Chapter One
“I’ll never understand why horror is treated like the red-headed stepchild of the film industry. For instance, I saw Possession for the first time the other night; I’m not lying when I tell you Isabelle Adjani gave one of the best performances I’ve ever seen in any film. If you don’t agree, I’ll fight you,” she laughed. Kinsley Saunders sat at her bedroom desk, speaking into a condenser microphone suspended in the air to her left, while she looked into a webcam mounted atop her computer monitor.
“That movie was over my head,” her co-host, Brad Anderson, said from his bedroom, twenty miles away, in Sonoma Bay.
On her monitor’s screen, a live shot of Kinsley was contained within a virtual box on the right, and a live shot of Brad on the left; below them, a graphic read: Scream a Little Stream Podcast. Fans of the podcast typed messages into a chat box that ran the length of the screen next to Kinsley’s face: ‘oOoOMontyoOoO: Kins, U R Z Bestest,’ ‘1354EdmoZemo: Possession is f’d!!!!!!,’ ‘AlvinLuvsTheo269: Wut about Aliens?! That wuz good!’ ‘toodle-ewww: everyone kiss my azz!’
Brad’s confession about not understanding Possession didn’t surprise Kinsley. Her co-host wasn’t the pointiest pitchfork hanging on the barn wall. Of course, she’d never say this. “The thing is, horror has changed in such a—”
“Here she goes, folks,” Brad interrupted, “Climbing onto her soapbox again.” He ran a hand in front of his forehead, brushing a few curly, dirty-blonde locks out of his blue eyes.
A large ring light encircled her monitor and webcam, illuminating her, reflecting off her black-rimmed glasses, and causing her dark brown hair to shine. She wore a black hoodie with WOODSBORO printed on it.
Leaning in toward the camera, flashing a wry smile, giving their podcast viewers a peek at her pearly whites, Kinsley continued, “I know I sound like a broken record, but let me ask a question. When did tropes become the essence of storytelling? It’s like,” she thought a moment, “in the past, tropes were like ghosts; they were there, but the writing was so good the viewer never thought of them. Now, they’re almost philosophical. The only thing these writers can muster today is a monotonous story of good versus bad, where they tell the audience which is which without exploring nuance. And do you know why?”
“Second screening,” Brad said, chuckling at this co-host’s rant. His reaction indicated he’d heard this many times before.
“Exactly,” Kinsley said. “Second screening is why we can’t get a good horror movie. Everyone is a solid trope. When was the last time you were surprised watching a horror movie? And I don’t mean a cheap surprise. I mean ‘The Haunting of Hill House’ type of surprise.”
“Are we talking about books or movies?”
Kinsley sighed. Brad had a point. “In that case, I’m talking about the book, but—”
“Ever heard of Mike Flannigan?” Brad asked.
“Okay,” Kinsley said, conceding his point. “But he’s the exception to the rule.”
“I swear you need to get out of that 90s mindset, Kins,” Brad retorted, continuing to laugh. “There’s a world of good movies you’re missing because of your nostalgic mindset.”
In the chatbox, someone named Awesome_Brah99 superchatted: ‘Kinsley is a movie snob.’ Brad read it, thanking the viewer for their $5 contribution.
“I’m just saying…” Kinsley said, ignoring the comment while fluttering her eyes, trying to cover her annoyance with playfulness, “Movies in the past explored topics in a nuanced manner. Candyman, for instance, explores how society creates monsters. The Fly, shows how intelligence and ambition could turn dangerous if unchained. Even the original A Nightmare on Elm Street—community cover-ups, inherited guilt.”
“Sure,” Brad said, his tone mocking. “Horror also teaches us that when you buy a house, fill your hallways with stuff. That way, if a killer is ever chasing you through it, you have a bunch’a crap to throw in their way.”
Finding this funny, Kinsley came close to snorting a drink of water through her nose. Thanks to her brand-new 4K camera, the quality of her picture was far superior to that of Brad’s 1080p camera. Messages in the chat box continued: “im a redheaded stepchild in my falmy,” and “Kinsley U R so cute when U laugh,” and “Brad rulz 4-ever,” and “this show SUX!!!!!!!” Statistics at the top of this window read: Currently watching 5,453.
“But that’s the thing. The first Stab movie really turned all of these things on their heads,” Kinsley said. “It reworked the formula in a really creative way. I guess I…” she put a finger to her chin, thinking. “I guess I’m confused as to why a studio, once they get their hands on gold, does everything they can to tarnish it. The first few Stab sequels were fine, but now they’re ridiculous. The trailer for the new one…” Kinsley shook her head, wide-eyed, unable to finish her statement because she was in such disbelief at its stupidity.
