Chapter Four
1.
“I should not be up this early,” Rory said before yawning, as she moped through the double entrance doors of Garden Brew, Woodsboro’s small business answer to Starbucks.
Struggling with the heavy glass doors and an armful of folders and books, Kinsley watched her blonde friend slump in. “Thanks for the help.”
“You’re welcome,” Rory said mechanically, too exhausted to pick up on her friend’s sarcasm. She shuffled up to the counter like a zombie, her flip-flops rubbing against the tile floor with each forward leg movement.
Shaking her head, Kinsley went to an empty table and set her things on it; their weight made the table rattle. Then she joined Rory at the counter.
A pleasant scent of coffee beans mixed with vanilla clung to the air. Where wall space allowed, traditional-looking hutches displayed local handmade crafts and bags of brew for sale. Keeping with the promise of their name, fake greenery on the top shelf of each hutch overflowed and tumbled down its sides, accenting the pieces of furniture.
“I’ll take an iced brown sugar espresso,” Rory ordered. “Vodka martini like—shaken, not stirred.”
The barista glanced at her with a furrowed brow.
“Never mind,” Rory said.
Kinsley wondered what her friend was talking about, too.
“What?” Rory asked. “It’s James Bond. Tyler and I have been watching a bunch of those movies for our reaction channel.”
Rolling her eyes, Kinsley ordered her drink and a raisin bagel.
At seven thirty in the morning, Garden Brew was as quiet as an empty library. Seven of the ten tables were unoccupied—people tapping on MacBook keyboards between sips.
“Oh, no,” Kinsley said, her shoulders dropping.
“What?”
“Look,” she nodded toward one of the tables. There, Evan sat, typing on his laptop.
“Forget about him. I doubt he’ll bother us; he doesn’t have an audience.”
Understanding what Rory was saying, Kinsley perked up. “We should’ve waited for Marta to order.” The two friends moved over to the pick-up section of the counter.
“If I’m gonna be any good at all, I need a shot of caffeine, stat.”
“You sound like an addict.”
“Hey, if sugar espressos came in a syringe,” she then held up her hands in a submissive gesture.
Nearby, the mechanical buzzing of a mixer sounded as one of the baristas made an oat milk matcha latte for a drive-thru customer. This grating noise was murder on Rory’s tired mind, and she winced. Due to the quietness of her surroundings, the mixer’s motor sounded much louder than it had a right to.
Once they got their orders, they sat at one of the empty tables.
“I think Gale was pissed at me,” Kinsley said as they sat. “I can’t blame her. She literally wrote the book on this.” She picked up The Woodsboro Murders, one of the books in her pile, as a visual aid.
“What’s this one?” Rory asked, grabbing one of the other books, Wrongly Accused: The Maureen Prescott Murder.
“Gale’s first book.”
Scrunching her brow to read the other three titles, Clock of Doom, Knife of Doom, and Ghostface Returns, Rory asked, “What are these?”
“Some of Gale’s novels. Fiction.”
“Never heard of these ones.”
“That makes most people. Critics panned them. Other than the Stab movies stealing from them, not many people read them. I tried getting my hands on her last book, Knife of the Hunter, but the only place I could find it was eBay, and the seller wanted 700 bucks for it.”
“Why’d your boss pair you with her? You’re only an intern?” Rory asked, before sucking down a fair portion of her espresso.
“Paid intern,” Kinsley clarified. “But I don’t know why he put us together. I hope he doesn’t think he’s gonna get anywhere with me.”
“Wha’da you mean?”
“S-E-X. He’s one of those types. I mean, he’s never done anything to make me uncomfortable, but the stench is all over him. He made my skin crawl when he put his arm around me.”
“He put his arm around you?” Rory asked, making an expression one normally makes when they smell rotten eggs.
The bell over the entrance door rang, and Marta walked in holding a Dunkin' Donuts coffee and talking with Taylor.
“What is Marta doing with Mary Magdalene?” Kinsley asked.
“Stop,” Rory said, waving them over. “Taylor’s not that religious.”
“Can I drink this in here?” Marta asked, sitting down.
“Maybe. Put it to your lips and see if it goes down your throat,” Rory said, smiling.
“Ha-ha-ha.”
“I’m sure they don’t care where you got your coffee,” Kinsley said, answering Marta’s original question while side-eyeing Taylor. Then, focusing on the girl wearing the cross, Kinsley said, “I see your little petition worked. The mayor banned the movie.”
“That wasn’t me,” Taylor said. “He did that on his own.”
“Well, we can all rest easy,” Kinsley said. “Now that no one’ll see the movie, the killings will stop.”
Taylor looked down at her shoes with a long, drawn-out sigh. “That’s not what I’m saying, Kins. It’s just that… I don’t know… maybe if more people had faith in something greater than themselves—not necessarily God—but something greater, the world would be a better place.”
“Jesus,” Kinsley said with a roll of the eyes. “If banning things worked, we’d ban the bible and eliminate most the damn wars in history.”
Marta watched all this with a crinkled brow. Rory just looked embarrassed.
“I don’t expect you to understand my beliefs, Kins,” Taylor said. “But don’t hate me. I don’t hate you.”
Like a spotlight illuminating a dark secret, Taylor’s plea revealed Kinsley’s ugly attitude. Embarrassed, Kinsley said, “I… Never mind.” Deep down, she knew she went a little too far; still, she couldn’t apologize to someone trying to ban a movie.
Addressing Rory, Taylor said, “I’m gonna get a coffee. Call me later.”
“Sure,” Rory said, offering her friend a smile.
Once Taylor was at the counter and out of earshot, Marta asked, “Should I ask or…?”
In lieu of a verbal answer, Rory only shook her head.
“Okay,” Marta accepted. “So, what are we doing here, anyway? What’s all this stuff?” She picked up one of the folders and thumbed through it. “Police reports?”
“I need you guys to help me with research. Gale’s up my ass about it. I only have until tomorrow afternoon to report back to her.”
“Are you getting paid for this?” Marta asked.
“It’s a paid gig.”
“How much is that?” Marta asked before taking a sip of her Dunkin’ coffee.
“$14.50 an hour.”
“Sounds like free labor to me.”
“I’m gaining experience.”
“My ancestors gained experience picking cotton, look where it got me; helping white folks do free work.”
“I’ll pay you,” Kinsley said. “Coffee for a week—no, two weeks.”
“Fine. Two weeks. You’re not very good at negotiations. I would have done it for a week of coffee.”
“What about me?” Rory asked. “What do I get?”
“You’ve been my best friend for ten years; you’re expected to help me for free.”
“Oh, goodie.” Rory then took another sip of her espresso.
“If I nail this, it could mean a job writing for Quillory Magazine. Plus, I’ll get access to police files and stuff like that. Maybe I can also figure out who killed Brad. Or at least get a lead.”
“Hey girls,” Evan said, approaching their table with his open MacBook across one forearm, “Did you guys see the news that just broke?”
“Whatever it is, we’re not interested,” Kinsley said. “We have a lot of work to do before class.”
Shaking his head, Evan said, “We’re not going to class today.”
He set his MacBook on top of Kinsley’s collection of books. On it, a local Woodsboro news report played. “The body of Professor Ashley Himbry was discovered by a janitor this morning, around five o’clock,” the news broadcaster said.
“Oh my God,” Rory exclaimed.
Around this time, Taylor was returning with her plain ol’ house coffee. She stopped to watch, too.
“Although Woodsboro PD is remaining tight-lipped,” the broadcaster continued, “witnesses who saw the body said they had little doubt foul play was involved.”
Suddenly sick to her stomach, Rory pushed away her espresso. “I don’t think I want anymore.”
The story then switched to an on-the-ground reporter—a blonde named Hailey Holmes—at Woodsboro Community College. “It was here, last evening, where Ashley Himbry, head of the Journalism Department, met his gruesome end.”
Footage of an ambulance parked on the quad was shown on screen. Hailey’s voiceover said, “Police say the murder took place between 7:50 last night and 5:00 this morning. As the investigation proceeds, that time should shrink.” Another cut, and Sheriff Dewey Riley was on screen. He was walking away from the camera, trying to conduct his investigation while a reporter shouted at him, “Do you think this is the same killer from Sonoma Bay?” “Not now,” Dewey had replied.
Hailey Holmes came back on screen. “Classes have been canceled until further notice. This is Hailey Holmes at WCC. Back to you in the studio.”
“They didn’t say how he was killed?” Rory asked.
“According to my buddy, he was stabbed in the face and shoved out the window,” Evan said, reading a text off his phone.
Kinsley, who had been taking a bite of her bagel, froze mid-chomp and slowly put the uneaten treat back into its wrapper.
“Oh my God,” Taylor said.
For a moment, Kinsley considered asking Taylor if that was the beginning of a prayer, but refrained.
“Look on the bright side, Kins,” Evan said, leering. “Professor Himbry was the only person who knew you snitched on Brad. Now, as far as most are concerned, it’ll always be an open question.”
She scratched her nose using her middle finger.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, glaring at Rory. “I stand corrected. He’s not the only person who knows.”
2.
