𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕖𝕟

You realized in the light of the hallway that you hadn't just been sprayed in Billy's blood. In fact, you were absolutely drenched in it. Your body started to shiver as you sprinted away from the master bedroom, only stopping at the top of the landing to look down over the first floor of the house. Blood pumped loudly in your ears, making your chest feel tight. The front door at the bottom of the stairs was shut and you figured that even if you got that far, you wouldn't have enough time to open it and escape before the killer got to you.

Before you could plan any further ahead, you felt someone grab you by the back of your collar and hold you up in the air. You didn't have to turn around to know it was Billy's killer. You cried out in surprise, kicking your legs frantically in front of you. The sound of tearing fabric was loud in your ears and you felt as your weight overpowered the strength of the shirt, ripping the collar wider so that your shoulder fell through.

"Fuck!" You yelped, wriggling out of his grasp. His heavy footsteps chased after you as you tore down the hall, just out of reach from his gloved hands. You turned the corner quickly, hands reaching out to keep your balance. 

 There, at the end of the hall, you spotted a single half-open door. Using the last of your strength, you quickened your pace and toss yourself into the room, throwing your back against the door and slamming it shut behind you. With fingers shaking violently, you twisted the lock into place and slid down to the floor.

Through your heavy breathing, you tried to listen closely for any sign of activity in the hallway. But to your dismay, it was totally silent. No knocking, kicking, or even footsteps could be heard. The only sound was your own rapid breathing. But you knew he was there, waiting for the right moment when your guard fell.

Arm trembling, you felt along the wall for a light switch. It appeared between your fingers and you pulled on it, casting the room in a warm yellow light. You blinked back at the sudden brightness but once your vision returned to normal, you realized that you hadn't just stumbled into any room. You were in Stu's bedroom.

Realizing that Ghostface wasn't planning on breaking in any time soon, you wobbled to your feet like a newborn deer and took a few experimental steps further inside. You'd never been in Stu's room before, but this must've been his. There was a single king-sized bed against the back wall surrounded by all sorts of movie posters. CD cases were scattered across the floor with candy wrappers and other pieces of garbage.

All in all, it was everything you expected a teenage boy's living space to look like, down to the subtle stench of B.O.

In the back of the room, the doors to his closet were propped open with a pair of red sneakers. You shuffled closer, careful not to trip on any of the assorted objects splayed out on the carpet. Stu was an athlete, right? Maybe he had a baseball bat or something in there you could use to defend yourself.

You pushed the closest door open with one hand and felt around the air for a string. It brushed against your palm and you grabbed it, pulling it down to activate the light. There were dirty clothes tossed carelessly onto the shelves and on the floor, not necessarily the arsonal you had been hoping for.

Just as you were about to turn away and try your luck with one of the windows above his bed, the light from the swinging bulb caught something reflective from behind the rack of mismatched clothes. Your eyes narrowed in curiosity and you bent over to part the rack down the middle, exposing the back wall of the closet.

Postered against the wallpaper was a series of Polaroid photographs. They were all shaky and mostly taken in the pitch darkness. You squinted and got on your knees to crawl closer, wanting to take a better look but instantly regretting it.

A breathless gasp left your mouth and you stumbled backwards. There were twenty pictures in total and at least half of them were of you in various stages of sleep. The one in the top right corner was of you in bed, face planted deep in your pillows. It was obviously taken from outside your bedroom window. The one below it was taken in the same night but only inches away from your peaceful resting face. "Jesus fuck."

Your heart began to beat loudly again and you clutched your shirt over your chest, accidentally kicking the closet door open further with your foot. The mirror on the inside of the door shook and you caught your reflection for the first time. Your entire front was painted in blood. It dripped off of your chin and crusted around the hair that framed your face. The feeling of deep-seated dread made itself known and you felt the violent urge to throw up all over Stu's nightstand. It all made too much sense.

Despite the nausea washing over you in waves, you found yourself staring long and hard at the red substance. There was something about it and the redness of it. It reminded you of the budget slasher-flick that you and Randy watched on Valentine's Day last year just out of pure spite.

Behind you, in the mirror, you saw what looked like a trap door engraved on the white ceiling. You stood to your feet and walked over to it. You forgot, did the Macher's have an attic?

Without thinking, you hopped up and grabbed the corner of the square door and pulled it down with the weight of your body. As you stepped back, a set of stairs retracted and exposed the dark space above the ceiling. 

