The Masked One

PART ONE: The Call

Erica Monroe was alone.
The summer air of June 1996 pressed against the windows of her two-story suburban house, cicadas buzzing outside in the warm twilight. Inside, though, everything was quiet—too quiet for a girl who hated silence. The hum of the box fan in her room barely filled the stillness.
She stretched across her bed, the cordless phone in one hand, flipping through a glossy issue of Seventeen with the other. Her hair, bleached blonde at the tips, spilled over her pillow. She was waiting for a call from her boyfriend. He was late.
When the phone finally rang, she jumped.
"Ugh, finally," Erica muttered, snapping it up. "Took you long enough—"
But the voice on the other end wasn't her boyfriend's.
"Hello, Erica."
The voice was distorted, mechanical, though still human enough to feel too close. It was low, deliberate, almost playful.
Erica frowned. "Who is this?"
"You tell me."
She rolled her eyes, sitting upright. "If this is Logan or Jason messing around, it's not funny."
A pause. Then a chuckle. "Do I sound like Logan to you?"
Something in her gut twisted. She stood, pacing to her bedroom window, glancing out at the dark yard. No one was there, but that didn't stop her pulse from quickening.
"Okay," she said firmly, trying to mask her nerves. "I'm hanging up now."
"You shouldn't," the voice cut in. "Don't you want to play a game first?"
Her throat went dry. "What kind of game?"
"The kind where you run. And I chase."
Her breath hitched. The line went dead.
Erica dropped the phone like it had burned her and scrambled to lock her window, her door, every possible entrance. But when she reached the kitchen, fumbling for the back door latch—
The lights went out.
She froze. The hum of the fridge stopped. The fan upstairs silenced. The house sank into blackness, save for the faint glow of the moon spilling in through the curtains.
And then she saw him.
At first just a silhouette, reflected faintly in the glass of the sliding door. Tall. Masked. Watching her.
Erica's scream caught in her throat as the figure raised something shiny in the moonlight—a knife.
She bolted for the stairs, heart hammering, but the figure was faster. Heavy footsteps thudded behind her, gaining. She made it to the top landing when a hand clamped onto her arm, yanking her back.
The knife flashed.
Her scream finally tore free, echoing down the quiet suburban street.
Then silence.

The next morning, the Clover Ridge Police Station buzzed with unease. Coffee cups were drained faster than they could be refilled, typewriters clacked in anxious rhythm, and the scent of cigarettes lingered thick in the stale air.
Detective Lawson tossed a thin manila folder onto the desk, his face grim. "Seventeen years old. Erica Monroe. Stabbed multiple times in her own home. No forced entry. No fingerprints. Just blood."
Deputy Harris shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Could've been a burglary gone wrong."
Lawson shook his head. "Burglars don't cut the power before they kill. This wasn't random. This was planned."
Another detective leaned in. "Planned by who?"
Lawson's gaze flickered to the bulletin board across the room, where a black-and-white photo of Erica, smiling in her cheer uniform, was already pinned. "That's what we're going to find out."
And outside, the world kept moving.

By the time first period rolled around at Clover Ridge High, the news had spread like wildfire. Students huddled in groups on the front lawn, their voices a hushed chorus of shock and gossip. Some whispered, some laughed nervously, some just stared at the ground.
And amongst the commotion, there was two girls pushing through the crowd toward the front doors.
Jennifer Brooks, with her dark brown hair just brushing her shoulders, wispy bangs falling into her soft brown eyes, walked with a quiet grace that made her stand out despite her gentle demeanor. Today she wore a light lavender cardigan over a blue tank top, her look effortless but grounded—the girl next door.
Beside her, Katelyn Williams—Kate to everyone who mattered—strode with an energy that filled the space around her. Her yellow turtleneck hugged her frame, tucked into a fitted orange skirt that ended mid-thigh. Bamboo hoop earrings swayed as she walked, her 90s blowout hair flowing in the wind like she'd stepped straight out of a magazine.
Kate leaned close to Jennifer, voice low but urgent. "Can you believe this? Erica. In her own house."
Jennifer swallowed, eyes flickering to the clusters of students whispering around them. "It doesn't feel real."
Kate's jaw tightened. "Whoever did it... I hope they rot in hell."
And with that, the doors swung shut behind them, the chatter of the crowd muffling to silence.
The killer was already among them.