Taylor left Garden Brew and walked out onto a sidewalk populated by a few people. A bunch of pigeons gathered around a bench, watching a man eat his breakfast bagel like they were watching the pigeon Super Bowl—hoping for a crumb. She could imagine their soft coos as them begging for food. Smiling, she wished she had gotten a bagel to feed them.
The smile faded as sorrow settled into the pit of her stomach. She hated the way Kinsley spoke to her, as if her motivation carried some nefarious intent. All she wanted was for all the deaths to stop. Sure, keeping people from seeing a movie wouldn’t do that, but it would send a message that Woodsboro rejects the monetization of the murders.
Poor Mr. Himbry, she thought, taking out her phone and clicking on the Uber App. She didn’t take his class but had seen him around campus. He seemed like a nice guy.
“Hey!”
This voice came from behind her. Turning, she watched as Evan caught up to her.
“Hey,” Taylor said. Having never spoken to Evan before, she didn’t know his name. Had the girls mentioned it in the coffee shop? She couldn’t remember.
“Evan,” he said.
“Taylor,” she said before taking a sip of her coffee.
“You want company?” he asked.
“I doubt I’ll be much company,” she answered, clicking away on her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Since class is shut down, I’m getting an Uber home.”
“I’ll give ya a lift.”
Taylor’s heart sank. Although she rarely missed church and worked as a counselor for the church camp during June, July, and August every year since high school, she wasn’t a prude. She even had a boyfriend once. Still, she didn’t accept rides from dudes.
He must’ve noticed the apprehension on her face. “I don’t bite. Really, all I want is to see what was up with you and Kinsley in there. I overheard some of your conversation.”
“Oh, well, there’s really not much to talk about.”
Behind them, the man who had been eating his breakfast bagel finished and tossed the last couple of bites onto the ground. This started a mini pigeon riot. Looking over her shoulder, she watched them battle for the crumbs, wondering if pigeon brains could believe in a higher power, if they’d still fight, or if Kinsley had a point.
“Hello?” Evan said, snapping her out of her thoughts.
Turning back to him, she explained the petition and Kinsley’s opposition to it.
“Wow,” Evan said, looking past her, into the distance, thinking. Without refocusing on her, he said, “I can’t believe Kinsley and I agree on something.”
Sorrow sank deeper into her stomach. “Well, it didn’t work, anyway. I only got six signatures, and the mayor stopped the movie on his own.” She turned to leave.
“Hey. I’ll still give ya a ride if you want it.”
3.
“It’s too bad this didn’t start a week later.” Officer Ward said, standing with his hands on his hips, chest stuck out, looking like he was posing for the centerfold of Lawman Monthly. “That way you’d be out of it. Then a real professional could handle it.”
Dewey grumbled in dissent, but kept it professional.
“Officer Ward, might I remind you that my husband has more experience with this situation than any of us?”
“Yeah, and it’s still happening.”
“Different killers,” Dewey spat. “Look, can we finish this back at the station?”
Woodsboro’s finest three officers stood on the porch of an unassuming, one-story suburban rancher, waiting for someone to answer the door. The home sat alone down a country road, with the closest neighbors a little over a mile away. Behind the home, about a quarter-mile away, a defunct water tower loomed over the trees. Sanoma Bay was written on the outside of its large, round top in blue, chipping paint.
Clouds hung low, as the threat of rain lingered over Sonoma Bay. Across the street, beyond an overgrown field, woods spread out for as far as the eye could see. The green leaves against the gray sky gave Dewey a light, airy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Much like twilight, the mood of the scene was defined by the viewer’s disposition. If he had been in good spirits, it would’ve been a pleasant view. Yet, because of the reason for his visit, the trees looked ominous.
“I know Gale said this was a dead end, but I figured we need to cover all our bases.” Dewey felt he didn’t need to say this, but he did feel the need to fill the air with something. If he hadn’t, Ward would’ve just started spouting off at the mouth again.
“Gale sells fantasy to bored housewives and damaged socialites,” Ward chimed in. “We’re in the trenches, out in the real world, touching grass. It doesn’t matter what Gale says.”
The front door opened, and a woman stood in the entrance way. “I knew this was coming,” she said, looking at her visitors through the screen door.
Taking off his cap, Dewey approached. “Ma’am, we’re looking for—”
“Stu,” she finished. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” Ward asked. “Oh, and I’m Officer Ward, soon to be sheriff of Woodsboro P.D. This here is—”
“Dewey and Judy Riley,” she finished. “You can’t live this close to Woodsboro and not know these two. I’m Becky Macher. But I suppose you already know that.” She shook Dewey’s hand. Becky had shoulder-length blonde hair. She couldn’t have been taller than 5’5” and if she was older than Stu, it wasn’t by much. “I don’t know where Stu got off to. After he woke up, he fixed himself an egg sandwich and left. Hopefully, he’s out trying to find himself a job. As soon as he can get out of here the better.”
“Why do you say that?” Dewey asked.
“Who doesn’t know what he did? I was still in diapers when he killed those people, but still…” she looked into the distance and shook her head. “And now,” she continued, “there was that livestream podcast murder and that teacher getting killed at the community college…”
“Do you think Stu had anything to do with either of those, ma’am?” Judy asked.
“Deputy Riley,” Ward said, holding his hand up in front of her face. “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.” Turning to the woman, he asked, “Do you think Stu had anything to do with either of those, ma’am?”
“The livestream one, no. He was here all night. I remember because he got upset that I didn’t have a nightlight in his room. I guess he got used to sleeping with a light on in prison. As for the teacher, I don’t know—I doubt it.
“Can we come in and look around his room?” Ward asked. “Not to touch anything, just to see if there’s any…”
“Evidence that might tie him to the murders?” Becky finished, crossing her arms. “Boy, for cops, you guys sure are reticent.”
“Reticent, ma’am?” Ward asked.
“It means timid,” Dewey said, happy he could stick it to Ward after his ‘Draft One’ comment the previous day. “And, ma’am,” Dewey continued, “we don’t have a warrant, so we’re kinda coming to you hat in hand.” As a visual aid, he half-lifted the sheriff’s cap he held in his hands.
Without verbal permission, she opened the screen door. It squeaked open, and they walked in. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. He has nothing to his name.”
Walking them through her living room, Becky said, “I don’t know why I agreed to take him in—my husband thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am.”
“Why did you, ma’am?” Ward asked.
“Because I need my head examined.” Becky chuckled. “That’s what my husband says, anyway. But seriously, I don’t know. His brother lives in Italy—doesn’t want anything to do with him. His aunt is in a nursing home in Pasadena.” They came to his bedroom door as she finished. “I’m the only family he has—what else could I do?”
“How’s he acting?” Dewey asked, walking into the room. “Is there any indication that…”
“That what?” Becky asked. “That he’s working with someone like he did with that Billy Loomis guy?” Dewey nodded. “No,” she answered. “So far, he’s been very regimented. Gets up at six, goes to bed at ten. Makes his bed, eats his meals at the same time every day. Asks permission to make phone calls. My father, who was in the military, used to act the same way for the first few years after he retired.”
Stu’s room, or, rather, the room Stu was staying in, looked as though it hadn’t been updated since Dawn of the Dead was new in theaters. The shades were pulled, but enough sunlight still snuck in to see. Dark wood-paneled walls accented the orange carpet: this was more eke! and less chic. A brown-and-green plaid polyester couch sat against one wall, opposite a 15” box television topped by two antennas—as a kid, Dewey referred to these as rabbit ears. In the corner, two potted plants hung from the ceiling next to the room’s sole window.
“I’ve died and gone back to my older brother’s room,” Ward said, picking up a picture that had been lying on the dark wood bureau. “Who’s the cutie?”
Looking over his shoulder, Dewey gritted his teeth and snatched the picture from Ward’s hands. “My sister.” He then looked at it. The longing in his eyes could’ve been a portrait of infinity. Then anger flashed. “What the hell does he have this for?”
“Apologies, Dudster.”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
Dewey wanted to keep the picture. He stared at it with a clenched jaw. How dare Stu have it!
“Sorry about that,” Becky said, taking the picture from Dewey. “I had no idea he had this.”
“How angry is your husband?” Ward asked.
Becky shrugged. “Enough to stay at a hotel last night. We had a big fight.”
“Last night?” Ward asked.
Dewey thought he heard an accusatory tone in Ward’s voice.
“Sheriff,” Judy said, focusing her flashlight on something.
“Yeah,” Dewey and Ward said at the same time. The two men locked eyes; their glares did battle. Ward backed off with a grin mixed with slyness and knowing.
“What is it, Deputy Riley?” Dewey said, leaning over Judy’s shoulder. The circular glow of her light focused on a cell phone. “We can’t go through it, can we?”
“Yes you can,” Becky said. “The code’s 111111. I pay the bill. I give permission. Quite frankly, gentlemen… and lady, I want to get you all out of here with all your questions answered because I really don’t want to be bothered again. No offense.”
“None taken, ma’am,” Dewey said. “And thanks.”
“I doubt you’ll find anything; he doesn’t use it. If he makes a call, he uses the landline.”
“After thirty years in state prison, I guess he’s not used to cell phones,” Ward said.