The answer was yes, apparently.

You shot one last look over your shoulder, first looking over at the closet and then to the door that led into the hallway. So much had happened that night, you didn't know what to think. But the evidence you had unintentionally collected told you that Stu was the killer and you weren't about to argue with the evidence.

The attic was long and narrow, cluttered with old furniture, boxes, and other strange objects. Moonlight filtered in through a small raised window that looked out onto the front lawn. You moved through the small space, bumping into a few boxes and knocking an antique lamp off of it's stand.

You rushed over to the window as quickly as you could, not paying any attention to the objects you knocked over or the sound of breaking glass that followed. There was no insect-screen on the other side of the glass and you pried it open desperately, sticking your head out.

The cold night air felt good on your hot skin and for a moment you forgot why you were actually trying to crawl through to the other side. You remembered what Dewey told you at the beginning of the night and what you promised him. And so after clearing your throat and propping your elbow up on the window sill, you screamed as loud as you possibly could.

"DEWEY!" You cried out, making your lungs burn. "THIS IS ME SCREAMING FOR HELP! HELP HELP HELP!"

Your voice echoed through the tall trees but other than that, nothing. No Dewey. Not even a car door opening. You craned your neck to peer into the driveway, just to see the Jeep gone from where he had parked it. "FUCK!"

And just like that, dead silence consumed the world once more. With the window open, you could now hear the crickets chirping in the woods behind the house. Helpless tears began welling up in your eyes but you brushed them away with your sleeve. You would allow yourself to cry when you were finally safe and not a split second before.

You shifted your weight and ran your hands up and down the side of the opening. It was small, but you figured you could fit through it with enough effort. You glanced behind you quickly and licked your lips. You really didn't have a choice.

As safely and slowly as you could, you started to shimmy your body through the window, clinging to the outside ledge as if your life depended on it. Once you were all the way through, you gulped and carefully eased your way down the sloped roof until you were able to sit down on the ledge that dropped onto the master bedroom balcony.

It was sick, yeah, but you couldn't help but smile at the small victory. Not skipping Gym class with Tatum really paid off in the long run.

Once on the balcony, you peered over the railing. Now all you had to do was drop down and make a break for it into the woods. Sounded simple enough, at least. With a deep breath, you swung your right leg over the side and tried to prepare yourself for the jump. There was no way to stick it gracefully, unless you didn't mind snapping your neck in the process.

Just as you were about to lift up your left leg, you stumbled and lost your grip on the wooden safety rail. You gasped, arms flailing in the air, trying to grab onto something. But it was useless and you had already fallen so far away from the ledge. Just as you accepted the fact that you were going to fall and probably die, you felt a jolt through your arm as something secured itself around your wrist.

Your head snapped up to see none other than Ghostface peering down at you with hollow eyes, both arms wrapped tightly around your wrist in an attempt to pull you back up. You inhaled sharply, not knowing if it was out of terror or relief.

"Shit," he hissed, using all of his strength to try and pull you back onto the balcony. It was the first time you had ever heard him speak in person and not on the phone. His voice wasn't as raspy as you imagined and there was something about it that was so startlingly familiar.

Slowly coming out of your daze, you jerked backwards, pulling and twisting your arm awkwardly to try and break free. All the while, you heard him mumbling behind the mask. "Fucking goddamn Jesus shit motherfucker," He growled lowly. "No one has any goddamn respect for the fucking plan."

All of a sudden, you felt your feet grab purchase on the floor and you knew it wouldn't be long until he tried to haul you off over the side and do away with you however he had planned. Without thinking clearly, you reared your leg up and registered a solid kick to the mask. Surprised, Ghostface fell back and cupped his face behind the white plastic, leaving you to freefall. 

Your back hit the dirt with a solid thud. The grass did very little to cushion your fall and the deep breath you had been holding was knocked out of your lungs, leaving you gasping like a fish out of water.

The same leg that you used to bash in the killer's nose was twisted uncomfortably up by your hip. The adrenaline masked most of the pain but you knew it wouldn't be long until it hit you all at once. You had used up most of your energy struggling with the killer and for a few minutes you just laid there, looking up at the stars. It was cloudy but you could barely make out the full moon behind the hazy shroud.

Realizing that you probably didn't have enough time to waste on stargazing, you rolled over and used your arms to push yourself up to your feet. Your right ankle was on fire but somehow you still managed to limp around the side of the house and into the driveway.

