, but whenever you were by Anna's side, she never allowed pain to come near you.

She took your face between her calloused hands, stroked your skin and brushed her fingers over the eyelids of those beautiful eyes that knew nothing of the world around them. She hummed the only lullabies her mother had left behind for her. It didn't matter if you couldn't understand them, her love recognized no language barrier.

Michael Myers

While chasing Laurie, he almost had a heart attack when you suddenly stepped out from around a corner—if that had even been possible. Without thinking, he would have turned you by the shoulder and driven his knife into you. But then he noticed. Michael was a very observant person; it was simply one of the advantages of being a hunter. He saw the dullness in your eyes, that lack of recognition, almost immediately.

It was a sight he had never seen before. Even people who knew nothing about him would look at him strangely or with concern. But not you. Not with the same indifference you carried.

He swiftly raised the knife until its tip hovered before your eye and waited. Yet the scream and expression of terror he wanted so badly never came. It sent a note of discomfort through his body. Michael wasn't used to not being feared. And he would never, the person hesitantly touched by someone trying to understand the owner of the hand gripping them tightly, letting out a startled breath. He shoved you away harshly.

Without caring that you had fallen, he left. But that would not be your last encounter. And the more often a blow lands, the more it wears away whatever stands before it.

“What do I get in return, pet?” Leaning back, legs spread, touching that annoying beard of his. You really really want to go of that spa trip and you’re not in the mood to argue.

Instead you put the papers you’re holding down, look Price in the eye and take a fast decision. You slide off your underwear beneath your pencil skirt and straighten up - then holds up your thong with a finger, dangling it just out of his reach.

“This.”

Suddenly Captain Johnathan Price is not against the idea of letting you have two days off. In fact you get them almost immediately and he even promises not to call and bother you. You roll your eyes at his desperation but throw the thong on the desk and grab your papers, ignoring the pleasured groan leaving your boss.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle likes your cat well enough, but doesn't really care too much about how they feel about him. He kind of sees them like a tiny roommate who cannot care for themself, but that's it.

Then, to your cat, he is essentially just another human to do its bidding.

Kyle is in your kitchen, preparing coffee for the two of you. Your cat is sitting on the counter beside him, watching.

He feels a small tapping on his forearm and looks over to find the creature's paw outstretched and resting on his arm. Their eyes are intently staring at him.

"Whatsit, huh?" He scratches under their chin, "You...thirsty?"

It squawks in response, which tells him nothing. He's pretty sure that's a negative though.

"Hungry?"

Another squawk, leaning more into a mrow. He decides to take that as him getting closer to the root of the problem.

"...D'ya want a treat?"

This time, he gets a loud meow.

"Okay, okay, I'm working on it." He opens the fridge and tugs out the little bag of cat treats you keep around, "Demanding little thing."

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish

Johnny loves your cat so much, it is actually ridiculous.

From the beginning of your relationship with Johnny, your cat is his little buddy. His bestest friend. There is no separating them.

What makes it even funnier?

Your cat loves him just as much, maybe even more.

Johnny steps foot in your home and the very first thing you hear is a questioning "Meow?" from a distant corner, out of sight.

He grins at you and whistles shortly.

There is the sound of small paws sprinting in your direction as your cat responds, only a blur of color as it latches onto the leg of his pants and tears its way up into his arms, making little noises of curiosity and excitement the entire time. As soon as it reaches his shoulders, it settles down with a satisfied meow, pushing its face into his.

Johnny's smile gets brighter and you only roll your eyes and snatch your cat off his shoulders, hugging them to your chest as you stalk off towards the kitchen. You willfully ignore the loud protesting meow your cat lets out.

Johnny, however, doesn't. He pads behind you, "Aw, c'mon, bonnie! It's not his fault he likes me more!"

"Don't start." You roll your eyes. Your cat wiggles in your arms, trying to get to escape and get back to his favorite human.

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.