“Brilliant observation,” Dewey whispered, low enough that no one except Judy heard him.
After typing in the code on the phone’s splash screen, Dewey, with Ward and Judy watching over his shoulder, went straight to contacts. One number appeared. It made Dewey scrunch his brow. “(707) 555-8674.”
“What is it?” Judy asked.
“Gale’s number.” The number was in a red font, which meant it had gone unanswered. “How did she get this number so fast?” he asked aloud, not expecting an answer. Yet he got one.
“She called me yesterday afternoon,” Becky said, remaining near the doorway. “I’m not interested in being Stu’s secretary, so I gave her his number.”
With this in mind, Dewey tapped the voicemail symbol. This led to disappointment. If she had left a message, it was gone now. “She never misses an opportunity,” he said more to himself than anyone else.
“It doesn’t look like he called her back,” Ward said.
“That’s not necessarily true,” Judy said, her eyes wide with thought. Turning, she focused her flashlight’s beam on a pad of paper next to the landline.
Dewey and Ward strolled over to have a gander. The top sheet was blank.
“Like I said,” Ward regurgitated, “it doesn’t look like he called her back.”
“That means nothing,” Judy said, picking up the phone. “He might’ve taken the top sheet with him.”
Glancing at the phone’s number insert, Dewey noted the number: 555-3845. He hadn’t seen one of these since he was a kid.
While he reminisced, Judy dialed a number, waited a moment, then said, “Last number called, please.” She listened. Then she nodded at Dewey. “He called her from this phone.”
4.
The phone rang. That’s the last thing Allie Prescott needed—a phone conversation. As if she wasn’t busy enough. She had dinner on the stove, a dog that wouldn’t stop barking at something out in the yard—probably a damn squirrel, the damn dog always barked at the damn squirrels—a son who was pouting because she wouldn’t let him have his candy, a daughter asking her what some word meant in her reader, all while the washer was making ‘that’ sound again.
The phone rang again. “Damn it, Boone, shut up! Just SHUT UP!”
The fluffy white Pomeranian stopped barking and looked at its owner, tilting its head slightly left, then right. When the woman who fed him didn’t say anything more, he went back to barking.
The phone rang again.
“Emily, get your damn dog and put him in the back room.”
“But, mommy, you didn’t tell me this word?”
On the stove, the beef stew began overflowing the pot. Brown broth sizzled down the side of the stainless-steel pot and gathered around the burner.
“Shit!” she cried, sidestepping to the stove to turn the burner down.
Emily started cracking up. “Mommy said the word is shit! Mommy said a bad word!”
The phone rang again. Boone barked some more. Dylan continued to pout.
With her left hand, she turned the stew’s temperature down; with her right, she tapped Emily on the mouth. “Don’t say that word.”
Like watching a car crash happen in slow motion, Emily’s face crumpled, then a few tears emerged from her eyes, and then the wails began. “Mom-mee hit me!”
“I didn’t hit you, I tapped you.”
“You hit me!”
The phone rang again. Boone barked some more. The washer made ‘that’ sound again.
Emily ran out of the kitchen and into her room, slamming the door behind her.
“Good, Lord, Emily. Dylan,” she said, “get Boone and take him into the back room.”
The phone rang again.
Still sulking from not getting to eat any of his Jolly Ranchers, Dylan hopped off the dining room chair, shuffled over to Boone, picked him up, and took him to the back room.
“Hello,” Allie answered the phone, her voice breathy, annoyed, and strained.
“Hello, Allie.”
She recognized the voice from the damn Stab movies. Her heart skipped a beat; she knew what was going on around Woodsboro. “Who is this?”
“Possibly your worst nightmare.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Oh, that would be very bad news for Emily and Dylan.”
Allie froze. Her breath hitched. She tried to swallow the fear, but discovered her throat was dry.
“Do I have your attention?” Ghostface didn’t wait for an answer. “I need a favor only you can fulfill. But, to show you I’m a good sport, I’m going to ask you some questions. If you answer them correctly, I’ll hang up, and you’ll never hear from me again. If you get them wrong, you’ll owe me. Question one—”
“Wait.”
“No waiting. Question one: Name the 1981 trash-classic where a brother and sister tandem run a motel and kidnap innocent lodgers, only to use them for meat in Farmer Vincent’s Fritters?”
“Please, don’t hurt my babies.”
“Answer the question and I won’t.”
“I don’t watch these movies. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Allie’s frustrated tone had transformed into a whine.
“I gotta admit, I’m disappointed. Sidney taught you nothing… the bitch.”
“Mommy, are you okay?” Emily asked, running around the corner, hearing her mother sniveling.
Covering the receiver with the palm of her hand, Allie said, “Go to your room, now!”
Emily put her fingers to her mouth—something she always did when nervous—and ran back into her room.
“Aw,” Ghostface chuckled, “she sounds precious.”
Then something occurred to her. Recovering the receiver, she hollered, “Emily! You and Dylan get back out here with me! Now!” Then, into the phone, she said, “I swear to God, if you harm one hair on their heads, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Kill me?”
“You’re damn right.” She gritted her teeth as she spewed this sentence. Both her kids rejoined her. She motioned for them to sit at the dinner table. They must’ve sensed their mother’s fear because they did as asked, without hesitation.
In the laundry room, the washer squealed for three or four seconds—a noise that was hell on Allie’s ears—then ground to a halt. Although it was a bill she didn’t need, she welcomed her washer breaking at that moment. Its noise wreaked havoc on her already frayed nerves.
“What was that?” Ghostface asked.
“Nothing. Look… my babies are all I have. Please…” She kept her voice low.
“Because I like your spunk,” Ghostface interrupted, “I’m going to give you a bonus question. It’ll be much easier. Are you ready?”
“I can’t. Please.”
“You have two neighbors,” Ghostface said, ignoring her pleas. “A little old lady and her sick sister to the right of your house, and a newly married couple to the left. Which ones did I kill earlier?”
Every muscle in Allie’s body seemed to tighten and loosen at the same time. Sweat rolled down her temples. The knuckles on the hand holding the receiver turned white. She had to squeeze her thighs together to keep her bladder from letting go.
“Come on, I don’t have all night. Answer the question. Little old ladies or newlyweds?”
She didn’t want to answer. Both of her neighbors were very nice. Miss Hopewell, the little old lady who’d lived on their street for decades, watched Emily and Dylan from time to time. And the newlyweds always waved. The husband, Allie couldn’t recall his name, helped her change her flat tire a few weeks ago.
Allie removed a butcher knife from its block.
On the line, Ghostface laughed. “Was that a knife?”
“You’re damn right.”
“Do you think I’m in your house?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I wouldn’t kill kids yet; I’d lose all my leverage if I did that. Now, answer my question. Left house or right house?”
With a quivering bottom lip, Allie said, “Left?”
“Wrong. It’s much easier to kill a little old lady and her sick sister. You should’ve used your head. Now, you’re going to deliver a message to your mother. And you better deliver it… for Emily and Dylan’s sake.”
5.
“Yeah, I have a boat,” Stephen said into his cell phone. “I’ll give you a ride if you like,” he continued after listening to the woman’s response. “It’s not as big as Zuckerberg’s yet.” He leaned back in his leather executive chair with his John Lobb leather oxfords resting on the corner of his desk. “But it’s big enough to have a California king in the bedroom.” He chuckled.
Dewey and Judy walked into Stephen’s office just as he mentioned the mattress size.
Stephen watched them come in, but remained on the phone, sweet-talking his latest conquest. He held up a finger to the officers, telling them they’d have to wait at least another minute for a moment of his precious time. “Maybe this weekend I could take you out,” he said into the phone. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I’ll take good care of you… What should you wear? It doesn’t matter; once we’re out far enough on the Pacific, you don’t have to wear anything.”
At the same time, Dewey and Judy turned to each other and rolled their eyes.
“We have life preservers,” Stephen laughed. After his potential date said something, he laughed again and said, “Don’t worry about that. I’d save you.”
Growing tired of Stephen’s delay, Dewey cleared his throat. Stephen’s finger popped up again. Suddenly, Dewey wanted to rip the digit off. Never one to use his badge as clout, he didn’t like being treated like a fool, either; the arrogant jerk didn’t even show surprise that two cops just entered his office. He crossed his arms and offered Stephen his power stance. Noticing her husband’s stance, Judy mimicked his posture.
“Hey, uh… Molly—Yes, of course, Holly. I’ve, ah… I’ve gotta go. I’ll call ya back, okay?... Okay, bye.” Hanging up the phone, Stephen asked, “What can I do ya for, Sheriff?”
For reasons he could never explain, when someone said ‘What can I do you for,’ instead of ‘What can I do for you,’ it got under Dewey’s skin. Stephen’s smug attitude already bugged him. “Where’s Gale?”
“I don’t know. She’s been in and out of here all day.”
“Isn’t she your employee?” Dewey asked.
Smirking, Stephen said, “You, more than anyone, should know you can’t control Gale.” Dewey couldn’t argue with that statement. “What’s this about, anyway?”
“That information is on a need-to-know basis,” Dewey said, happy he could stick it to the guy in his own little way.
