Chapter Seven

1.

With Higgins riding shotgun, Dewey pulled his state-issued Chevy Tahoe down the private road leading to Becky Macher’s residence around 12:30 a.m. When he was there a few days ago, he knew the place was remote. Yet, under the cover of darkness, he could see nothing but inky blackness on either side of his headlights, it felt much… much more desolate.

“You want me to radio Judy again?” Higgins asked.

“No.” Dewey left it at that. Since the murders started up again, something had been eating at him. At first, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It hit him earlier, when Judy called in to report everything was a-okay in town. Since marrying her, he had gotten used to her being on the force. It never seemed dangerous. Being an officer in Woodsboro was safer than being a big-city elementary school teacher. At least that’s what he thought. However, the new killing spree reminded him of how much danger his wife was in. Frankly, he wanted her as far away from Woodsboro as possible. Maybe New York…

“I think she’d want to be—”

“I said no.” Dewey gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “If we need her, we’ll call her, but not sooner.”

After parking down the street about a hundred yards from the residence, Dewey put the shifter into park, cut the engine, and sat for a moment. The Macher place was dark. No inside lights. No outside lights. Only the dark shape of the house silhouetted against the darker field beyond. It seemed wrong to him. He knew people would normally be asleep by now, but he had received a call from Becky less than half an hour ago. Surely, someone was awake.

“What’s the matter?” Higgins asked, his hand on the door handle. “Aren’t we going in?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Dewey said, “Yeah. But keep your eyes open.” He opened his door and hopped out. Higgins followed. “Keep your sidearm at the ready, too, Deputy.”

A light mist touched Dewey’s face. Far off, a few clouds lit up purple as lightning illuminated them. Their footfalls were silent on the grass. A squeaking noise echoed beneath the sound of crickets. It sounded like an old weather vane in serious need of oil.

“What is that?” Higgins whispered.

“I don’t know,” Dewey answered.

The air was warm and pleasant. It smelled of coming rain—a smell Dewey liked. This did little to quell the butterflies swirling in his stomach. He recalled having similar feelings four previous times: once in L.A., once in Ohio, and twice in Woodsboro. It never got better.

Closer to the house, Higgins said, “I feel like I’m being watched.”

“Yeah,” Dewey said, his eyes constantly moving. “Me too.”

Except for one oak in the front yard, the rancher was in a clearing. And other than a car parked in the driveway, there was nothing for someone to hide behind. Still, the lack of light made it hard for him to be sure no one was around… stalking them… waiting to stab the hell out of them.

Higgins took out his flashlight.

“Don’t do that,” Dewey whispered. “If Stu is in there, I don’t want him to know we’re here.”

“I can’t see a damn thing,” Higgins whispered in response.

“You can see the house, can’t you? We’ll use the light when necessary.”

Stepping onto the front stoop, they found the source of the squeaking—a rusty screen door. Its pneumatic closer had been ripped from the frame, allowing the door to sway in the light breeze. Not only that, but the front door was ajar.

Looking over his shoulder and giving the area another scan, Dewey nodded at Higgins, indicating he was about to go in. Higgins nodded back.

Pushing the door open, Dewey poked his head in. Complete blackness. Sighing, he took out his flashlight and turned it on.

“Told ya we’d need it,” Higgins said.

“Just be ready,” Dewey said.

The flashlight’s hazy cone showed a normal living room: a sofa, a television, bookshelves, a coffee table, all in order—nothing out of place.

“Come on,” Dewey whispered, stepping into the home.

Higgins drew his gun and followed.

As they moved through the house, Dewey noticed a coppery smell, and his stomach dropped. He knew the scent well. It was blood. And not just blood, but blood that had been stagnant, in the heat, for hours. Again, nothing made sense about the whole situation.

In the next room, his cone of light picked up a dining room table and chairs, a stereo, and a curio cabinet. Again, nothing looked disturbed.

“I don’t like this, Sheriff,” Higgins whispered, as the two men moved into the kitchen. “I don’t like this at all. I think we should call in backup.”

“Yeah. I think you’re ri—”

Dewey tripped over something, cutting off his words. When he hit the kitchen’s tile floor, the flashlight skittered away, his hands slid on something slick like oil, and his knees landed in something wet. After retrieving the flashlight and fumbling to aim it in front of him, Dewey turned, focusing its beam on what had tripped him. He saw Becky Macher’s face in the saffron glow. Her throat had been sliced open. Blood, looking as black as ink in the dark kitchen, fanned out around her body.

He screamed.

Higgins jumped back. “Holy shit!”

Getting up, Dewey caught someone sitting at the kitchen table in the flashlight’s beam.

“Higgins!” Dewey screamed. “To your right!”

“Freeze!” Higgins yelled, turning to his right and aiming his gun at the individual.

The guy listened because he had no other choice. He was dead. The knife that ended his life stuck out of his left ear.

“Son of a bitch!” Higgins cried. “Son of a bitch.” The deputy coughed. To Dewey, it sounded like he was trying not to puke.

Dewey got to his feet.

“Damn, Sheriff,” Higgins said through heavy breaths. “We’re in it deep~~,~~ now.”

Realization set in, and Dewey’s blood ran cold. It had not been Becky who called him. Whoever had her phone had called him.

His phone rang. Grabbing for it, he saw Sidney’s name on the screen. Answering it, he cried, “Hello, Sid—”

“Dewey, just listen, the trap worked, but something went wrong! Get here, fast!”

Before he could say a word, she hung up.

“We were set up!” Dewey exclaimed, hopping over Becky’s body and running past Higgins. “We gotta get to the safehouse, stat!”

2.

The roof was steep but not as steep as Rory had thought while crawling out of the window. Peeking over the side, the drop from the east wing seemed enormous—much higher than it looked from the ground. This side of the house was also black with shadows. If they jumped, there was no way to tell what they’d land on.

“Come on,” Tyler said. “This way.”

He was heading toward the front of the house, a section that was a little less dark thanks to a street lamp and garden lights. The two police cars were parked there, too. If these cars were unlocked, they might be able to hop off the porch roof and use the radio to call for help.

“Ty, wait for me.”

He’d gotten about five paces ahead of her. When she begged him to stop, he went back, took her by the arm—his grip firm but gentle—and walked with her. Compared to the plush carpet that felt like heaven on the soles of her feet, the gritty roof tiles felt like hell. At least he wore socks and didn’t have to wince with every step.

The side of the house had three eyebrow dormers—windows with curved tops rising from the roof—aligned in a row and facing east. The middle dormer led to the safehouse’s upstairs hallway, while the two on either side led to separate rooms. This included Sidney’s room and the window they had just climbed out of.

As they passed the middle dormer window, it opened, and Ghostface stuck the top half of his body out, swiping at Tyler’s leg with his knife.

He jumped away, but not in time. The blade caught the hem of his sweatpants, cutting the fabric and nicking the skin on his shin. In doing so, he bumped into Rory, sending her onto her back on the sloped surface. The momentum from the bump sent her rolling toward the edge.

“Rory!” Tyler yelled, trying to get away from Ghostface, who was still hanging out of the window, swinging his knife wildly.

The pajama-clad girl approached the edge faster and faster. Lunging for her, Tyler grabbed her arm just as she went off the edge. She dangled off the side, held in his grip.

“Hang on, Rory!”

“Owww! My arm!” she cried.

Tyler’s strong grasp held her by the right wrist, yet her elbow was against the gutter, forcing her arm to bend in an unnatural and painful way.

Seeing this, Tyler reworked his grasp, taking the pressure off his girlfriend’s arm. “I’m going to lower you off the roof,” he yelled. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Ghostface was almost out of the window.

“What about you?!” Rory screamed.

“I’ll jump.”

About nine feet separated her bare feet from the dark ground. At this height, she didn’t think she’d break an ankle, but if she landed on something unseen in the inky shadows, like an old lawnmower or a table full of potted plants, it sure would hurt.

Looking up at him, she whimpered. “Come with me.”

“I am,” he said. “I’m going to drop you on three. One… Two—”

“Tyler!” Rory screamed as Ghostface appeared behind her boyfriend.

He dropped her before three, rolling out of the way just as Ghostface brought the knife down.

Rory hit the ground hard, landing on nothing but a stone patio. Getting to her feet, she backed up and looked up at the roofline, hoping Tyler was okay. Because of the pitch, she couldn’t see a damn thing. She could only hear the struggle.

“Rory!” he yelled. “Run! Ruunnn!”

Her legs felt like cement. She didn’t want to move. Although she had no way to get to him, she didn’t want to leave him either. She couldn’t imagine not having him in her life.

“Tyler!” she screamed.

“Go get help!” he yelled back. “Go get help NOW!”

Help… Help she could get. If she were getting help, she wasn’t leaving him; she was going to get HELP!