“Okay,” Brad responded. “I’ll admit, the new Stab trailer looks like ass. I have no idea how they’re going to bring back all these people who were killed. But you’ll never convince me that all new horror sucks.” He then laughed before continuing, “Just wait until AI becomes more accessible; every person writing bad fan fiction will be able to make a movie.”
“Lord help us.” With her right leg bent, and her sock-covered foot’s heel resting on the seat of her chair, Kinsley leaned back, relaxed, absent-mindedly playing with the hem of her jeans.
“I heard they used AI in this new Stab movie,” Brad continued.
“Unfortunately, I think we’ll see more and more of that.” Kinsley licked her lips, amazed that Brad brought up people using AI in a negative light after what he had done. Again, she decided against embarrassing her co-host. “We have superchat from teal_mamabear2296,” Kinsley said. “For $10.00. Thanks for that. They write, I’m new to the Stab series and have been binging the movies—”
“Oh, God,” Brad interrupted. “Don’t do that to yourself. Stop at four. After the fourth one, the series falls on its face, trust me.”
“Quiet, Brad,” Kinsley said, smiling. Finishing the superchat, she read, “I’m also learning about the real-life murders the movies are based on. Since you live in Woodsboro, did either of you—”
“Technically speaking—” Brad interrupted again, “I live in Sonoma Bay. The poorer, working-class town that rests in Woodsboro’s rich shadow.”
Although he said this with a smile, his serious tone confused Kinsley. Regardless of his puzzling interruption, she treated it as a joke. “Shut up.” Getting back to the message, she continued, “Did either of you know Jill Roberts or Charlie Walker?”
“No, I didn’t,” Brad said.
“I didn’t know them, either. I did, however, get my copy of” Kinsley reached for a book near her computer, “The Woodsboro Murders by Gale Weathers.” She opened the cover and showed off the signature to her webcam.
“Don’t you have a signed copy of Out of Darkness, Sidney Prescott’s book?” Brad asked.
“Yeah,” Kinsley said, putting Gale’s book back. “It’s somewhere around here.”
“Plus, you work shoulder to shoulder with Gale Weathers,” Brad said.
Surprised, Kinsley didn’t say anything for a moment. She wondered why Brad would bring that up. She told him never to bring that up. Sure, it’s something she would love to brag about. However, she didn’t know if Gale would want viewers of her podcast to know this. “I… I, um, intern at the magazine where Gale is employed, but I don’t think they’d want me bringing that up on the podcast.”
“Do you ever see her around the office?”
Clearing her throat and glaring into the camera, hoping this would force Brad to get the message and shut up, she said, “Yeah. Every day.”
“Is she nice?” A big grin masked his face.
In the scrolling chat box, people wrote: ‘OPAL-the-DOPEAL: Kins iz uncomfy with this line of questions,’ and ‘Anna_Anna98: Brad’s so cringe sometimes,’ and ‘Cheesymoon: Kinsley could do this by herself,’ and ‘LucyMaDucy02: kinsley’s dorky, she deserves it.’ Then a superchat with a red background appeared.
“Oh look,” Kinsley said, fluttering her eyes again, “another superchat.” Seeing that this chat box was red, she knew it was a big spender—$25 or more. “A fifty-dollar superchat from Ghostface_96. Thank you very much, Ghostface_96. He asks, ‘What’s your favorite scary movie?’”
“How original,” Brad said.
“Be nice, this is fifty bucks. And, to answer your question, my favorite scary movie is Carrie. The original. The acting is sooo good. Piper Laurie scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. Even when I watch it today, I get chills after she stabs Carrie and follows her down the steps.” She then paused and thought a moment before continuing, “Although, Possession might overtake Carrie. After I watch it again, I’ll decide. Brad, what about you? What’s your favorite scary movie?”
“The Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” Brad answered. “Talk about deeper messages—the death of rural America and how loyalty to family could be harmful if that loyalty is feeding a perverse action?”
Knitting her brow, Kinsley knew someone paid attention to the DVD commentary. Either that or they read the film’s Wiki page. For a third time, she decided not to embarrass him. Despite his little Gale Weathers outburst a moment ago. Instead, she took his answer as if it were his own. “I never thought of it that way. I always saw it as a commentary on America coming out of the Vietnam era.”
“That, too,” Brad suddenly sounded disinterested in the conversation.