The head of Quillory waved a hand in a dismissive way. “This is nothing. First, the kid on the livestream—a horror podcast. Probably one of their fans who went crazy. And then the professor. I’d bet a million bucks—and believe me, I’ve got it—that it was some disgruntled student who failed his class.”
“Thanks for your informed theory,” Dewey said, uncrossing his arms, “it sounds like you cracked the case.” Then it struck Dewey that something else bothered him about this guy. He was the type of person who never seemed to be offended.
“We have investigators for a reason,” Judy said, sensing her husband’s frustration. She flashed a glance at him, hoping her interruption would act as an attitude readjustment.
She thought it worked when the next time Dewey spoke, his tone had cooled off. “When Gale gets in, tell her I need to talk to her.”
“I’ll try.”
“What’s that mean?” Dewey asked.
“Gale’s giving me the silent treatment.”
“Why?” Dewey asked before adding, “Although I can relate.”
“Kingsley begged me for the chance to work with Gale on this... unfortunate series of events.” His attempt at mimicking empathy didn’t fool Dewey. “I figured,” Stephen continued, “what story could sell better than the surviving member of the podcast team authoring the feature article in my magazine, and possibly bringing justice to their slain friend? With that in mind, I decided to have them team up. I told Gale she must mentor her. You can imagine how this went over with her. She feels she’s the expert on this and wants to work alone. Doesn’t want to play second fiddle to an intern.”
“You don’t think she has a point?” Dewey asked.
Stephen sighed and lowered his legs from the desk. “Kinsley’s a fresh face—a very attractive one, I might add. With the right amount of molding, she could be big for Quillory. And she’ll definitely appeal to the younger generation. Our future customers. Sure, Gale brings credibility, but she's past her prime. I know it, and she might not want to admit it, but she knows it, too. In the end, youth always wins.”
“That’s no way to talk about Gale,” Dewey interjected, his tone walking a tightrope between annoyance and anger. “We might’ve had our problems, but she knows what she’s doing when it comes to this.”
“Don’t pretend like it isn’t true.” Stephen smirked and shifted his eyes to Judy before bringing them back to Dewey. “After all, you yourself traded Gale in for a younger, prettier model.”
Dewey, while failing to find the words for a fitting rebuttal, turned to Judy, whose face, much to his chagrin, held a wry smile. Now noticing that two sets of eyes were suddenly upon her, Judy fixed her face to display a more professional tone of seriousness. She asked, “Are we sure there’s nothing in it for you?”
“You think I’m scum, don’t you?” He then shrugged—an indication he might be able to understand their suspicions. Then, composing himself, he met Judy’s eyes. “No. I didn’t ask her to sleep with me.” Raising a brow, he continued, “If she ever offered—”
“Okay, okay,” Dewey said, not wanting to go down that road. “Look, about Gale—”
“What about Gale?” Gale asked, standing in the doorway.
“Gale,” Dewey said, turning. “We need to talk.”
6.
“Yes,” Gale said. “I talked to him. We were supposed to meet, but the lug-head never showed up.” She hung her purse on the coat rack and sat down behind her desk. They were in Gale’s office and had just gone over what they found at Stu’s cousin’s house. “Is there a law against interviewing a newly released prisoner?” Gale’s tone conveyed impatience.
Dewey huffed. He knew that Gale knew there was no such law. But he also knew that she knew this question would grate on him. “Gale, there’s an active investigation going on. If my ex-wife is interviewing potential witnesses, that could—”
“Dewey, I’m a reporter—”
“You’re an editor at a maga—”
“Don’t give me this ‘editor at a magazine’ crap. I’ll always be a reporter first. And I don’t need you and little Miss Sunshine here,” she glared at Judy, “to tell me differently.”
Under his breath, Dewey said, “I don’t have time for this.” Then, he asked, “Where were you supposed to meet?”
“You don’t think he’s a suspect, do you?”
“You don’t stop, do you?” Frustrated, he rubbed his eyes. “Can’t you just answer my question?”
“We were supposed to meet at Garden Brew, the coffee shop on Main Street, twenty minutes ago.”
“Should I gather a unit, Sheriff?” Judy asked. “Have them stationed outside Garden Brew just in case he’s running late.”
When Judy looked at Dewey, awe swept over her face, as if she were an extra in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, witnessing the spaceship hover above the ground. At least that was Gale’s opinion. For the first time since her divorce, a sense of understanding overcame her. Had she ever looked at Dewey like that? Maybe once or twice, but not enough.
“No, you shouldn’t gather a unit,” Gale said. The usual venom that clung to her words when she spoke to Judy wasn’t there. “Stu Macher is a red herring.”
“What makes you say that?” Dewey asked.
“If this is the beginning of another killing spree,” Gale answered, “the murderer is using Stu Macher’s release as a smokescreen. Dewey, you should know this?”
Angry that the investigative abilities of her man had been besmirched, Judy said, “We have to check all leads.”
“Go ahead, check him out—bring him in, take his fingerprints, snap his photo, put him in a cell, give him Judy’s lemon squares,” Judy pouted at this, “but it’s not going to be him.”
“Thanks, Gale,” Dewey said, putting his cap on. “But I’m going to handle this investigation my way. Come on, Judy, let’s go.”
“Hey, Dewey,” Gale called as he disappeared out the door. He peeked his head back in. “Why’d you come here? You have my phone number.”
“Just in case you did talk to him. I wanted to know your…” he closed his eyes, knowing she’d take this a certain way. “I wanted to get your opinion on him.”
She smiled and gave him a knowing look.
He shook his head and left.
7.
Bomp-bomp-bomp.
Rory walked to her door and asked, “Who is it?”
“Tyler.”
“Code phrase, please?”
“Come on, Rory, you know my voice.”
“Yeah, and I also saw Stab 3. The one with the voice changer.”
She heard her boyfriend sigh. “This is K.O.K.L.A. Red River Rock and Roll Request.”
Satisfied, Rory undid the door chain, unlocked the bolt, unlocked the doorknob, and dragged the small bookshelf from in front of the door. After that workout, she turned the knob and opened it.
“Stretch would be proud.” She kissed him. “Don’t be mad at me for that. Remember, I’m the Tatum; I have to be extra careful.”
“As long as I can get some more of those kisses, I won’t be mad.” He stepped in, put his hands on her butt, and leaned in, expecting more kisses.
“Wait, wait, wait,” she urged. She proceeded to close the door, lock the knob, the bolt, and engage the chain. Then, she grabbed the side of the bookshelf, turned to Tyler, and raised her brows. An expression that said: ‘Don’t just stand there. Help me.’
With a shake of the head, he gently pushed her aside and slid the bookshelf in front of the door. When he was done, she turned him around and hopped up into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. They started kissing. The more they kissed, the faster their heart rates rose, and the faster their heart rates rose, the heavier their breathing became.
Holding her under her butt, he walked her into her living room and laid her on the couch, slid his shirt off over his head—exposing a lean, muscular frame—and got on top of her.
“Wait, baby, wait,” she said through heavy breaths.
“What?” he asked, breathing heavily himself.
“We can’t get too turned on.”
Chuckling, Tyler said, “Too late.”
Gazing at his chest and biting her bottom lip, she said, “Yeah, me too, but we can’t do anything.”
“Why not?”
“There’ve been two murders. We can’t have sex with all that killing happening. It’s a rule.”
Plopping down beside her, he said, “No, it’s a line from a movie.”
Giving him a stern look, she said, “If this killer is recreating the movies, it’s a rule to them. Therefore, it’s a rule.”
“Okay, fine.” He couldn’t argue with this logic. “It’s a rule. But you forget one little detail.”
“What?”
“It goes for virgins. We’ve done it before.”
“Still, I don’t wanna take any chances. From now on, consider me a born-again virgin.”
“Rory, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“Please, baby. As soon as this is over, I promise I’ll do your brains out.”
Closing his eyes and sighing, he picked up her legs and put them across his lap. “So, what do you want to do instead?”
“You mind if I take a bath?”
“You won’t have sex with me, but you’ll take a bath? You know that’s a horror movie trope, too, right?”
“Not in the Stab movies. After I get out, we can watch a movie and record a reaction. Gingersnaps is next on our schedule, but I don’t want to watch something scary, not with everything going on.”
“Yeah, we’ll watch something.” His tone sounded like he had just given someone permission to smash his fingers with a hammer. “Go ahead and take your bath.”
“Don’t be mad at me, babe.”
“I told ya I’m not mad.” A grin then grew on his face. “Maybe I could take a bath with you.”
She shook her head. “Too risky.” His face grew long again. Getting up, she said, “I won’t be long.”
“Fine, fine.” He sank deeper into the couch cushions. “Maybe once you’re out, I can take a cold shower.”
“Hey,” she said. When he looked over, she pulled her shirt up, exposing her small breasts. “You can touch ‘em if you want.”
Biting his bottom lip, he said, “If I do that, I’ll have to jump in a tub full of ice.”
Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for understanding, babe. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She slipped a bare foot into the steamy water, wincing at the heat, but then quickly grew used to it. Easing into the tub, warmth coursed through her body. She lay back, closing her eyes, and dangled one leg over the side of the tub. After taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly. Once, Kinsley told her yoga was the best way to clear her mind. Rory, knowing the pleasure of steamy water in a dimly lit bathroom, had to disagree.
Reaching over toward the stool, where her towel rested, she picked up her phone, tapped the Amazon Music icon, and searched for The Sounds. Next, she scrolled, stopping on the album What We Do For Love, and selected the song ‘Changes.’ Turning the volume down to a level just above a whisper, she put the phone back on top of her towel.
Now that Tyler was dutifully parked on her couch, she felt much safer. And not because he was a potential body between the killer and herself—she loved him too much for that. However, learning from the first few Stab movies, she learned the killer rarely murdered someone when they weren’t alone. On top of this, the gentle and magical mix of confidence and vulnerability coming from Maja Ivarsson’s vocals gave her permission to relax that much more.
Halfway through the song, her cell rang. She reached over the side of the tub, dripping water onto the porcelain-tiled floor, and grabbed it. Looking at its face, she saw Kinsley’s name over a picture of her smiling best friend.
“Hey, Kins,” she said.
“Hello?” It wasn’t Kins she was talking to. It was Ghostface… Rather, it was the person playing Ghostface.
She sat up, sloshing water around, splashing some out of the tub.
“Oh! Taking a bath?” they asked. The Ghostface voice made the question sound sinister and disgusting.
“No,” Rory answered, her tone a mix of fear and mockery. “I’m giving my cat a bath.”
“Ah, a nice… hot… bath for pussy?”
Sneering at his crudeness, she asked, “What do you want?”
“To kill you.”
Rory’s insides turned to mush. Before getting the phone call herself, she had been treating this like a movie—as her boyfriend so kindly pointed out. Now, hearing the gravelly, deep voice threaten her, the veneer of fantasy collapsed. She gulped.
“I want to rip you apart and…”
Something came to her, and she started saying, “Hello?... Hello?...”
“I said, I want to rip you apart, and—”
“Hell-O?... Look, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.” This was a lie, but who gave a damn? He was threatening to kill her.
“You can hear me, damn it. Cut the crap—”
“Hell-o?... Look, call me back never!” She quickly hung up, stood, and called Tyler’s name. However, all that came out was the ‘T’ sound of Tyler. The rest of his name caught in her throat. Recalling the first Stab film and how Heather Graham’s character’s boyfriend ate shit while she was about to take a shower, she considered her boyfriend’s fate.
Standing still, listening, she heard nothing out of the ordinary—water dripping off her naked body, outdoor crickets, the television out in the living room.
When she didn’t hear Tyler, she raised her phone, tapped his name, and called him. His phone didn’t ring out in the living room. It might’ve been silenced. Regardless, her heart beat faster, and her eyes became glassy. Ending the call to Tyler, she dialed 9-1-1.
“911, What’s your emergen—”
“Hello, hello,” she stammered; her voice a loud whisper. “My name is Rory Lang, and I live at 941 Oceania Lane, in Woodsboro.”
“Calm down, ma’am. Just tell me what you need, ambulance, fire, or po—”
“Police! I need the police.”
“Okay. Calm down. What’s going on?”
The Ghostface killer just called me. I’m best friends with Kinsley Saunders. She works with Gale Weathers and was—”
“Is this a prank?”
“No! It’s not a prank. Does it sound like a prank?” Although her voice conveyed urgency, she kept speaking in a loud whisper.
“Yes, ma’am, it does.” Rory let out a breath, as if deflated. “Are you currently in danger?”
“Yes. He just called me.”
“On the phone?”
“No, by carrier pigeon.”
“Goodbye, ma’am.”
“No, don’t hang up, I’m sor—” The 911 operator hung up. She growled.
Then, clearing her throat, building up all the nerve she had, she called, “Tyler!”
No answer.
“Damn it.” She reached for a towel, angry that she had left all her clothes in her bedroom. A vulnerable, naked girl, fresh out of the bathtub, was like a magnet to a psycho killer; almost every slasher taught that lesson.
Wrapping the towel around her, she stepped out of the tub, walked slowly to the bathroom door—leaving wet footprints in her wake—grasped the doorknob, and slowly opened the door.
“Tyler?” she said, half whispering, half calling out.
No answer.
Stepping out of the bathroom, she moved down the hall—her bare feet silent on the hardwood—looking behind her every two or three steps. She passed her bedroom door first, then the door that led to the basement. Finally, she came to the archway leading to the living room. There, she found the television on—Just Shoot Me, the episode where Maya was dating a puppeteer—but Tyler wasn’t there.
Slowly, she stepped into the living room, lifting her head to peek over the back of the couch. It felt as if her heart would come out of her chest at any moment. Hopefully, Tyler was lying down and had fallen asleep.
Tyler wasn’t on the couch. Only his sketchpad, where he had drawn a picture of Pinhead from Hellraiser, offering a bouquet of flowers to a terrified woman on the street. A speech bubble above Pinhead read: “You better blow me a kiss, doll face, or else you might get pricked.”
Under normal circumstances, she would’ve laughed. Yet, since Tyler was missing, she went to run into the kitchen to grab a knife when a hand fell on her shoulder. She turned around, screaming. When she did, she discovered Tyler! Her fright caused him to jump back.
With widening eyes and gritted teeth, she asked, “Where were you?”
“In the basement, getting a soda.”
“There’s a kitchen up here.”
“But your parents keep the sodas in the fridge downstairs. What’s the matter with you anyway?”
“Ghostface called me. I hung up on him and tried calling you. Where’s your phone?”
“There on the coffee table.” He pointed to it. “I silenced it.” His eyes shifted, looking like a kid sneaking candy before dinner. “If he calls me, I don’t wanna know.”
“That’s just great. Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
She didn’t punish him too much. What he said was true; he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. “The thing is, though,” she said, “is that he called using Kinsley’s number.”
“So he has her phone.”
“Either that or he cloned it. Like in the Stab movies.”
“Or…” he said, looking directly into her eyes.
“Kinsley’s not a killer, Tyler.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
Realization hit Rory like an anvil to the head. “He better not have hurt her!” She started dialing Kinsley. “If he hurt her, I’ll—”
“Hello?” Kinsley answered.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Rory exclaimed.
After explaining what had just happened, Rory asked if Kinsley was with anyone. “Anyone who might’ve used your phone?”
“No,” Kinsley answered, her voice sounding frightened.
“I think we have to have a meeting,” Rory said. “Me, you, Tyler, Mark, and Marta; your apartment—tonight.”
8.
Except for the glow of the television, Marta’s room was dark. She lay in bed with Mark, his arms wrapped around her. Now and then, she sniffled. Continuing their way through Marta’s mother’s DVD collection, they were watching episode twenty of the third season of Party of Five, titled ‘The Intervention.’
“I can’t stop crying,” Marta said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She looked up at Mark. “This is the best episode yet.”
“Yeah,” Mark said.
Sensing a crack in his voice, Marta turned her head to look up at him. “Are you crying?”
“No,” he sniveled.
Grabbing the PlayStation 5 controller, she paused the episode and sat up, facing her boyfriend. “You are crying.”
“I am not,” he said, a hint of a whimper hiding under his tone.
Feeling spunky, Marta started poking her boyfriend in the stomach and chest. As she did this, she sang, “My man is crying, my man is crying.”
Beginning to smile, Mark put up his hands to try to stop her. Really, he didn’t want her to stop.
Eventually, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her into him. They kissed.
Once their lips unlocked, she said, “I find a man who cries incredibly sexy.”
His expression softened into a look of ecstasy as he considered her words. With the prospect of wild sex racing through his head, he picked up the Apple TV remote, held the talk button, and said, “Up.”
The screen switched from a paused Party of Five episode to Disney+, specifically the movie Up. Raising his brows up and down, he said, “This one tears me up. Within the first ten minutes, I’m bawling like a baby. Should I take my pants off?”
Marta started cracking up. Sure, he was good-looking, dressed well, smelled nice, and all that jazz, but most of all, she loved his humor.
With student loans preventing them from getting a place of their own, both twenty-year-olds still lived with their parents. Though, because Marta’s mom and dad ran a repo service, they were rarely home at night. For that reason, Mark spent most of his time—when he wasn’t working—in her bedroom.
“Come on, silly,” she said, playfully slapping his arm, let’s finish the show, then we can watch your movie.”
“Sounds good.”
Marta’s phone rang. Reaching over, she plucked it off her nightstand and looked at it. “It’s Rory.” Tapping the accept button, she answered, “Hello?”
“Marta. Is Mark with you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Perfect. Get dressed and meet me and Tyler at Kinsley’s apartment in fifteen, okay?”
“Rory, what the hell are you—”
“I’ll explain when we’re all together. It’s important.”
News of Professor Himbry spread quickly. And, although neither she nor Mark took his class, Marta knew Kinsley, Rory, and Tyler did. Having this in mind, along with Rory telling her it was important, she agreed to her friend’s request.
9.
“I’m tellin’ ya, it works every time.”
“Get out of here, man.”