She ran around the side of the house, tripping over a potted plant as she went. Sprawling out like a baseball player doing a headfirst slide into home plate, she scraped her palms. The pain she expected didn’t come. Maybe this was adrenaline. Maybe she hadn’t hurt herself as much as she thought. All she knew was that she had to go get help.

3.

Still buzzed, Evan knocked on Kinsley’s door. “Kinsley,” he whispered, then knocked again. “Kinsley…”

The door opened. “What do you want?” Kinsley asked, crossing her arms.

“Did you hear that? I think Rory screamed.” He noticed she held an AirPod in one hand while the other was in her ear. From the device’s tiny speaker, he heard the song ‘Echo Home’ by The Kills.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she answered. “You’re still drunk. Go to bed.” Kinsley went to close the door.

“No, seriously. Someone screamed,” Evan said, putting a hand against the door, stopping her from slamming it. “We should… we should check it out.” He looked over his shoulder toward the home’s west-side staircase. In the hall, dimly lit by a single wall sconce and two windows, the railing’s silhouette cast a prison-bar shadow against the moonlit wall.

“You go check it out.”

“I don’t wanna go alone.”

Kinsley raised a brow and smirked. “What are you… three years old? I’m not going anywhere with you alone.”

“Why? You think I’m the killer?” Evan asked, his eyes wide.

“Are you?”

“No.” He thought for a moment. “I mean, I guess if I were, I’d say I wasn’t. But I’m not.”

“Go to bed, Evan.” Kinsley’s tone was oddly calm.

“Kins, if I were the killer, why am I not killing you now?”

“I’m done with this conversation.” She closed the door in his face.

“Bitch,” he whispered.

4.

Judy pulled into the Woodsboro P.D.’s Officer Lot, confused as to why Dewey’s vehicle wasn’t there. She figured Higgins probably took it out to patrol—he loved driving the truck. Her dashboard clock read 12:41 a.m.

As she parked, she noticed a Speedy Delivery van pulling out. Speedy Delivery was the company the municipality used to send important information to city buildings. This didn’t surprise her. Overnight deliveries were their specialty. Their motto was 24/7+365=Speedy Delivery.

Approaching the double glass entrance doors, she found a cardboard envelope emblazoned with Speedy Delivery’s branding leaning against the wall. She picked it up and put it under her arm as she fumbled with her keys.

Although the delivery time was normal, she found the envelope’s placement odd. Someone should have been inside, watching the monitors. Why didn’t they sign for it? Then her heart sank. What if her husband was inside, but couldn’t sign for the package because… “Because he’s dead,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

Quickly, she inserted the key, turned it, and rushed in. In her haste, she dropped the envelope to the floor and left her key ring dangling in the door. Drawing her sidearm, she moved through the room cautiously and in accordance with her training.

“Dewey?” she said, hating how loud her voice sounded in the quiet station.

She flipped a series of four light switches on a far wall, flooding the room with bright fluorescents. No one was in the main part of the department. Behind her, the water cooler released an air bubble. She spun around and aimed her pistol at it. When she saw no one there, she rolled her eyes.

Moving to the conference room, where they had the monitors set up—where she hoped she wouldn’t find her husband’s body—she kept her gun drawn and up to her chest, doing her best impression of Clint Eastwood in one of his cop movies.

The conference room door was slightly ajar. She stood beside it, her back against the frame. After counting to three in her head, she whirled around, kicked the door open, and stood with her gun aimed before her. She found no one. Lowering her weapon, she frowned.

“Dewey?” she called.

No answer.

With a huff, she crossed the room, wondering where everyone was. If something big had happened, why hadn’t she heard about it? During his pre-operation pep talk, Dewey made it clear that eyes needed to be on the monitors at all times. It didn’t make sense that both he and Higgins had left without a good reason. She thought about radioing him, but hesitated. Her gut told her this wasn’t a good idea. This bothered her, too. Gut feelings were rare for her, and never good.

After retrieving her keys from the door, she closed and locked it. Picking up the envelope, she strolled to her desk and sat down.

Looking at the return address on the Speedy Delivery package, she saw the mail came from the medical examiner’s office. “Ol’ Tricky is working late,” she said to herself.

She ripped the perforated seal off and slid out a single sheet of paper. Reading it, her eyes grew wide.

“The blood…” she said. She dropped the paper onto her desk, her eyes shifting; she stared at nothing, mouth agape, deep in thought.

A few moments later, she got up, ran to the conference room, and looked at the monitors. On the camera labeled Rory and Tyler, she saw an empty bedroom. Kinsley’s camera showed an empty bedroom, too. She grazed past Evan’s feed because of what she saw on the living-room camera. There she saw two cops, sitting on the couch with blood bibs, dead.

“Son of a…”

She rushed out of the room, out of the building, and beelined to her patrol car. Flicking on the lights and siren, she peeled wheels out of the parking lot and onto the road, fishtailing as she went.

“Dewey… I mean, Sheriff,” she cried into her radio’s mic, “this is Deputy Riley, come in! Are you out there?”

5.

With the bubble gums spinning and the siren wailing, Dewey tore down a tree-lined road, going about eighty in a forty. Rain caught the headlights in thin, constant glimmers while the motor hummed.

Higgins held onto the truck’s passenger-side assist handle, watching the road unfold ahead with growing alarm. “Sheriff, might I remind you the roads are slickest at the start of a rain shower?”

Instead of answering, Dewey pulled out his cell and started scrolling through it.

“Whoa!” Higgins said, grabbing the phone from him. “Not while you’re driving like a madman.”

Dewey gave him a frustrated look, but understood his deputy’s concern. “Call Sidney.”

Higgins did as asked. After letting the phone ring four times, he hung up and said, “She didn’t answer.”

Blowing out a gust of air through puffed cheeks, Dewey thought for a moment. “Try Mickelson and Carrasco again.”

Mickelson and Carrasco were two of the three officers who should’ve been patrolling the safehouse. They were Dewey’s first call after leaving the Macher residence. They hadn’t answered then.

“They’re not answering, either,” Higgins said.

“Deputy Sprig?” Dewey asked. If things were going to plan, she should’ve been parked outside the safehouse, keeping an eye on things.

“No answer,” Higgins said.

“Damn it.” He struck the steering wheel.

“Call Gale.”

“Gale!? Why the hell would I call—”

“Because, Deputy Higgins, she’s closer to the safehouse than we are, and she has experience with this sort of thing. Call her.”

“What about Judy?”

“What about her?” Dewey shot back, giving his deputy an angry look. “Call Gale.”

Shaking his head in exasperation, Higgins searched through Dewey’s contacts, found Gale, whom Dewey had labeled “Pain in the Ass” in parentheses, and called her. A few seconds passed before Higgins hung up and said, “No answer.”

“What the hell is going on?” Dewey asked himself.

“Dewey… I mean, Sheriff,” Judy’s voice came over the radio. “This is Deputy Riley, come in! Are you out there?”

Dewey grabbed the mic. “I’m here, hon. What’s up?”

“I’m on Fairview Road, heading toward the safehouse. I saw what happened. What’s your location?”

Unsure what his wife meant, Dewey repeated, “What happened?” Then, he asked, “You mean at the Macher place?”

“The Macher place?” It was Judy’s turn to repeat, confused.

“I’m out on Overlook, coming back to town.”

Perplexed, Judy exclaimed, “Overlook!? Why are you way out there?”

“I’ll explain later,” Dewey said, hoping he was telling the truth. “Look, Judy, what do you mean when you say, ‘I saw what happened’?”

“At the safehouse. Officers Mickelson and Carrasco… dead.”

“Dead!?” Dewey said.

“Dead?” Higgins asked, taking his turn to repeat something.

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Well I’m on my way to the safehouse now,” Judy said. “What’s your ETA?”

“Judy…” Dewey began, but didn’t know how to finish.

Higgins grabbed the mic and said, “About twenty-five; we’ll make it eighteen. Keep yourself safe.”

Grabbing the mic back, Dewey said, “Judy, wait for us!”

“No can do, hub-a-rino. If lives are at stake, I can’t fear my wake. I’ll be there in seven. 10-4, over and out.”

“Judy!” Dewey screamed into the mic. “That’s an order!” She didn’t respond. “Damn it!” Dewey threw the mic at the radio. It bounced off the interface and fell to the floor. If not for the springy cord, it would’ve gone under the passenger seat.

6.

Seconds earlier, when Rory screamed, Tyler looked over his shoulder and saw the steel blade glimmer in the moonlight. Panic set in, and he let go of Rory sooner than he told her he would. The knife came down as she fell into the void, and he rolled out of the way. The knife made a muted sound as it was driven into the roof tile. Off balance and moving on instinct rather than strategically, Tyler almost rolled himself right off the roof. If Ghostface hadn’t stopped him, he might’ve.