“Maybe that’s why it’s lasted as long as it has—because it’s layered.” Kinsley smirked. “Each re-watch, you notice something more, or you… you begin to get a hint of a deeper message. Possession is like that. You can—”
“Good, God,” Brad interrupted, “Get off it with that stupid movie.”
“All I’m saying is it proves my point about ghosts of tropes.” Kinsley raised her voice for a moment, disliking her co-host’s interruption. “Filmmakers of the past could slip messages into their movies so subtly that they became part of the narrative without you even thinking about it. Today, you’re beaten over the head with messages.”
Brad made a motorboat noise with his lips while staring into his camera. Kinsley wouldn’t have minded escalating the argument. Yet, she wanted a silver YouTube Play Button a bit more. With that in mind, she kept things professional.
“We have another fifty-dollar superchat from Ghostface_96,” Kinsley exclaimed. “Thank you so much. They ask, What do you think about Stu Macher’s upcoming release?” Kinsley paused, thinking.
“If the superchatter’s asking if he’s dangerous,” Brad said, “I doubt it. He’s close to fifty, right?”
Rolling her eyes and mustering up as much sarcasm as she could, Kinsley said, “Certainly no fifty-year-old ever hurt anyone.” Then, answering Ghostface_96’s question, she continued, “He should’ve been thrown under the jail. I don’t think he should ever be released. Especially right before the next Stab movie comes out.”
Before she finished answering the question, another fifty-dollar superchat from Ghostface_96 appeared. It read: Do you want to die tonight?
At first, Kinsley only stared at the message. She’d been put in similar situations before. People would superchat racist terms, sexist terms, praise for evil people. All were trying to get a rise out of her. She would never read them. She’d simply let these people know she didn’t want to lose her channel without a hint of annoyance. If she ever showed her ire, she’d only guarantee more despicable comments. With this in mind, she played it safe like before. “Ghostface_96, thank you for the superchat, but the message… I’m not sure if I can read this on our streaming plat—”
Before she could finish, another fifty-dollar superchat from Ghostface_96 appeared. This time, there was no message. Just a link. Knitting her brow, Kinsley moved her mouse over the link, but didn’t click it.
“What is it?” Brad asked, wondering why his co-host had gone silent. On his end, he could see the superchats as they scrolled, but it had always been up to Kinsley to collect them for reading.
Another superchat followed—ten dollars this time. It read: I said, do you want to die tonight???
“What the hell’s wrong with this guy?” Brad asked.
“Ghostface_96, I’m not in the business of banning people, but…”
Before she could finish her statement to the superchatter, messages on the chatboard began pouring in: ‘Is this your house?’ ‘do you want to die tonite?’ ‘Is this where you live?’ ‘Whozzz place is this?’ ‘Do you want to die 2nite, lmfao!’
These messages made Kinsley even more curious as to what was hidden behind the link.
Interested himself, Brad scrolled back through the chat, found the superchat, and clicked. His eyes grew wide. “Ahhh, Kins, I think you ought’ta click it.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
She did. The link went to a livestream of her apartment building. Judging by the picture on her monitor, the camera was set up near the carport in the parking lot. “Holy shit,” she whispered.
Behind her, something clinked. It could’ve been apartment 2G’s door shutting. Or it could’ve been something in the kitchen. Turning her head, she found her cat, Jezebel, sleeping on the bed; nothing had disturbed her.
In the upstairs apartment, her neighbor ran his bathroom faucet. A moment later, she heard water running down the pipes in the wall. Underneath this ordinary sound, she thought she heard footsteps.
“Kinsley?” Brad said. “Are you alright?”
She didn’t answer.
Chatter’s messages continued to roll in. ‘This is fake.’ ‘I expected more from you guyz.’ ‘fake or not, its cool as s-h-i-t.’ ‘Will their B blood?’ ‘smh. fake.’
“Kinsley,” Brad said, his voice full of urgency. “What’s going on?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
Her cell phone began buzzing. She picked it up and looked at it. UNKNOWN NUMBER. She silenced it. “Ghostface_96,” she said, “I’m going to ban you for—”
Another red-boxed superchat--$25—appeared. “Pick up the phone, bitch.”
Her phone began buzzing again. Startled, she glanced at it, debating whether to do as he asked or not; there was a camera set up outside her house, after all.
More water ran down the pipes behind the wall as her neighbor flushed their toilet. All this damn noise all of a sudden. Is this place always so damn noisy? She wondered. She couldn’t hear if anything… or anyone was moving inside her place. And she was too scared to get up and check.
“Kinsley, answer me. You’ve got me worried.”