“Okay, don’t believe me. But between the two of us, who beds the most women?”
Stephen, dressed in an expensive leather jacket and wearing his hair as usual—slicked back and full of gel—sat alongside Tommy Madison, a bearded man dressed in a button-up plaid shirt, at the bar, two mugs of beer before them. The bar was well-lit and full of trendy people wearing trendy clothes. On the far end, a set of billiard balls cracked as a new game commenced.
“Fine,” Tommy said, “Tell me your little scheme again.”
“Okay. Find something exclusive—where a bunch of good-looking women will be. Like a vineyard tour or a yacht show. Call and make a reservation for two. Then, get there early with a bouquet of red roses.”
“White,” Tommy interrupted. “You never go wrong with white roses.”
Stephen glared at his buddy—one corner of his mouth turned up. “I have to deal with Gale Weathers all day; I don’t need lip from you, too.”
Tommy held up his hands in a ‘no offense’ gesture.
“The color of the roses doesn’t matter—just bring some. Anyway, there’re always single women at these things. I’ve found that the better you’re dressed, the quicker the single women will start gravitating toward you. An expensive look conveys financial security. You’d be surprised at how many women fantasize about having their own Mr. Gray.”
“Can I get you another, sir?” the bartender asked, speaking of Stephen’s empty mug.
“No,” Stephen answered. “Give me, ah… an espresso martini.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was I?” Stephen asked Tommy.
Tommy shrugged. “Something about a Mr. Gray.”
“Oh yeah. Set your eyes on one or two that you find aesthetically pleasing. Make small talk with them; tell them you’re waiting for your date. She’ll smile, thinking the bouquet is a sweet gesture. While you chat, keep checking your watch; pretend to text your date,” he used air quotes around the word: ‘date.’ Give them puppy dog eyes, maybe show a little embarrassment, even.”
“So you don’t actually have a date?” Tommy inquired.
Looking at his buddy as if worms were coming out of his nose, he said, “No. Haven’t you been listening? That’s the whole point.”
“Damn, dude. You—”
“She’ll start making small talk with you,” Stephen broke in before his buddy could protest. “I’m tellin’ ya, man, before the night is up, she’s feeling so sorry for your ass that she’ll say yes to a date. But!... Don’t ask for a date. Instead, go to leave, but give her the flowers. Tell her something like…” Stephen thought a moment, “…my date may not’ve shown up, but it was a real pleasure meeting you. You’ve made my humiliation easier to bear. Some bullshit like that. Then give her the roses and say: Honestly, you’re much prettier than the girl I was supposed to meet. After that, all you have to do is walk away—you want nothing from her; you were just being a gentleman. Every time I’ve done this, the woman stops me and asks for my number.”
“Dude, you run a magazine,” Tommy said. “You could have these women without tricking them. What’s the point?”
“The conquest.” After clapping his buddy on the shoulder, Stephen continued, “Girls are like bees, my man. If you show them a little sugar, they’ll sting ya. I’ll tell ya, that intern, that works at my magazine, I wouldn’t mind getting stung by her.”
“The one who watched her co-host get killed on stream?”
“That’s the one.”
Tilting the neck of his beer, taking a sip, Tommy said, “I think I’ll pass on your little scam.”
“Scam?”
“Yes, scam. Conquests are for barbarians. I’m not looking for that kind of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of shit. Besides, I’m looking to get back together with Janie.”
“And that’s your problem, my man,” Stephen said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head—while not exclusive to dickheads, this gesture is usually one of their favorites. “It’s 2025; long relationships don’t work anymore.”
“My parents have been married for thirty years.”
“A different time, a different…” Stephen’s phone rang, “…time,” he finished, looking at the number. “Unknown,” he announced.
“One of your conquests?”
“Maybe,” Stephen said, raising his brow up and down. “Hello?”
“Hello?” The voice had depth. It was gravelly and mysterious.
Being a lifelong Woodsboro resident, he recognized it immediately. Ghostface. “Ha, ha, ha. Which one of my friends is acting a fool?”
“Oh, trust me, I’m not a friend.”
“That’s too bad. I give great gifts.”
Tommy scrunched his brow and made a jerking-off gesture. Looking surprised, Stephen mouthed the words: ‘I do.’
Rolling his eyes, Tommy swept a hand at the air and chuckled.
“So, what is this? You wanna know my favorite scary movie or give me some quiz or something?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Too bad.” He ended the call.
“Who was that?” Tommy asked.
“Someone using that damn Ghostface app. The latest Stab movie is coming out next week, so Woodsboro is going to be deluged with this shit.”
His phone rang again. Unknown. He sighed. “Watch this.” He swiped to accept. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”
“Your life,” Ghostface said without missing a beat.
“Never heard of it. When’d it come out?”
“It’s not out yet. Although you’ll see the coming attractions soon enough.”
“Put it on speaker,” Tommy said.
“Well,” Stephen said, tapping the speaker button on his phone, “I stream everything now. I have a better chance of getting the ladies out of their clothes at home.” Stephen smirked. He enjoyed sticking it to the prankster.
“Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” Ghostface said, showing he understood.
“Exactly, my man.”
“The tagline I have in mind for your movie is similar.”
“Oh yeah? What is it?”
“Why let the cow live, when they’re so stupid you can slaughter them with ease?”
An expression of discontent masked Stephen’s face. Yet his tone of voice remained controlled. “You know there’s a Woodsboro City Ordinance making what you’re doing—prank calling someone using the Ghostface voice—illegal, right?”
“Oh, I’m shaking in my boots. But, please, call our doufy Sheriff and give him my number? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind one last dance with Ghostface before his retirement.”
The fact that this mystery caller knew Dewey would be retiring at the end of the week struck Stephen. Yes, certainly, this was public knowledge; he didn’t run for re-election, after all. Yet, it didn’t sound like something a prank caller would know. “You have an issue with Dewey?”
“I’d say you’ll see, but your time is almost up.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Your movie will begin soon. It’s a small role. The New York slimeball, replanted in NorCal—victim number three in a new Woodsboro murder spree. An original story! Not a fucking reboot.”
“Not a big fan of Jill Roberts, huh?” Stephen asked, his momentary dread fading. He couldn’t believe he was beginning to soil his drawers over some dickhead using a voice-changing app.
“This will be nothing like the show that mentally ill influencer wannabe put on,” Ghostface said, speaking of Jill Roberts. “My plan will be bigger than Billy and Stu’s performance, too.”
“Whoa. Someone’s feeling their mojo.” Stephen grinned. “But I’m going to have to turn you down. The New York slimeball is no good for me. I’m not a small-role kinda guy. I’m on your level. I’m thinking the male Casanova left for dead, only to show up at the end to brush the broken glass off the final girl.”
Tommy shook his head, thinking his buddy should be taking the call more seriously.
“Your personality is much bigger than your brains,” Ghostface said, sarcasm dripping off his words like sweat off a hot brow. “However, your personality is why I picked you in the first place. And remember, asshole, there are no small roles, only small actors. If Heather Graham can be the first victim of the first Stab, a guy like you can be the third in a new murder spree. The final one.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m tickled pink. But you’re forgetting one thing.”
“Am I? What’s that?”
“This isn’t a movie. This is real life.”
“You forget, Victim #3, it’s all a movie. It’s all one great big movie.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “How about that, the guy who wants to be bigger than Billy and Stu plagiarizing their lines. Great job, my man.”
“Look,” Tommy said into the phone, “If this is a prank, tell us now, because if it isn’t, we’re calling the cops.”
“I already told you to call the fucking cops.” The phone went silent as Stephen ended the call.
“What the hell,” Tommy said. “You shouldn’t have ended it.”
“It’s nothing. It’s all because of that damn movie. Some dickhead was probably online going through Woodsboro phone numbers to fuck with, found mine, and called.”
“Some dickhead who just happened to call the man who employs Gale Weathers and knows Dewey Riley is retiring in a week?” Stephen shrugged. “We should at least report the number.”
“I can’t tell you how many prank calls I made when I was a kid. I’m not going to cause trouble for some brat screwing around on the phone.”
An hour later, Stephen pulled into a parking space in front of his condo building. Tommy wanted to follow him home, but Stephen insisted he stop worrying. “Look,” he had told him, “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll text you when I get in.”
Getting out of his car, Stephen did just that as he walked across the lot. He typed: Just pulled in, buddy. A moment after sending it, he received: Okay. Over Janie’s house. Give you the details tomorrow.
Looking up at his second-floor condo, he noticed his bedroom light on. He didn’t remember leaving the light on. Then again, he could’ve. It was overcast when he left that morning. Besides, he’d left the lights on before. Hell, once, he left his stove on for eight hours during the summer. When he got home, it felt like an oven—pardon the pun.
A cool spring evening breeze brushed his hair as he approached the open-air steps leading to his second-floor place. He thought they were calling for storms later. When he left that morning, it was overcast, but that had cleared up. For the time being, there was no indication of rain.
Opening his apartment door, he walked in and turned on the foyer light. To his left was his kitchen, to his right, the living room. Nothing looked out of place. What struck him as odd, however, was the sliver of light illuminating the dark hallway ahead of him. The only explanation for this was that his bedroom light was on. But this couldn’t be. He remembered turning it off that morning.