Leaving the knife buried in the roof, the black-robed figure grabbed Tyler and got on top of him, putting his hands around his throat. His attacker’s grip was strong. Tyler grabbed his wrists and pulled at them. With each yank, they both scooted closer and closer to the edge. Inches from tumbling into the darkness below, the assailant let go and put his hands on the gritty tiles to regain his balance.

“Rory!” Tyler yelled.

“Tyler!” she screamed back.

“Go get help!” he yelled. “Go get help NOW!”

After issuing this demand, he clasped his hands together, making one large fist, and swung as hard as he could, striking Ghostface in the head. Because he was lying on his back at an upside-down angle, the blow didn’t carry as much power as he’d hoped. Still, the killer fell to the side and slid a few inches toward the edge. This gave Tyler time to wriggle out from under his attacker.

Standing, feeling woozy and unbalanced, he faced the killer, ready to mount an attack of his own. Yet, when he went to strike, the masked man grabbed his knife as quickly as a cat snatching a mouse and buried the steel into Tyler’s forearm. Pulling his arm back and clutching it to his chest, he didn’t have to see the wound to know the cut went deep. Blood ran freely down his arm in several thin streams. Once his brain processed the warmth of fresh blood pouring through his fingers, a searing, throbbing pain shot up and down his arm.

Tyler’s attention to his wound allowed Ghostface to get to his feet. The masked murderer raised the blade and swiped down. All he found was air, however. Tyler had scrambled away.

Running on a sloped roof with a badly cut arm while wearing socks took some of the speed out of Ty’s steps. Ghostface caught up fast. And just before the young man had a chance to go up the incline of the roof and back toward the front of the house, the killer tackled him at full speed. Both flew off the roof into the dark night.

7.

Through the front yard, Rory ran down to the cop car parked at the curb. She stopped abruptly; her feet went out from under her, and she slid the last few feet into the vehicle’s back wheel. Getting up, her butt now soaked, she ran to the passenger door. With the sleeve of her pajama top, she wiped the rainwater off. Peeking in, she found no one. Next, she tried the handle.

Locked!

Her breath hitched in her throat when she discovered blood dripping from under the door. It dripped like water in slow motion onto the wet curb below. She peeked inside again but couldn’t see much in the dark. Backing up, she looked to her left and right. The street was empty.

Then…

“Ruff, Ruff… Ruff!”

…A high-pitched bark snapped Rory out of her frantic desire to get to the radio. Under the back bumper of the cop car, the little terrier she’d seen playing fetch with the boy earlier that day stood and barked at her.

“Ruff!”

“What are you doing here?” Rory said.

Her attention got the little pup excited. The Toto look-alike began jumping up and down and around in circles. “Ruff, Ruff, Ruff… Ruff, Ruff!”

“Now is not a good time,” Rory said to the little guy. As she said this, though, she glanced across the street at the neighbor’s house. There, she saw something that horrified her. The door was wide open, and the foyer’s light was on.

She had a number of things to handle right now: Is Tyler okay? Where’s Kinsley? Who’s Ghostface? Yet… there was a little boy in that house… and dead cops everywhere.

“Ruff, Ruff!”

Something had the little dog excited.

“What?” she asked.

“Ruff,” the little guy said, then offered a little growl.

After glancing at the safehouse, wondering how Tyler was doing, she looked down at the dog.

“Ruff, Ruff!” He bounced around in some more circles.

Grunting, angry with the impossible decision before her, Rory took one last glance at the safehouse before sprinting across the street, thinking of the little boy. The terrier followed her. She couldn’t do anything to help Tyler right now. Besides, he could defend himself; the little boy couldn’t. Plus, watching him play with the dog earlier gave her hope, even though all she really wanted was to revel in her own misery.

She didn’t notice someone sitting in the car parked in the shadows about sixty feet down the street.

8.

Tyler’s body was wrapped up in a weird sensation of heaviness and cold. His mind grew frantic as he tried to process this feeling. He saw hazy shadows of something, with a small amount of light mixed in. He couldn’t tell where he was, but whatever he hit on the way down from the roof was so hard it knocked the air out of him. Instinctively, he tried drawing in a breath. A sharp burning sensation immediately followed as he finally realized where he was.

Water… I’m in water… THE POOL!

Cold water filled his mouth and lungs. In all his life, he’d never experienced such sharp chest pain. Red blood from his punctured arm encircled him in shimmering waves.

Fighting through the agony, he tried swimming to the surface, but the killer held him down. Panic, desperation, anger, and fear filled Tyler. He couldn’t breathe; he could barely move. He started throwing punches. But underwater, his arm moved in lumbering, lethargic motions. Most of the punches missed. Still, he landed one good one, causing Ghostface to lose his grip.

Resurfacing, Tyler tried to get air into his lungs, but he only swallowed more water. This made things worse. Coughing, he flailed, wanting—needing—to get to the side of the pool and climb out. Beneath the surface, though, his legs had become entangled in Ghostface’s robes.

The knife-wielding maniac’s head was now above water, too. He tried bringing the knife out of the water to stab Tyler, but like Tyler’s legs, the hand holding the knife was wrapped up in his robes. Because he held his prey with his free hand, Ghostface sank again. The drenched robes weighed him down, and he finally had to let go of Tyler.

This was only half of Tyler’s battle, though. He still had to kick his legs harder than ever to free them from the waterlogged fabric beneath the rippling surface. The adversaries splashed and thrashed until Tyler reached the edge. He pushed himself up and rolled onto the stone patio. His mind told him to run. But his body couldn’t move.

Coughing and hacking, he pushed himself up onto all fours. Water sprayed from his mouth. Behind him, he could hear the splashing and sloshing of water as Ghostface made his way to the pool’s edge. Physically, his body still refused to budge.

He retched again. More water exited his lungs and hit the patio. Behind him, he heard a rush of water as Ghostface pushed himself up onto the stone patio.

More water came up in another cough—this one so violent that it hurt his throat.

Droplets of water fell from Ghostface’s drenched robe and slapped the stone patio. At any moment, he knew he would feel the cold steel plunge into his back. He didn’t want to die. He needed to make sure Rory got out of this okay.

Thinking of her got him moving. He began crawling away. The killer strolled behind him; his footfalls seemed measured, deliberate, almost playful.

Tyler’s senses started coming back—slowly. Although the sensation to cough hadn’t gone away, he could get air into his lungs again. Knowing the bastard was right behind him—hearing droplets hit the patio beside him—he rolled onto his back and crossed the bastard’s legs with his.

Ghostface went down hard, but he didn’t fall back into the pool. Instead, he brought the knife down, stabbing Tyler in the ankle.

“AAARRRGGHH!”

Another puncture; this one in the calf. Tyler grabbed at his leg.

Another puncture. This time, Ghostface caught him in the thigh. Like a hot poker on his skin, the sensation of heat expanded from each painful slice. The slurping sound the knife made when it was yanked out of his flesh made Tyler sick.

He fell onto his back. Any movement only made the pain worse, and he let out another yell.

Ghostface stood over him. The killer stared through those black, mesh-covered eyes with his head tilted a few degrees to the right.

Looking up at the mask-clad prick, white plastic against the night sky, he thought two things. First, he thought about how much he hated that he’d never see Rory again. Second, he thought about how silly the Ghostface mask was compared to the masks of Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, Pinhead, and Leatherface.

Then, as Ghostface raised the knife high, with the full moon as a backdrop, Tyler sneered and spewed, “You’re an asshole.”

9.

In the foyer of the neighbor’s house, Rory stood under a lit glass-paneled chandelier. Nothing seemed out of place. Still, the place felt creepy. Then again, the creep factor could’ve only been her internal nervousness about standing in a stranger’s foyer at one in the morning.

She heard the sound of a game show—complete with a live studio audience—echoing through the house, coming from a room just off the foyer. “No, I’m sorry,” the show’s host was saying, “but the correct word is crazed. No points this round. Sam, it’s up to you. Go ahead, and give it a whirl.”

‘Give it a Whirl,’ Rory knew, was the current flavor-of-the-month game show. Similar to ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire’ or ‘Deal or No Deal.’ She’d never watched the show, but her parents loved it.

The lights were on in the room from which the game show sound emanated. She assumed this house had the same layout as the safehouse, and this was the living room.

“Hello,” she said, testing her voice in the empty space. “Is anyone here?”

Beside her, Toto’s stunt double skittered about on the hardwood floor; its little claws sounded like the frantic taps of fifty lunatics.

“Ruff! Ruff!”

“Shhhh,” Rory said to the dog, trying to hear any movement while slowly walking toward the living room.

“Ruff!” the little flea bag said in response to Rory’s command.

Getting closer to the large archway leading to the room where ‘Give it a Whirl’ played, Rory kept her eyes moving. On the other side of the foyer, another archway led to a dark dining room. Anyone could be hiding in those shadows. “What am I doing? What am I doing?” she whispered to herself.

The scent of lemon pepper lingered in the air—remnants of dinner, Rory presumed.