The phone stopped vibrating as her voicemail picked up. A moment later, it began vibrating again.
“Shit.” After one more hesitation, she quickly picked up her phone and answered it. “Hello?”
“Hello, Kinsley.”
As a horror fan and having seen all the Stab movies, she knew the voice. Ghostface.
Licking her lips, she asked, “Who’s this?”
“Your biggest fan.”
The messages were going crazy now. ‘Put it on speaker!!!!!!!’ ‘Speaker phone, NOW!’ I wanna hear I wanna hear I wanna hear!!!!’ ‘WTF this is stupid as F U K.’
Along with the messages, Scream A Little Stream’s podcast view count was rising fast. 2,644… 2,854… 3,101…
Brad leaned in toward his camera. “Kinsley. Put it on speaker.”
Thinking it would be good to have witnesses, she did so. “Tell me who this is,” she demanded.
The voice laughed. A deep, guttural laugh. They said, “On livestream—I don’t think so. Besides, I already gave you a hint.”
“Alright. If you are my biggest fan, then why are you trying to scare me?”
“Trying?”
“Okay,” she said, catching his drift, “scaring me. Why are you scaring me?”
“And here I thought you were smart. A big horror movie buff running a big horror podcast—straight outta Woodsboro, no less. It seems you’d be thrilled to have me call in. Just look at those numbers rise.”
The view count continued going up and up and up. 9,215… 10,874… 11,236…
“This isn’t a call-in show.”
“Look, dickhead,” Brad yelled from his house a town away, “leave her alone!”
“Brad, Brad, Brad. You’ve always been a cocky asshole. Oops. I guess I shouldn’t have said that. Now you have another hint of who I am.” The voice laughed again. “Tell me, Brad, what are you going to do? Drive forty-five minutes to this bitch’s apartment and save her. You’ll never make it. But, Kinsley, you can save yourself. All you have to do is answer a few questions. Come on, you already know the routine.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
“Be my guest. It would be a pleasure to gut Sheriff Riley a week before his retirement.”
“I’ll scream if you don’t stop. You know I live in an apartment. All my neighbors will come.”
Another slow, evil laugh. “Go ahead. Scream. It’ll do you no good. People today treat minding their own business like a matter of life or death. They show off their apathy as if it were a virtue. If you don’t believe me, take a look at that view count.”
15,147… 15,587… 16,154…
Another noise. A tink or a… a kind of tick came from the kitchen. Looking over her shoulder again, she saw nothing but low light coming from her dimly lit living room, creating shadows in the hall, and her Jezebel still sleeping on the bed. It seemed her cat had turned into the proverbial canary in the coal mine.
“Kinsley, I’ll call the cops,” Brad said.
She didn’t acknowledge this. Instead, she watched the livestream of her apartment as the camera zoomed in and out quickly. It could’ve been the camera trying to refocus in the darkness, or… Shit! She thought. It could have been someone manually focusing it.
“Are you ready for your first question?”
“No,” Kinsley said.
“Come on. It’ll be fun. You’re a horror fan. It’ll be easy.”
In the chat box, messages kept flying. ‘I’ll call the cops,’ ‘clickbait, clickbait, clickbait.’ ‘Brad!!!!! Call the cop!!!!!’ ‘wutz your addy?’ ‘LEAVE HER ALONE!!!!!!!!!!!’ ‘Dumb azzes, this is all fake.’ Along with the messages, the view count kept climbing: 18,985… 19,658… 20,910…
“Kinsley, I’m calling the police now!” Brad said, picking up his cell phone.
“It seems our time is limited,” Ghostface said. “First question. Who’s ghost haunted the time-traveling protagonist in the fifth Stab movie?”
Not wanting to answer, but not knowing what else to do, Kinsley answered, “Billy Loomis.”
“Yes!” the voice said triumphantly. “I started you off easy.”
On her monitor, she watched as Brad spoke into his cell phone. “Hello… Woodsboro PD. I have an emergency at…”
“Second question,” the voice said over her phone’s speaker. “What is considered by experts to be the first horror film?”
“The House of the Devil,” Kinsley said confidently, hoping it wasn’t a trick question. She’d recently seen a YouTube video on this very subject. Still, she shouldn’t have answered so quickly. That was careless.
“Oh! Very good! I thought I’d get you with that one.”
The view count reached 30,000. Her goal was to reach 30,000 by the end of the year. Looks like I got there early, she thought with a sinking heart.
“Kinsley!” Brad said. “The cops are on their way!”