The first thing you noticed was that Dewey's Jeep had miraculously returned. A weary smile formed on your lips and you hobbled over to it as quickly as you could without falling over into the gravel. The driver's side door was open but there was no one around that you could see.

"Dewey!" You whisper/shouted, hiding behind the open door. "Dewey, where the fuck are you?"

The only response to your desperate cry were the same crickets you had heard earlier. Frustrated, you looked into the Jeep. The keys were gone too, not like you could have done anything with them. You failed your driver's test for the second time last year.

While there weren't any keys, you did spot something black and bulky sitting on the driver's seat. Steadily, you reached down and held it up to the light streaming out from the porch. It was Dewey's pistol. "Now we're talking," you grinned, clicking the safety off with the pad of your thumb.

You stepped out of the Jeep and looked all around you. The yard was still empty. You considered running off into the woods like you had intended to earlier but then you heard a soft sound, like static. You realized it must've been coming from the TV in the living room of the house. That's when you remembered.

Fucking Randy.

With a groan, you took the pistol and limped all the way up to the porch. Poor guy was probably still snoozing cluelessly on the couch. That was to say, if he hadn't already been murdered. Your finger twiddled nervously with the trigger, listening for any sign of footsteps or other noises.

The front door was wide open and you entered as silently as possible. The credits of the horror movie were rolling but the loud static masked whatever creepy music should have been playing over them.

"Randy?" There was no one on the couch where he had been before. Your heart skipped a beat and you tried again. "Randy? Are you alive?"

"(Y/N)?"

You jumped a foot in the air, twisting around and holding the gun out in front of you. Randy held his arms up on either side of his head in defense. He was standing in the middle of the porch, just outside the door frame. His expression was a mix between relief and fear, suddenly stone-cold sober. "(Y/N)," he repeated, eyeing the blood on your shirt and face. "What happened to you?"

"I-" you stammered, still pointing the gun between his eyes. "I think I fell off the roof."

The shock still swarmed your brain, making it hard to form coherent thoughts. "Randy.."

"Yeah, it's just me. Just--Just put the gun down, alright? I gotta tell you something."

Obediently, you dropped the gun to your side. He licked his lips and took a broad step into the foyer. "Listen to me, (Y/N). I found Tatum," he gulped, looking over his shoulder to the shadowed yard. "She's dead, she's been killed. I think Stu did it."

"Stu?" You whispered back. It made sense. The pictures in his closet should have been the final piece of the puzzle. If only you actually listened to your gut at the beginning of the party when you overheard him and Billy in the bathroom. Oh Jeez.

Randy nodded and opened his mouth to speak again when suddenly, another voice entered the conversation. "Don't listen to him, sweetheart."

You looked past Randy and narrowed your eyes, pulling the gun back up to point it right at Stu who was hopping up the porch steps. He looked confident...too confident. "He's lying," Stu accused. "He killed Tatum and Billy."

"D-Don't move! Either of you!" You trained the barrel of the pistol so it was resting right between him and Randy. Stu didn't listen, though, and insisted on teetering even closer to you. "His movie-nut mind finally snapped. He's gone psycho."

Randy gulped and stepped back onto the porch, shaking his head wildly. "Don't listen to that fuckrag. He's fucking obsessed with you!"

Your head was pounding and the pain from your ankle was finally starting to make you delirious. "I...I can't...I don't know."

Randy's shoulders slumped and he looked beyond hurt. Without offering another word, you stepped back into the house and grabbed the door, slamming it in both of their faces and sliding the lock into place. "I'm sorry!" You cried out loudly.

Despite the overwhelming guilt creeping up into your heart, you also felt relief. You were safe for now until the cops arrived at the house. Surely Dewey was off somewhere, saving the day. 

"You're fine," you mumbled to yourself, tapping your forehead against the cool handle of the gun. "Everything is fine."

At least, that's what you convinced yourself just split seconds before the hallway phone rang. 

 (A/N: This chapter is late, I know. We're so close to the end! I think the next chapter is the epilogue, but I have no idea. Might split it in half again. Let me know if there are any mistakes and I'll fix them ASAP. I'm so glad you guys like this story! I didn't even notice how close we were to reaching 30K!! I'm kinda going back and forth with the cover changes so bear with me. Next update out later this week!)