The little terrier’s nails kept skittering across the floor. “Ruff! Ruff!” Those frenzied taps wore on Rory’s nerves.

“Be quiet,” Rory whispered, keeping her eyes on the dark dining room. Yes, the dog was trying to tell her something, but this wasn’t Lassie. She couldn’t translate it.

“Now it’s time to meet our contestants,” the show’s host said from the other room. “First up, we have Evelyn Fish, who’s a mortician from Sheboygan, Idaho. Evelyn, what’s it like being a mortician in Sheboygan?” A woman’s voice answered, “Well, Ken, let’s just say the hours are good, and I have no trouble dealing with the customers.” The crowd laughed.

“Ruff!” the dog, which Rory now thought of as little Toto, skittered toward the steps leading upstairs. “Ruff! Ruff!”

“Stop,” Rory whispered. “Stop barking.”

She wasn’t going upstairs until she knew why the television was on in the living room of an otherwise quiet house. However, when she glanced up the steps where a hallway, lit only by whatever light filtered up from the foyer, awaited her, she gulped.

Little Toto started up the carpeted stairs, then turned to see if Rory was following. When he saw she wasn’t, he performed a frustrated little hop—a dog’s version of “What the hell’s wrong with you, dummy! Get your ass up here!” He added a clipped growl for emphasis.

Turning the corner of the archway, her aching bare feet found the welcome cushion of plush carpet in the living room. But her eyes found something unwelcome. Before her, the man who’d been hosing down his garden earlier that day sat in a La-Z-Boy; his eyes were open and unblinking, and he had a bloody, gaping, almost cavernous wound in the center of his chest.

Rory’s mouth fell open, and her body hitched. Most people never see a body in their lives; she’d seen three in the past fifteen minutes.

“Ruff! Ruff!” Little Toto barked, now standing beside her.

Backing out of the living room, Rory intended to go out the front door. Forget upstairs. Forget the little boy. Forget the yappy terrier. She needed to find Kinsley and Tyler and hope neither was dead.

Beelining toward the front door, Rory stopped when she thought about the kid playing fetch with the dog from Oz.

“Ruff! Ruff!”

Rory guessed Little Toto was calling her a coward. A jerk. Or, dare she think it… a bitch.

Little Toto bit the hem of her pajama bottoms and tried dragging her back toward the steps—a gurgling growl accompanied his struggle.

Could she leave the boy? No. Not with his dad or granddad sitting in an easy chair with a punctured heart.

With a sigh, she turned and headed for the steps.

“Ruff! Ruff!” Little Toto’s claws skittered on the floor—his little legs doing their damnedest to catch up. “Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!”

Rory’s footsteps were silent on the carpet as she ascended the stairs. She couldn’t say the same for Little Toto. The little dog caught up and then some, beating her to the top. He stood in the upstairs hallway, barking his high-pitched bark—seemingly pissed she hadn’t moved faster when she first entered the house.

“SHHHHH,” she said, putting a finger to her lips.

When she reached the hallway, Little Toto beelined down the corridor and stopped at the last door on the left. First, he sniffed at the base, then began scratching at it before turning to Rory and barking.

“Ruff! Ruff!”

Yes, the damn dog was cute, and yes, he was loyal, too, yet he couldn’t keep his frickin’ mouth shut.

Although she wanted to believe the only other person in the house was the little boy—hopefully alive—and that the killer was long gone—hopefully dead on the roof at the hands of her boyfriend—she’d seen enough Stab movies to know there’s rarely one killer.

Gently tapping on the door with her knuckles, not wanting to scare the little kid, she said, “Hello. Little boy?” Her third-grade teacher, Mrs. Perry, had one of the most soothing voices Rory had ever heard. As she spoke into the door, she did her best to mimic Mrs. Perry’s cadence.

When she got no answer, she grabbed the knob and tried to turn it. It was locked. “Come out. You’ll be safe with me.”

But would he be? There was no way to be sure. Hell, what was she even doing? The kid was probably safer in the locked bathroom. If she took him out of there and then Ghostface killed her, he’d kill him too! Then, the image of the dead man in the living room invaded her mind. No. She couldn’t leave the little guy in the house with that. Also, there was the—

“Ruff! Ruff!”

—annoying barking of Little Toto. If she didn’t get this kid out, the flea bag would follow her around, barking his head off and shining a spotlight on wherever she tried to hide. Plus, if she left him scared in this locked room and later found out he was… killed. Well, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

Speaking softly, with her face against the door, she said, “I’m…” She paused, not knowing how to finish. “I’m… I’m nice. I won’t hurt you.”

On the other side of the door, she heard a whimper. This was good. At least she knew he was alive.

Knowing it would probably scare him, but also needing to get the hell out of the house, she backed up and rammed into the door with all her strength, jamming her shoulder into the hardwood.

A shot of pain ran through her entire body, shocking her. The little boy whimpered louder, while the dog kept barking. Then, a thought came to her. At her house, she could open locked doorknobs with a little pin-looking thingamajig. The tool was so small that her parents kept it on top of the door frame.

Examining the knob, she saw it had a little hole in its center—just like hers at home. So, she reached up and felt the thin piece of wood making up the top of the frame, praying she’d find the—

Jackpot!

“Got it!” she exclaimed, taking hold of the tiny piece of metal.

“Ruff! Ruff!” Little Toto was excited, too. He jumped up at the door, scratching at it.

“Okay, okay,” Rory said to the dog, “I’m opening it.”

After sliding the metal piece into the knob and hearing it click, she turned it and entered the bathroom. She didn’t immediately see the little boy, but she knew where he was because the shower curtain was pulled shut. Also, Little Toto gave him away, scampering over to the tub and clawing at its sides.

Grabbing the curtain, she pulled it back, and the kid screamed.

“No! No!” Rory said, doing her best to soothe him.

“Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!” Little Toto barked, hopping into the tub with the boy, landing on his stomach, and licking at his face.

The boy kept his eyes closed and tried to push Rory away. Little good this did; he was in a tub, after all.

Rory put her hand on his sweaty head and rubbed his hair out of his eyes. “It’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”

The kid opened his eyes and stared at Rory.

Biting her bottom lip, she crossed her heart. “I promise I won’t hurt you, but we have to go now. Okay?”

“Ruff! Ruff!” Little Toto barked, probably telling the kid, ‘Go with her! Go with her!’

Rory stood and offered her hand while moving toward the door, wanting the kid to get a hint and hop out of the tub. It worked. He got out along with the dog. Excited, Little Toto’s claws skittered on the bathroom’s tile floor as he turned around in circles.

The little boy took hold of Rory’s hand—he couldn’t have been more than four. His small palm in hers sent a bolt of goodness through her, dimming the pain her body still felt after ramming into the door.

It was more than that, though. Feeling the child’s touch refilled her motivation meter. Yes, of course she’d do anything to survive, but this extra responsibility only increased that desire.

Crossing the threshold into the hallway, she looked to her right and left. No one.

“Come on,” she said, leading the boy out of the bathroom and toward the steps. She had to get him past the living room archway without letting him see into the room. Then again, he might’ve already seen. Yet, judging by his behavior—the frightened but not horrified look in his eyes and the way he trusted her so quickly—she thought he knew something had happened, but not exactly what.

Descending the stairs, Rory heard Jennifer Jolie’s Ballastar Insurance commercial on the television. It seemed she couldn’t get away from the actress who had a history with Mr. Ghostface. Whether this was some kind of sign, she didn’t know. Probably just a coincidence.

The front door remained open. Across the street, she saw the cop car that dripped with blood. Seeing this gave her something else to think about: Where was she going to take the kid? He couldn’t stay with her. She couldn’t take him to the cop car, after all. One, it was locked, and two, more than likely a dead officer was inside. Maybe the other police car was unlocked, but she couldn’t count on that.

“Does your daddy have a car?” Rory asked the little boy.

He nodded.

“Okay, little man,” Rory said three-fourths of the way down the steps. “When we get downstairs, I want you to look at me the whole time, okay? I’m going to take you to your dad’s car.”

The boy nodded.

In the living room, the host of Give it A Whirl came back from commercial break. “We’re back with the whirlybird showdown. Question one: This actress starred opposite Kevin Bacon and Denise Richards in the 1998 thriller Wild Things?” A female contestant answered, “Selma Blair!” The loud sound of a ‘wrong-buzzer’ went off. “No, I’m sorry,” the host said. “The actress we were looking for is Ne—”

The power went out just as Rory and the boy set foot on the hardwood floor of the foyer. A moment later, Ghostface appeared in the doorway!

Snatching up the kid into her arms and holding him to her bosom, she turned and tore down the hallway, past the steps, and toward the dark kitchen.

“Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!” Little Toto barked behind them. His high-pitched barks were so full of fear they almost sounded like yelps!