“Ah,” Ghostface said. “Just in time, we’re at the last question. Get it right, and you’ll deprive me of all the fun I want to have. Are you ready?”
“Ask the fucking question.”
“Ohh. What an attitude on such a pristine girl.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kinsley said, gritting her teeth, growing more pissed and frightened by the second. “I get the Breakfast Club reference. Now just ask the question.”
“Okay. In the film, Let’s Scare Jessica To Death, what was Emily?”
She almost blurted out the answer—the first one that came to mind. From watching the Stab movies, however, she knew Ghostface, or whoever was playing Ghostface, always threw in a trick question. With that in mind, she thought a moment longer. It had been a couple of years since she watched that movie, but she remembered Emily quite clearly. She was a vampire. Absolutely a vampire. If she recalled correctly, she had turned the whole town into vampires.
“Come on,” the voice said. “The clock is ticking.”
It had to be a vampire.
“A vampire,” Kinsley answered, her voice delicate—a mix of sure and unsure.
“Aww, wrong answer.”
“No it isn’t,” Kinsley said, standing up and yelling into the phone. “I’ve seen that movie a bunch of times; she’s a vampire!”
“Afraid not. It was only implied that she was a vampire. Filmmakers left her true nature ambiguous to heighten the movie’s eeriness. She could’ve been a ghost, a vampire, the undead, anything the viewer wanted.”
“You tricked me.”
“Tell it to someone who gives a shit. Point is, you lost. Now someone dies.”
Behind her, another clink. She jumped, turning to face her bedroom cast in moon shadows. Her heart rate ticked up faster than her podcast’s view count. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. Her knees felt weak. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she began moving her head, trying to see more of the hallway.
“Do you hear me?” the voice said from her phone’s speaker. “Do you see me?”
“Kinsley,” Brad said, his voice frantic. “Kinsley! Stay on camera!”
Thinking of something, she turned and grabbed a pen out of a holder on her desk. She heard Brad’s voice, but couldn’t pay him any attention right now. Until the cops arrived, she was alone.
She held the pen up, pointy side out, like a knife. A framed print of Starry Night hung on her wall. The painting always gave her a sense of security. It reminded her that her apartment was her peaceful sanctuary, unmolested by anything cruel. Staring at it now, it did little to calm her nerves.
Letting out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, she considered the possibility that this was nothing more than an elaborate prank. An evil prank, sure. But a prank, nonetheless. Dread continued to flow through her veins like broken glass through a tube.
“Jezebel,” she whispered, calling her cat. Maybe the earlier noises were too quiet to wake her. If she could get her attention and there was more noise, she’d be able to tell if someone was hiding in her place. “Jezebel.”
The cat raised her head, stared at her a moment, yawned, then rested her head back down onto her paws.
“Some help you are,” she whispered.
“Kinsley!” Brad screamed, sounding terrified.
His bloodcurdling wail made her turn back to her computer monitor. There, she watched Brad being attacked by Ghostface.
How the hell was the killer in Sonoma Bay, forty-five minutes away, when the camera was set up outside her apartment building?!
The black-shrouded figure, with a mask that reminded her of a painting whose name she had on the tip of her tongue, struggled with her podcast partner!
“Brad!” Kinsley yelled back.
“Help!” Brad hollered as both he and Ghostface fell to the floor, out of the camera’s eye. “Kinsley!” his muffled voice drifted.
“Brad! Brad!”
‘Where iz he?’ one chatter asked. Others added to the comments: ‘#1 podcast ever!!!’ ‘you guyz outdid yourselvz.’ ‘still fake but still kool.’ ‘holy s-h-i-t!’ ‘iz this X-MAS!!!!!!!’ ‘i’m never watching again this is dum’
35,634… 36,243… 40,387…
A moment later, Brad rose with his back facing the webcam. He stumbled and groaned as he turned to face his desk. What Kinsley saw next made her blood run cold. She gasped as she cupped a hand over her mouth. The handle of a knife protruded from his forehead!
Brad fell onto his desk. Although racing toward death, his eyes still clung to the last seconds of his life. “Kinsley…” he wheezed. Then his body fell, bumping the desk with a THUD on the way down.
“Brad!” she cried, touching the screen, not knowing what else to do.
Ghostface stepped over the carcass, then, into the camera, said, “Just when you think things can’t get any worse, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, they get better. So sayeth Sidney Prescott. But sometimes they do get worse. A lot worse. So sayeth me. Everyone, eventually, has to pay the piper, and all legacies come to an end. Give Gale the message. And, Kinsley, I’ll be seeing you soon.”
She screamed!