Right?
Yes… Yes, he turned it off.
He stood still, listening. From the laundry room, the HVAC unit kicked on, sending cool air through the vents. This rush hindered his hearing, but he thought he caught a noise coming from his bedroom. Or this could’ve been his nerves working on him.
In the apartment above, he heard his neighbor’s footsteps as they walked from their kitchen to the living room. He thought his upstairs neighbor was a good-looking woman; he wouldn’t have minded getting into her pan—
Another noise. From his bedroom. Almost a ticking sound.
Apprehension filled his eyes. Should he have taken the phone call more seriously?
After twenty seconds of silence, he shook his head—deciding the answer to that question was no. It was a crank call. Nothing more, nothing less. He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter. Their clank sounded extra loud in the quiet space, causing him to jerk his shoulders upward and wince.
As he slow-walked through his apartment, moving toward his bedroom, he shifted his eyes from side to side. Why was he being so cautious? He didn’t know.
It was just a crank call.
Everything seemed to be in place as he got closer to the illuminated hallway. No stray shadows, no unexpected movement. Inches from crossing the hall’s threshold, he stopped, hearing a scraping sound come from his bedroom.
“What the hell?” he whispered, leaning forward, sticking his ear out. Sure enough, there was a scraping sound—constant and thin.
Jumping into his hall, facing his bedroom, he found… an open window and a pair of busted window blinds. The scraping sound came from a row of the vinyl blinds—broken and hanging askew—rubbing against the wall in the light breeze. Underneath this, he heard crickets and katydids, soft and persistent. Everything else seemed to be intact. His bed was still made, the dresser drawers still in place. This did little for his disposition, however. Although he lived on the second floor, a large tree, with plenty of branches, stood just outside his window. Someone could’ve used it to escape.
But why isn’t anything out of place? He wondered, walking up to the open window.
Poking his head out of the busted glass, he looked down at the grass and sidewalk. Everything was covered in dark shadows, yet he could see darker spots near the base of the tree, where the grass was stomped down.
From somewhere, a dog barked. His head snapped in that direction, but he saw nothing.
“To hell with this,” he said, taking out his cell phone, ready to call 9-1-1. As he hit the ‘9’ button, his phone rang.
‘Unknown Caller’ appeared on his screen
At first, he didn’t answer, opting to swallow the lump in his throat instead. The phone rang again.
After the fourth ring, he licked his lips and answered, “Hello?”
“Hello, Stephen. Are you ready for your big debut? At this time of night, your death still has a chance of being in the papers by late edition; it’ll be on television tomorrow morning, and it’ll be on the internet in twenty minutes.”
“I ah…” Stephen said, nervously backing away from his bedroom, trying to wet his lips and finding his mouth dry, “I don’t even know my lines.”
“You’re doing fine. I couldn’t have written it better.”
“Look, man, this isn’t funny.”
“I’m not Mel Brooks.”
A thought, like a splinter in the brain, came to him. If the guy was calling him as soon as he took out his phone, he must’ve still been in the apartment. The closet? Under the bed? In the bathtub?
“Don’t worry, Stephen, I’ll make it quick. It won’t hurt… much.”
With those words, Stephen ended the call and ran out of the house. Down the apartment steps he flew, dialing 9-1-1 as he went. On the sidewalk, he turned to face his building, breathing heavily, continuing to back up toward his car.
No one followed him.
“Woodsboro 9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a tired operator’s voice answered just as Stephen bumped into something.
He screamed and jumped, turning to find a fire hydrant.
“Hello! Woodsboro 9-1-1! Is everything okay?” The operator’s voice suddenly filled with panic after hearing him scream.
“No!” Stephen said into the phone. “Someone broke into my house. They’re still there. The address is 8801 Loch Road, Unit 203!”
“Are you in the house, sir?”
“No. I’m outside. I’m getting into my car. I’ll wait for the cops there.” At this point, Stephen was getting into his car. Once inside, he locked the doors. Then something occurred to him. His keys were in the house.
Did I forget to lock my car’s door?
He couldn’t remember. He must’ve, though, because it was unlocked.
“Are you listening to me, sir?” the emergency operator was asking.
“What? What? Huh?”
“I told you not to get out of your car or go back into your house.”
“Don’t worry about that lady, I’m not playing hero.” Now safe, he shook his head, thinking Tommy would get a kick out of this.
Then he felt something sharp in his back. The pain was hot and radiated out in all directions. Ghostface then appeared in the rearview mirror, popping up from the back seat.
“I told you, you’d be perfect for the role. Now,” Ghostface held up a cell phone and pointed its camera toward Stephen, “let’s see how you handle your death scene.”
Blood spewed from Stephen’s mouth and flew, in a spatter, against the windshield.
“Sir, is everything okay?” the operator asked.
Stephen tried to say no, but it came out in a stressed grunt.
Satisfied, Ghostface removed the knife from Stephen’s back (and, subsequently, the car’s backseat) and stabbed him in the heart a moment later, keeping the camera fixed on him.
“Sir?” the operator asked. “Sir?”
10.
The gang gathered in the living room of Kinsley’s second-floor apartment. She had opened the large sliding glass door leading to her balcony, letting the cool breeze flow through the screened entry slider. Marta sat in the crook of Mark’s arms, who was stretched out on the couch. His left arm rested across her left thigh; both looked comfortable. Tyler sat in the recliner on the other side of the room, while Kinsley sat in a beanbag chair on the floor.
Rounding out the group, Rory paced the floor. “Okay, this is the fifth one of these murder sprees, right?”
“Right,” Tyler said in the tone of an assistant.
When she first arrived, Rory had filled everyone in about what had happened to her earlier that evening. Being the first person in their friend group to receive a call—at least on an individual level—seemed to shift how they viewed themselves. If past bloodbaths set the rule, no longer were they innocent bystanders observing from the outside; they were participants—potential victims—in a real-life massacre. Sure, the first murder occurred on Kinsley and Brad’s podcast, but Ghostface had mentioned Gale during that killing; nothing about any of them.
“If three is a trilogy, then what’s a fifth?” Rory asked, turning to the group.
“What’s even a fourth?” Mark asked.
“A pentalogy,” Kinsley said, turning the face of her phone around to show Rory. “I just looked it up. A fifth movie is a pentalogy.”
“Okay. We’ve got that. So… if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching the Stab movies, we have to know the rules of a… a…”
“Pentalogy,” Kinsley finished.
“Right. So, what are the rules?”
Except for Marta, everyone looked around at one another; she sat with a daft look on her face. When Rory’s eyes found her, she said, “Don’t look at me. I don’t watch this stuff.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out,” Tyler said. “All we have to do is think of some horror movies with at least five parts and how they’re different from the first four.”
“Why?” Marta asked. “If some psycho killer is offing people in Woodsboro, what does movies have to do with any of it?”
“Because,” Kinsley answered, “killers in the previous Ghostface murder sprees based their kills off of which movie,” she used air quotes around this word, “the spree was.”
Marta met this with a daft look.
Outside, the wind picked up and rushed through the screen of the balcony’s sliding door. A wind chime made from different lengths of silver pipes, hanging from the above apartment’s terrace, clanged together. Beyond this, the rustling of trees, sounding like a waterfall, drowned out the chirping crickets. The cool air smelled crisp and ominous, like a coming storm.
Rory didn’t know if a storm was coming. All she knew was that she felt on edge. As if electricity had replaced the blood flowing through her veins. The call had gotten to her. Maybe that’s why she continued to pace the floor. Once, when she was a kid, a tornado had touched down—
“In Halloween 5, Michael Myers’ childhood home switched from a little two-story suburban home to a Victorian mansion,” Kinsley said, coming up with the first example while interrupting Rory’s thoughts.
“Don’t get me started on that movie,” Tyler said. “Ellie Cornell’s character died way too early. She should’ve been the final girl again.”
“Bro, have a fit, why don’tcha,” Mark said.
“I’m just sayin’. That French director had no idea what he was doing with that franchise.”
“Ty,” Rory said to her boyfriend, caressing his hand, “let’s keep it serious, please.”
“Sorry, babe.” The sheepish way he shifted his eyes indicated his apology came from the heart.
“Oh!” Mark exclaimed. “What about Friday the 13th Part 5? Jason wasn’t the killer. Wasn’t it some crazy paramedic?”
“Yeah,” Rory said. Then something came to her. “Oh! And in A Nightmare on Elm Street 5, Freddy used Alice’s unborn baby’s dreams as ah… a, um…”
“Conduit,” Kinsley said.
“Yeah,” Rory said, jumping at the word. “Whereas before, Freddy used his victims’ individual dreams to kill them.”
Marta listened to this conversation with her mouth agape. “I can’t believe I left Party of Five for this.”
Ignoring her friend’s rhetorical observation, Rory said, “This is good. With these examples, I think we have our first rule.”
“Which is?” Tyler asked.
“Expect something that breaks the ah… um…” Rory snapped her fingers over and over again, trying to come up with the word. “My brain hasn’t been working since the phone call.”