The boy’s weight in her arms wasn’t bad; he wasn’t very heavy. Yet, they weren’t on a nice hike through the neighborhood; she was running for both their lives through a dark, unfamiliar house. This fact made his weight a bit of an albatross, despite its lightness. It slowed her down.

A console table sat against the hallway wall to her left. As she passed it, she turned and shoved it over in Ghostface’s path. Inevitably, she shoved it into Little Toto’s path as well. The yappy terrier made short work of this, however, hopping over it with ease. Ghostface, on the other hand, tripped on it and tumbled to the ground.

Into the kitchen, Rory dashed. The vent hood light over the stove was on, softening the shadows with an amber glow and letting her see just enough to keep moving forward. Ahead of her was a wall of six floor-to-ceiling, glass-paneled windows. A glass-paneled door sat centered between them. She ran to it.

The damn thing was locked—annoying but expected. She put the boy down and unlocked the fob on the knob. Turning to grab the boy’s hand and yank him out, she had just enough time to dodge Ghostface’s lunge. The costumed lunatic swung his knife wildly through the air, missing Rory and smashing through one of the windows. He sailed onto the flagstoned backyard patio with a thud.

Frightened, the boy ran in the other direction, farther into the kitchen. Little Toto went with him.

“No! No! Come back,” Rory called after him. If he had stayed, she would’ve had enough time to get him out the back door. She might’ve had to pull a Die Hard version of Bruce Willis and cut her feet on broken glass, but it was an injury she would’ve endured. Instead, she got to her feet and started after him, but stopped when she thought of something. If she let the kid go his own way while she went in the opposite direction, she might provoke Ghostface into chasing her and leaving the kid alone.

Turning around, she found it was too late to make that choice. The masked killer was getting up and coming after her. Rory turned and ran.

Before her, the little boy went through another door and shut it.

Gee, thanks, kid, she thought.

Picking up a kitchen chair, Rory turned and threw it at Ghostface, stopping the killer long enough for her to get to the door and open it. Luckily, the kid hadn’t locked it.

As soon as she was through, she turned and was relieved to find a lock on the knob. She engaged it. Next, she felt for a light switch on the wall, found it, and flipped it. Turning around, she found herself in a dimly lit two-car garage… complete with a doggie door embedded in one of the roll-up doors.

“Damn it,” she cursed. Her worst fear was coming true. Memories of the scene from the first Stab movie, in which Alicia Silverstone, who played Tatum Riley, dove through a doggie door, flooded her mind. It didn’t turn out so well for her. In the film, Ghostface used the entrance button to electronically lift the door, crushing Silverstone’s head in the process. She hated that scene. It gave her nightmares. Later, she learned that’s how the real Tatum died.

Little Toto knew just what to do. He ‘Peaced Out,’ and beelined his little behind through the doggie door. A second later, he stuck his head back through and barked. “Ruff! Ruff!” Come on, you two dopes, he was probably saying. Get your asses out here!

The little boy didn’t need convincing; he ducked through the doggie door with ease.

BOMP! BOMP!

Ghostface started pounding on the door.

Rory’s heart leaped into her throat, and she yelped. Her eyes darted, looking for another way out. There was nothing! No other doors, no attic hatch. Ab-so-frickin’-lutly nothing!

BUMP!

The door shook. The bastard must’ve thrown himself against it as she had thrown herself against the bathroom door moments earlier.

BUMP!

He did it again; this time, the wooden framing began to split.

BUMP!!! CRAAAACK!!!

She knew what she had to do.

Another BUMP!!!!!! And a louder CRAAAACK!!!!

This time, she was thrown forward as the door flew open and hit her in the back. She fell to her knees, landing on the concrete; behind her came the loud crash and clatter of breaking plates and silverware.

Wincing at the bolt of pain running up and down her knees, she rubbed them. Over her shoulder, Ghostface stood in the doorway. On the floor beside her lay busted plates, scattered silverware, and smashed glasses. The bastard used the kitchen caddy to bust the door down.

Keeping her eyes on the killer, she began crawling toward the doggie door.

“Ruff! Ruff!... Ruff!” Little Toto had peeked his head back through the flap. It was as if he wanted to be something like a beacon, directing her where to go; a thank you for saving his little friend. Despite not having any right to feel good while being attacked, knowing the little dog now considered her a friend gave her a hopeful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

At the doggie door, she began crawling through. Quickly, she discovered it was much smaller than the movie made it out to be. Just like in the film, she could fit only her head and one arm through. In the driveway, the terrier was spinning in circles and barking up a storm: “Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!... Ruff! Ruff!”

That’s when the garage door began rising. She knew this would happen!

“Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!”

As the front half of her body began lifting off the ground, she wriggled out of the door and rolled under it onto the driveway. Getting to her feet fast, she knelt long enough to flip Ghostface the double bird. Then she sprinted down the driveway in search of the boy and in fear for her life. Glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see the maniac chasing her, she saw… nothing!

Relief didn’t come with this revelation, however. She still needed to find the boy and figure out where the frickin’ killer went.

Little Toto beelined toward the Subaru Outback parked in the driveway.

Of course that’s where he would’ve gone—his father’s car!—just as she’d suggested moments earlier. Rushing to the car, where Little Toto was already scratching at the door, turning around in circles, and hopping up and down, Rory pulled up on the door handle. Locked!

Peeking in, she saw the little boy lying on the front passenger-side floorboard. He was curled up, his head down between his knees. She couldn’t blame him; she didn’t want to see what was going on, either.

Scared to stand still without knowing where the killer was lurking, Rory tapped on the window. The boy didn’t look up. She tapped again—harder this time. Same result. The little kid refused to budge.

“Come on,” she whispered.

“Ruff, Ruff, Ruff, Ruff!”

If it wasn’t for the damn yappy dog, she’d just leave the kid alone and go find somewhere safe for herself—if safety even existed anymore—but she wanted to put the dog in the cop car with him. Maybe it would shut up then. She couldn’t have him follow her around, and she couldn’t have him scratching at the cop car’s door.

Frustrated, she picked the terrier up and banged on the window this time. The louder noise got his attention. As soon as she caught his gaze, she lifted Little Toto up.

“Ruff, Ruff!” He then licked the window.

Seeing the dog, the kid unlocked the door. Rory tossed Little Toto into the cop car, told the kid to keep him quiet, relocked the door, and slammed it shut. For a moment, she considered hopping in, too. But she needed to separate herself from him. After all, her mission was to save the kid, not put him in any more danger. She only hoped she lived long enough to find out his name.

10.

Racing down the brick walkway to the safehouse’s front door, Rory focused on each step, extra careful not to slip again. The wind had picked up, and the rain had turned from a mist to a steady drizzle. Up the steps she flew onto the stoop. As she reached for the door’s knob, hoping it wasn’t locked, Evan came around the side of the home, sprinting toward her.

“Rory!”

Surprised, Rory jumped and let out a little yelp. When she saw who it was, she screamed. “Stay away from me!”

“Rory! Wait!”

She turned the knob. It unlatched! Thank goodness!

A second later, she slammed the door shut just in time to keep Evan out.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Evan beat on the door like a cop serving a warrant. “Rory, let me in! It’s me! Rory, Tyler’s dead!”

“What!?” Her question was so loud and so frantic, she almost squealed it. Tyler couldn’t be dead! This had to be a trick. Yes, of course, a trick. That’s all it was! Evan was pulling a trick on her to get her to let him in. But his little scheme wasn’t going to work. Oh, no, not on her. She was too savvy to fall for such B.S.

Then again, if Evan were Ghostface, wouldn’t he know whether Tyler was dead or not? And if so, why would he tell her? Everything was so damn confusing! “Go away!” she screamed. Tears welled in her eyes.

She couldn’t help but think that Tyler really was dead, though. After all, where was he? Too much was happening. Why couldn’t she just be at home studying and texting back and forth with Marta and Kinsley?

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! “Rory! Please!”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she put her forehead against the wooden door and started crying.

In the living room, she heard the audio from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: Kirk knocking on the door in search of gasoline when the tooth fell onto the porch floor. Hearing this made her realize how much her life had changed in such a short period of time. Earlier, when she came downstairs for a drink of water, Sally and her invalid brother, Franklin, were giving the hitchhiker a ride.

“Rory,” Kinsley said, standing under the arch at the end of the hallway.

Jumping, Rory spun around and put a hand over her heart. “Oh my God, Kinsley, you scared me.”

“What’s going on?”

“Evan’s trying to get in,” Rory cried, running to her best friend as if she were a security blanket. How she needed a kind touch. “He said Tyler is dead.”

“Huh?” Kinsley asked, moving toward Rory, then brushing off her hugs and walking to the door instead. She opened it, and Evan rushed in. “What’s going on?” Kinsley asked him.

“I don’t know,” he shouted, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. “All I know is—”

Cutting his own words off, his eyes widened as he looked at the archway at the end of the foyer. Kinsley and Rory followed his gaze. There, they saw Ghostface standing in the middle of the portico, holding Sidney around the neck in front of him.

Rory screamed and ran to Kinsley’s side, clutching her friend’s arm once she got there. Evan turned to unlock the door.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” Ghostface said, his voice sounding as if it rolled over gravel in the back of his throat. To Rory, his voice sounded much more menacing in person than over the phone.

Evan didn’t listen; he kept fumbling with the doorknob. Kinsley put her hand on his shoulder.

“Evan!” she said, her voice stern. When he glanced at her, she lowered her voice. “Stop.” He returned her demand with a confused expression. Gritting her teeth and whispering, Kinsley continued, “You’re going to get us all killed.”

Breathing heavily and on the verge of tears, he kept his hands on the lock. Yet, after a beat, he obeyed and dropped them to his sides.

“This is the part of the movie I always enjoy,” Ghostface said. “The climax, where the villain—or, in this case, villains—reveal their motives.”

“Villains?” Kinsley questioned. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now, Kinsley,” Ghostface said. “You, a Stab fan, more than anyone, should know that there’s almost always more than one killer.”

“How do you know my name?” Kinsley asked.

Ghostface laughed, then shoved Sidney toward them. “I should know it.” He grabbed the front of his mask and pulled as he finished his statement, “We were partners for the past year.”

“Brad!” Evan said—any hint of drunkenness was now gone. Fear sobered him completely. He fell back against the door as if deflated. “You’re not dead!”

“What the hell!” Rory exclaimed, feeling the breath leave her, too. She let go of Kinsley’s arm and put a hand to her head, unable to contemplate what she was seeing.

“It’s amazing the kind of video AI can put out for just a little bit of money and a smidge of know-how,” Brad said. “It had you dipshits fooled.”

“But…” Evan stammered. “But… all the blood in your room?!”

Chuckling, Brad said, “In Carrie, they used corn syrup to imitate pig’s blood. I used pig’s blood to imitate my blood.” He then shook his head. “Who would’ve thought the damn pig I stole would turn out to be some local celebrity? Pork… belly—or whatever the fuck that thing’s name was.”

“How’d you know we were here?” Evan asked.

“Apple AirTag in the bag,” Brad rhymed before laughing.

“AirTag?” Evan asked. “Bro, why…? I mean…”

Ignoring his friend, Brad asked, “Did we do good, babe?”

At first, Rory thought he was looking at her. Puzzled, she put a finger to her chest—a gesture that asked: Who? Me? When Brad didn’t react, her heart stopped. Sidney? Was he talking about Sidney? Was she the second?! Shifting her eyes to her left, she noticed Sidney hadn’t reacted.

Rory still had her finger to her chest, wondering what the hell was going on, when Kinsley pulled a knife from her waistband and sliced Evan’s neck. Only when he began gurgling did Rory turn around to see what her best friend of over a decade had just done.

Shocked, Sidney put a hand to her mouth.

“We sure did, baby,” Kinsley said to Brad, a smirk stealing across her lips.

Evan fell to his knees, grasping at his neck. His hands quickly became drenched with blood.

Rory screamed and began backing up from the dying Evan when Brad came up behind her, put her in a headlock, and held the knife close to her face. His robes were soaking wet against her, as if he’d been in the pool.

As life slowly slipped away from the overconfident journalism student, Kinsley bent over, tilted her head, and looked him dead in his fading eyes. “The AirTag Brad put in my bag, asshole.” She then pushed him over onto his side. Blood poured from the gaping wound on his neck. “Holy shit,” Kinsley proclaimed, kicking him in the stomach. “Can you believe it? I finally discovered a way to shut the bastard up.”

It took a moment for Evan to die, and when Kinsley kicked him, he groaned. This caused dark red blood to ooze from the gaping wound on his neck.

Rory watched all this through eyes ravaged with fear. She wanted to puke at the sight. All hope was gone. If there was a way out of her current situation, she didn’t see it. Suddenly, she was convinced Tyler was indeed dead.

“You see,” Kinsley said with a laugh, “this… safehouse was a surprise; Brad and I were supposed to kill everyone at Evan’s party. But I find this more quaint, don’t you?” When neither Rory nor Sidney responded, Kinsley continued. “Earlier, at the police station, I not only texted Gale telling her I wouldn’t be in to work, but I also texted Brad—on his burner number, of course—telling him to put the AirTag in my bag.

“AirTag in the bag,” Brad rhymed again. Then he started giving it a melody: “AirTag in the bag, yeah! AirTag in the bag…”

“Kinsley,” Rory moaned, ignoring Brad’s improvised melody, her cheeks soaked with tears. “Why would you kill our friends?”

“Why?” Kinsley repeated as if Rory asked the dumbest question with the most obvious answer. “Let’s see…” She tapped her chin in faux thought. “We had to get rid of Marta because she and her digital forensics major suspected Brad used AI for his murder. When she told me that, there was nothing I could do; she signed her death warrant.”

“Mark was collateral damage,” Brad added, smirking.

“As for your little Christian friend, Taylor,” Kinsley continued. “It’s the 21st century; God is dead. Who the hell does she think she is trying to ban Stab in Woodsboro?”

“But don’t worry your pretty little head, Rory,” Brad said. “I lit the dumpster on fire after I killed her.”

Rory closed her eyes, and her head dropped. “This is a nightmare.”

“And that leads us to you, Rory,” Kinsley said. “Over the past year, you’ve really worn the blade dull. From your perfect relationship to your perfect popularity to your perfect silver YouTube Play Button. You don’t even do anything; you sit and watch movies and make exaggerated gestures when the most inane stuff happens in those stupid eighties movies. Nothing like what Brad and I do.” She walked up to Rory and screamed in her face, “We need to come up with fresh content for every damn podcast!” Then, backing up but not breaking eye contact, she went on, “But who gets the recognition? The reaction channel.”

“You know that’s right,” Brad said, cinching the headlock, jerking Rory in the process.

“You said I was the Sidney of this murder spree,” Kinsley said. “But you’re wrong. I’m the Gale. Let’s face it, in the first four Stab movies, Gale’s arc was much more interesting than Sidney’s—no offense.” She said this, looking Sidney dead in the eye. Then, refocusing on Rory, she continued, “My God, whenever Tori Spelling was on screen, it was a bore-fest. But whenever Jennifer Jolie was on screen, I was enthralled. Gale’s story, her… her… chronique spoke to my soul.” Kinsley grasped her sweater over her heart, balling it in her fist for extra emphasis. “My fucking soul!”

“And that’s saying something because I always thought Jennifer Jolie was a bargain-bin Parker Posey,” Brad chimed in.

“I totally agree,” Kinsley said to her podcast co-host.

Rory couldn’t believe what was going on. Here she was, scared to death, and her best friend and psycho co-host seemed to be larping the end of someone’s bad fanfiction version of a Stab film!

“And about a year ago, it hit me,” Kinsley went on, pacing the dark hallway. The way the moonlight caught her cast a veneer of horror across her face. “I’m Gale…” She used the point of the knife to poke her own chest. “You’re Sidney.” She then pointed the knife at Rory. For a second time, she looked to Sidney and said, “No offense.” Back to her monologue, she continued, “I’m the smart one; I’m the interesting one; I’m the one who gets good grades; I’m prettier than you; I’m more stylish. But who gets all the friends? Who stays thin despite all the crap she eats? Who gets the average grades, but is adored by her professors? Who has the perfect relationship with the perfect man? Who wears overalls and flip-flops—even though Crocs are what’s in?! Miss bore-fest, Rory! That’s who.”

“You’re insane,” Sidney said.

Chuckling, Kinsley answered without missing a beat, “Insane? Please. Don’t confuse insanity with righting wrongs.”

Outside, the red and blue swirls of a police car lit up the rainy night as a patrol vehicle pulled up to the house.

“Quick,” Kinsley said, “take them into the kitchen.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sidney said.

“No?” Brad questioned before putting the blade of the knife to Rory’s arm and lightly dragging its edge across her skin, drawing a line of blood.

“Ahhhh,” Rory cried.

“Okay! Okay! I’ll go,” Sidney said, giving in.

As Brad dragged Rory away, keeping the headlock in place, she watched as Kinsley knelt beside Evan’s body, put her hands into the pool of blood on the floor, and began smearing it on her neck and the front of her shirt.

11.

Judy pulled up to the safehouse. Plucking the mic from the radio, she pressed the button and said, “Deputy Riley, car 2409, reporting in. Just arrived at 815 Palm Avenue. Please advise.”

Over the radio, Dewey’s voice came back: “Wait in your car until we arrive.”

“ETA?” Judy asked.

“Fifteen,” Dewey responded, his voice muffled under heavy static.

“I don’t think I can—”

BOMP!

“Help me! Please help me!”