“Formula?” Kinsley said.
“Yes!” Rory said. “Expect something that breaks the formula.”
“Like the sidekick of the main character coming up with the rules, rather than the geeky comic relief character?” Tyler said.
“Exactly,” Rory said, unsure whether he meant this as a statement or a question.
“Hold on,” Kinsley said. “I still don’t know how I became the main character.”
“Because this whole thing started with your and Brad’s podcast,” Mark said. “Since he’s not here anymore, you’re the default main character.”
“I wonder…” Rory said, continuing to pace and tapping a finger to her chin, “If I’m like a Tatum/Randy hybrid, maybe that means I’ll survive.”
“At least half of you will,” Mark said, grinning.
Marta slapped at his arm. “You play too much.”
“I know I sound silly,” Rory said, running a hand through her hair. “I’m just really scared.”
“I’d be scared, too,” Kinsley said, staring at her bookshelf, looking beyond it—a blank expression on her face. “Something else that happens further into a franchise is that the death scenes become more brutal.” Along with the morbidity of her words, the distant way she spoke, as if she were in a trance or hypnotized, gave everyone pause.
“Kins…” Mark asked, his voice unsure. “You okay?”
Snapping out of whatever haze had been locking her up, she said, “Yeah… fine.” She turned, finding Rory’s eyes. Rory looked back at her, pensive. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Rory wanted to tell her she didn’t appreciate her comments about the increasing brutality of deaths in horror movie franchises, but refrained from doing so. By the looks of it, Kinsley didn’t even realize she had said it.
Outside, the breeze picked up strength, whipping weaker tree limbs to and fro. The wind chimes became a chaotic crescendo of discordant tones. A flash of lightning streaked across the night sky. Soon after, a crack of thunder rattled the glass in the slider, setting off a car alarm. With a hand over her heart, Rory jumped and moved closer to Tyler.
“Holy sh…” Marta said, jumping herself.
Taking his girlfriend’s hand, Tyler said, “It’s okay. It’s just the start of a storm.”
“This damn thing—turn off!” The curse came from a distant, frustrated voice. A moment later, the car alarm stopped. “Every damn time…” His muttering faded.
“Hey, guys,” Mark said. “I don’t want to scare anyone, but Kinsley’s right. Part fives are usually gorier than their predecessors. Look at Seed of Chucky. That movie’s crazy.”
“You guys are freaking me out,” Marta said. “Might I remind you there’ve been two murders. While we’re sitting around talking about old movies, one of us… or all of us… might be in danger.”
“That’s why we’re trying to figure this out,” Rory said.
“How?” Marta asked, flabbergasted. “You sound like a bunch of movie critics.”
“You don’t watch these movies,” Rory answered. “The more you know the rules of a horror movie, the better chance you have to survive one.”
Rolling her eyes, Marta got up and said, “Yeah, well, back in the real world, I’ve been doing some digging.”
“What do you mean?” Kinsley asked.
“This morning, at the coffee shop, you said something about wanting to find out who killed Brad. So, I put my forensic skills to work and studied the video. I think I found something interesting.”
“I thought you were going to wait until you were certain to tell everyone,” Mark said—his eyes remaining fixed on her.
“I mean, I did want to wait, but with Rory getting a phone call, it seems like this is getting serious. We should all be on the same page.”
“What did you find out?” Rory asked, blurting out her question. Her voice a mix of anxiety and curiosity.
“I’ll get into all the nitty-gritty details in a sec. But first, I really have to pee. I’ll be right...”
“DON’T!” Mark exclaimed, “...finish that sentence.”
“What?”
“Never say you’ll be right back. That’s certain death in a situation like this.” Tyler clarified.
Marta put her hands on her hips and glared at her friends. Any alarm their initial cries had caused her went away immediately. “No offense, y’all, but you people are a little crazy,” she said as she disappeared into the dark hall.
“You know what she wants to tell us?” Kinsley asked Mark.
He nodded.
“What is it?” Rory asked.
“She’s the computer forensics major. I can’t explain it like her.”
The sky opened up, and rain began falling in sheets. Another strong gust of wind came through the screen, blowing some papers off of Kinsley’s desk.
“Close that, Rory,” Kinsley asked, speaking of the sliding glass door.
Rory did so, feeling the mist of cool rain carried on the wind on her cheeks and arms. Just before she had it completely closed, another bolt of lightning and crack of thunder startled her. She jumped back. “I hate storms so much.”
“How come?” Mark asked.
“Once, when I was a kid, a tornado touched down—”
The lights went out. Rory screamed. Well… scream might be an exaggeration. She yelped. “Oh my God, he cut the lights!”
“Nobody cut the lights,” Kinsley said. “The parking lot lights are out, too. It’s just a power outage because of the storm, not a—”
“What the hell’s going on out there?” Marta yelled from the bathroom; her voice was muffled.
“The storm killed the lights,” Mark yelled back.
“Look, everyone,” Kinsley said, “I think we—”
She was interrupted by the ping of her cellphone. She had a text. About a second later, Rory’s text sound pinged. Then Tyler’s and Mark’s phones buzzed at the same time. Finally, Marta, who had left her phone on the coffee table, pinged. Each of the four glanced at their lock screens. Their phones looked like large, exotic fireflies bobbing around in the inky darkness.
“Whose number is 555-3498?” Tyler asked.
“That’s the same number who sent me the text,” Rory said.
“Me too,” Mark said.
“It’s Brad’s number,” Kinsley answered.
“Brad’s number?” Rory’s voice sounded frightened.
“The text is just a link to a YouTube video,” Mark said.
“Holy shit,” Tyler said. He had already clicked the link and was watching the video.
Not wanting to be left out, everyone else followed his lead.
“Oh my God,” Rory said, covering her mouth with her hand only ten seconds into the video. “I can’t watch.” She swiped up, bringing up her home screen. A moment later, she turned the screen back toward her and thought about watching the rest. Instead, she slid the phone into her skirt pocket, hoping that action would remove the temptation.
“That’s my boss,” Kinsley said. “From Quillory Magazine.”
“This was just posted a few minutes ago,” Tyler said.
Mark, Kinsley, and Tyler, from their respective phones, watched as Ghostface stabbed Stephen Jackson to death in his car. Between stabs and bloody gurgles, they heard the 9-1-1 operator asking him if he was okay.
“How is this posted on Brad’s channel?” Mark asked.
“Someone must have his login,” Kinsley answered.
“Or there’s a reason his body wasn’t found,” Tyler said.
When Stephen was good and dead, Ghostface looked into the camera and said, “Take a good look, Rory, this was almost you and your boyfriend tonight. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”
Although she was no longer watching, she heard this. She opened her mouth, but fear stole her words. A blank expression washed over her, and she turned white. Suddenly, she was hot and began fanning herself with her hand. At the same time, she started pacing again.
Tyler had no words, either. During one of her laps, he got up, stood in her path, and intercepted her. She fell into his arms.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she whispered into his chest as he rubbed her back.
Kinsley got up and walked toward the hall. “I’m going to go get a flashlight. I think I have one in my room.” On her way, she caught her shin on something. “Ouch! Damn it.” A few seconds later, her bedroom door opened and closed.
“It’s so much different than in the movies,” Rory said.
Her cell phone rang. Taking it from her skirt’s pocket, she glanced at it. 555-3498! When she saw the number, she turned more ashen, and her eyes grew wide with surprise. “It’s Brad’s phone!”
“Answer it,” Tyler said. “Put it on speaker.”
Rory did so. Before she could say anything, Ghostface said, “Hello, Rory. Can you hear me now? Am I breaking up?”
“I can hear you. What do you want? Who are you?”
“That’s a nice red skirt you have on, Rory. Much more becoming than overalls. Although your legs look like two poles—no shape, just like your tits.”
Both she and Tyler looked out the slider. They could see nothing but darkness and rain. “Now that you’re done body shaming me, what the hell do you want?”
Mark hopped off the couch and ran into the hall, catching his shin on something as he went. “Ouch! Damn it!” A moment later, they could hear him say, “Marta! Kinsley! He’s on the phone.”
“Do you see me?” Ghostface asked Rory.
“Tell me what you want?” Rory asked through gritted teeth.
“I want to rip your guts out and use your intestines to strangle your brooding boyfriend.”
“It’ll never happen, dickhead,” Tyler yelled into the phone.
“Marta! Kinsley!” Mark banged on either the bathroom door or Kinsley’s bedroom door; Rory didn’t know which.
“We’ll see about that,” Ghostface said and hung up.
A moment later, both Kinsley and Marta came out of their respective rooms.
“What?” Kinsley asked, rushing into the living room holding a lit flashlight in her hands.
“What are you going on about?” Marta asked her boyfriend. “Who’s on the phone?”
“He called Rory,” Mark said. “Ghostface.”
As Mark explained to the girls what just happened, Tyler nudged Rory. When she looked over to see what he wanted, he mouthed, “Hit redial.” His eyes then shifted to Kinsley. Catching his signal, Rory clicked on her recent calls and tapped the 555 number, hoping to God nothing in Kinsley’s pocket or room rang.
It didn’t.