For a moment, Judy’s soul left her body. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her heart skipped two or three beats. To her left, outside her door, Kinsley stood in the rain, bloody and frightened, banging on her window.

“Judy! What was that?” Dewey asked.

Ignoring her husband’s frantic question, Judy rolled down the window. Before she could ask Kinsley anything, the young woman began stammering.

“He killed almost everyone! I got away, but Rory’s still in there! Please help her! He has her inside!”

“Sheriff,” Judy shouted into the mic, “I have a fluid situation. An injured party. A girl in danger. I have to cut off communication. Get here as fast as you can. Over and out.”

Judy rushed out of her car, tending to Kinsley as soon as her boots hit the asphalt.

“I’ll be okay,” Kinsley said, bending over so Judy couldn’t see that she had no cuts anywhere on her body. “Just go save Rory, please! Pleeeese!”

“Okay,” Judy said. “How many perps?”

“Just one,” Kinsley said through fake sobs.

“Wait here,” Judy said. “I’ll be right back.” The deputy drew her sidearm and turned toward the house.

At first, Kinsley had every intention of stabbing Judy. However, now that the officer had her pistol at the ready, unless the stab was immediately fatal, Kinsley could get herself shot. A knockout blow was her only option. So instead of stabbing the unsuspecting deputy, Kinsley cracked the deputy on the back of the skull with the steel handle of her knife. Judy went down, face-first into the wet grass, unconscious; a bloody knot rose under her blonde hair.

With the woman prone, face down, Kinsley couldn’t bring herself to jam the knife into her. Although she had killed a few people—including one of her best friends—over the past couple of days, stabbing an unconscious person didn’t sit right with her.

Knowing Brad was holding Sidney and Rory hostage, and knowing what a lamebrain he could be, she had to make a quick decision. Noticing the cuffs on Judy’s belt, Kinsley got an idea. She dragged the deputy over to her patrol car’s front driver’s side tire and wrapped Judy’s arms around the wheel, and cuffed her hands together. Next, she took the pistol, shoved it into her waistband, then ran back into the house.

12.

“Judy!” Dewey screamed into the mic. “Judy! Wait!”

She didn’t respond.

“Damn it!” Dewey yelled, throwing the mic and hitting the steering wheel.

For the second time in a few minutes, Higgins had to pick the mic up off the floorboard and hang it back onto the radio.

Still fifteen minutes away from the safehouse, Dewey passed a sign reading: ‘Welcome to Woodsboro. Home of the friendliest people you’ll ever want to meet.’ He remembered dedicating that sign in 2019. That was a good day. Seeing it now, in a quick flash of his headlights, made him wince. In his gut, he knew he couldn’t prevent criminals from committing crimes. Yet that did little to quell the feelings of failure twisting his stomach into knots.

“Oh shit,” Higgins said, looking down at his phone. “Oh shit, Sheriff. What the hell?”

“What?” Dewey cried.

“My wife just texted me a livestream link to Kinsley Saunders’ YouTube channel.” He tilted his phone so they could both see the screen. “This crazy bitch is livestreaming this thing!”

Trying to keep his attention divided between the road and his deputy’s phone screen—all while going ninety in a fifty-five zone—Dewey asked, “From in the house!?”

For Dewey’s benefit, Higgins described what he was watching. “She’s running up to the front door…”

“Where’s Judy?”

“I don’t see her.”

Dewey pressed harder on the accelerator, taking his truck from ninety to a hundred.

13.

When Kinsley walked back into the kitchen, she brushed her hands together as if she had just finished a menial task, like taking out the garbage or wiping up a spill. “That was too easy,” she giggled.

Brad had relinquished his headlock on Rory. She stood at the corner of the counter. Sidney, slightly bent and with a hand on the countertop for support, stood beside the blonde. For a moment, Rory’s eyes shifted from Brad to Kinsley. Then they shifted back to Brad.

“Now that that unforeseen inconvenience is out of the way,” Kinsley said, “we can get down to the business of finishing this.”

“Yeah,” Brad said, keeping his eyes on his two hostages, “Kins and I have a bunch of work to do.”

From the living room, Jerry called out for Kirk in the faux world of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Although it was a fleeting thought—one that had no right to be going through her head while she was so frightened—Rory’s current circumstances reminded her of the first Stab movie, when Luke Wilson and Joshua Jackson, the actors playing Billy and Stu, had Tori Spelling pinned down in the kitchen while Halloween played in the living room.

“Kins,” Rory begged. “I don’t wanna die.”

Kinsley turned away in disgust and rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, Rory, you sound so pathetic. Come on, come on… put on a show for my audience.”

“Audience?” Sidney asked.

“Audience,” Brad answered, taking out his phone and tossing it to Rory.

As soon as Rory’s eyes saw the video on Brad’s phone, shock, like a bolt of electricity, shot down her spine. Her knees went weak. She saw herself looking at the phone, live, through Kinsley’s POV. Glancing up at her former friend, Rory noticed the pinhole camera embedded in the bridge of her glasses. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Don’t act so surprised, Rory,” Brad said. “Exposing your crimes in real time is all the rage nowadays.”

“Yeah,” Kinsley joined in. “Our society is so apathetic, so… so vacuous…”

“Exactly,” Brad agreed. “Kins and I are going to be folk heroes to the dispirited.”

Rory heard them, but kept her eyes fixed on the screen, reading the comment thread. Nineirackly: What RU waiting 4?, Alongthe: KILL KILL KILL!, Thelver1982: lets kick sum azz, TimmyNoBrakes: A hundred dollah’s this iz fake BITCH! Diddlegity: I LUV BRADS ALIVE!!! JohnnyFive: IZ THIS AI 2? Terror_Fan212: Kill them already!!! ArchieFans08: sidney prescott SUXXXXX!

Like many of her friends—whom she thought included Kinsley—Rory realized the comments tracked with the downward spiral of detachment society was currently experiencing. The year prior, at their high school graduation party, one of their female classmates drank too much, took off all her clothes, and began dancing on the dining room table in only a thong. Phones came out like paparazzi at a Lindsay Lohan crash-out. This did not include Rory’s phone. She felt embarrassed for the girl.

Within seconds, the video was online. Within minutes, her family knew. And by the next day, the poor girl had lost her scholarship—all thanks to that video. A moment of bad judgment ruined her life. And no one who posted it felt a thing about what they had done for a few extra engagements.

Now, she and Sidney played the role of the female classmate who drank too much, and the faceless paparazzi were the commenters demanding blood.

“There’s an old song,” Kinsley said, approaching her former friend, gently rubbing her fingertips across Rory’s sweaty cheeks, and tucking strands of hair behind her ear. “It’s called: He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother. It’s about camaraderie and helping family and strangers alike when they’re down on their luck. It’s from the ‘60s. A time that’s long gone and—thank God—almost forgotten.”

“Yeah,” Brad said, “If that song were written today, it would be called: ‘That Bastard Is Heavy; Drop Him on His Ass.’” He laughed.

‘Brads so funny,’ a commenter wrote.

Walking away from Rory, over to a small kitchen table, Kinsley concluded, “So many people are miserable today; they love watching the pain of others. It’s like how they watch horror movies. Years ago—decades ago—people wanted a good story.”

“Now all they want is gore, gore, gore!” Brad said, almost giving the words a melody as he had with ‘Air Tag in the bag.’

Again, Rory heard what Kinsley and Brad had said, but couldn’t take her eyes off the flurry of commenters who wanted to see her and Sidney get killed.

“Look at her,” Brad said, watching Rory stare at the comments scrolling up and up and up on the phone’s screen. “Acting like she wouldn’t be joining in on the pile-on if she were watching.”

This finally got Rory’s attention. “I wouldn’t,” she said, glaring directly into Brad’s eyes, gritting her teeth.

“Yeah, right,” Brad retorted.

“No, Brad,” Kinsley said, moseying back over to Rory, “I believe her. The way she saved that kid across the street… it warmed my heart.” With the knife, Kinsley lifted Rory’s chin by placing the blade upon her soft underskin and pushing up. Staring into her eyes, their gazes sharing silent words—perhaps hateful, perhaps regretful—Kinsley continued, “I am surprised you thought I’d kill a kid, though. What do you think this is? Gore porn like Terrifier?” Dropping the knife, she paced back to the kitchen table. “You should know I’m much more highbrow than that. I like Possession, after all.”

“Not with that fucking movie again,” Brad complained.

Kinsley ignored this.

The sound of a text message pinged, and Kinsley dug a phone out of her back pocket.

Kinsley read the message and typed something back. After sliding the phone back into her pocket, she refocused on her hostages and said, “One more surprise.”

“Yeah, you’ll love this one,” Brad said. “It’s a scream, baby.”

“Brad, please,” Kinsley said. “Enough of your Stab fan service. Our viewers aren’t impressed.”

“Our viewers love me,” Brad said.

Sighing, Kinsley said, “Just make like Chris Hemsworth from the Ghostbusters remake and just stand there and look pretty.”

“That movie sucked,” Brad said.

“Shut up,” Kinsley said, her voice full of vitriol. “What’s the view count at, anyway?”

“I thought you wanted me to shut up?”

“Check it,” Kinsley said through clenched teeth.

Brad snatched his phone from Rory’s hands and glanced at it. “86,143,” he read, his voice triumphant.

“That’s it?” Kinsley asked, shocked. “I want a hundred thousand.”

“I can’t make it be more than it is,” Brad said, shrugging.

Out in the foyer, Rory heard the front door open. Both Kinsley and Brad fell silent. The footfalls of this unknown visitor didn’t sound as though they were trying to hide their presence; instead, each step fell with an echo of purpose. It didn’t take long for the footsteps to reach the kitchen.

“Gale Weathers!” Rory exclaimed. The reporter appeared to be frightened. A few years ago, Rory’s mom was in a bad car accident. She got the news from her father over the phone while brushing her wet hair in the bathroom after a shower. When her father said she might not make it, the look Rory remembered staring back at her in the mirror matched Gale’s exactly.

Turning to look at Sidney, she found her fellow hostage wearing a similar, shocked expression. Scanning Sidney’s face, she saw tiny age spots peeking through a thin layer of foundation. Fine wrinkle lines made parentheses around her eyes and mouth. And her under-eye bags were pronounced. As the shock transformed into confusion, Sidney’s face softened, and Rory saw what lay underneath… pure exhaustion.

Sidney’s eyes followed Gale as she walked through the room.

“What the hell happened to Judy Riley outside?!” Gale asked, her voice frustrated and nearly a yell.

“You don’t approve?” Kinsley asked.

“Gale,” Sidney called out to her friend in a cracked, wavering tone.

Gale looked in Sidney’s direction but didn’t answer. Instead, she kept talking to… well, Rory didn’t really know who she was talking to; she was looking at Kinsley, but that couldn’t be. Gale wasn’t part of this. Was she?

“I told you not to touch Dewey or Judy!” Gale began. “Dammit, Kinsley, you and Brad have taken this too far. This wasn’t part of the pla—”

“GALE!” Sidney yelled. Looking as though she was about to faint, she began to fall forward.

Brad grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back upright, like a toy salesman placing a doll in the display window.

“Be careful with her,” Gale demanded.

Regaining her composure after shaking Brad’s paws off her, Sidney said, “Why, Gale?”

No response.

“What, the fast-talking Gale Weathers finally has nothing to say?! What’s the matter?” Sidney asked. “You can’t face me now that you’re here?”

“Sid,” Gale stammered, “it’s not what you think.”

“Oh. You’re not working with them?” She nodded toward Kinsley and Brad.

No response.

Pissed, Sidney’s nostrils flared. “You’re such a coward,” she spat.

“No, it’s the exact opposite,” Gale shot back. “It’s you who can’t face me, Sidney!”

Confused, Sidney asked, “What are you—”

“You sat right there in front of me,” Gale cut her off, “and couldn’t muster the decency to tell me!” Gale’s eyes welled, but she didn’t break eye contact with Sidney, not even to blink.

Sidney’s face twisted into a defeated realization.

“How did you find out?” Sidney asked.

“What the fuck is going on?” Kinsley broke in. Then she noticed Gale’s eyes. “Are you... are you fucking... crying?”

Clenching her fists so hard that Rory swore she heard the phone held in Gale’s right hand crack, Gale ignored Kinsley but answered Sidney, “I have a guy who checks in on you from time to time.” Sidney’s mouth fell open upon hearing this bit of information. “We’ve been the target of psychopaths four times over the past thirty years. I want to keep tabs on people I love. Especially you. Someone… I thought was my friend.”

Hearing this, Rory glanced over at Kinsley. She was surprised to find Kinsley return the glance. Quickly, Kinsley turned away.

“I was told you’ve been visiting the doctor recently,” Gale continued. “A specialty doctor. It takes surprisingly little to bribe your way into someone’s medical history.” Gale wiped tears from her cheeks.

Brad crinkled his brow. “What the hell is she talking about?”

This question fell on deaf ears. Sidney’s eyes remained fixed on Gale. Her breathing quickened as she continued to lean on the countertop.

“And you know what hurt the most?” Gale asked. “When I went to tell Dewey, he already knew. You told him, but not me? What is it about me, huh? Have I wronged everyone so badly that I’m left on the back burner? Sid, don’t you understand? We’re survivors. You, me, Dewey. It was the three of us for so long. Then Dewey divorced me, and you shut me out. But it’s okay, Sid. I forgive you. You may hate me now, but just know that I did this out of love for you.”

When Gale said this, Kinsley’s head snapped toward her. “Whoa, whoa, whoa… Love for her? What the hell are you talking about? We’re going to kill her in a few minutes.”

Remaining focused on Sidney, Gale said, “You can’t kill someone who’s already dead. Isn’t that right, Sid?”

Silence.

“Since you won’t enlighten the group, I guess I’ll have to. Alright, everyone, Sidney’s dying. ALS. Only has maybe… what… a few months left to live?”

Rory gasped at the revelation.

“Why are you so upset over her?” Kinsley snapped. “She obviously doesn’t care about you; not like I do!”

Momentarily, Gale’s eyes shifted toward Kinsley. Yet, she didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, she continued speaking to her old partner, slowly approaching her. “Sid, you’re…”

“Shut up, Gale.” Hearing Sidney speak so uncharacteristically caused the reporter to stop in her tracks. Sidney looked down and continued, “Why should I have told you? So you could’ve written a ten-page article on poor, pitiful Sidney Prescott.”

“That’s shit, and you know it!”

Lifting her head, tears now oozing from her own eyes, Sidney said, “You’re right. You didn’t write an article. Instead, you turned into a crazy person. What are you, anyway? The mastermind behind these two?”

“She’s not running shit,” Brad said.

“Brad,” Kinsley chided. “Stop.”

Sidney paid little attention to their tiff. She continued addressing Gale. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but a part of me always admired you, Gale. Your strength, your tenacity, your fearlessness. Each time we’ve been through this, you’re the one who gets past it the fastest. I thought that was because you were tough in a way Dewey and I weren’t.” Sidney subtly shook her head. “Now I know that’s not it. You just lack any kind of compassion.”

Gale broke eye contact and ruffled her hair in frustration. “That’s not true. Sid, I did this because you’re a fighter. You need to die a hero, not in some hospital bed to some bullshit disease that doesn’t give you a chance to live. I can’t imagine the great Sidney Prescott fading away like the Colossus of Rhodes; disappearing into the—”

“Oh God, Gale, will you spare me!” Sidney spewed. “I’m not a god! I’m not an idea! I’m flesh and blood. I never wanted any of this! If you truly loved me, you should know this isn’t the life I want to live.” Putting a hand to her head, Sidney continued, “I’m tired, Gale. I’m tired of fighting. And I’m okay with knowing that it’s all almost over.”

“Sidney, I—”

“You can fool yourself into thinking that you did this for me,” Sidney cut her off. “But you didn’t do anything for me. You did this for yourself, because when I die, your legacy will die, too.”

“Sidney, stop,” Gale demanded, her voice full of anger. Yet Rory thought she heard a bit of fragility beneath the anger.

With a clenched jaw, Sidney stepped forward. “You wanna kill me, Gale? You want me to die the hero?” She then held her hands out, palms up, completely defenseless. “Here I am… Kill me. Go ahead.” When Gale didn’t move, Sidney turned to Brad. “Give her your knife.”

Stunned, Brad did as asked, as if hypnotized. Gale accepted the knife as well, as if in a trance.

“Come on, Gale,” Sidney said. “You want your story? Put the knife into my heart.”

“Sid…” Gale said, slowly moving her head back and forth. “You’re not…”

“I’m not what?” Sidney asked. “Fighting? Living up to your expectations? What?”

Something switched in Gale’s eyes. Watching this, Rory thought of a ghost extinguishing a flame.

“Holy shit!” Brad exclaimed; everyone looked at him. “Yo, we just topped 85K on YouTube!”

Now, something even more significant flashed in Gale’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

“We’re livestreaming this,” Kinsley answered.

“Yeah, Gale,” Sidney said, sounding hurt. “Not only will you cover the story, you’ll be the story.”

“You bitch,” Gale said to Kinsley. “You betrayed me.”

“Killers betraying each other—who woulda thunk it,” Rory said under her breath.

“Gale,” Kinsley answered. “You’re living in the past. You have to realize you can’t manipulate the story to survive it. The story is now the spectacle. You should be grateful. I just proved Sidney wrong for you. Thanks to me, you’ll be remembered forever. Fuck Sidney Prescott. The real legacy belongs to Gale Weathers.”

With flaring nostrils and shoulders that rose and fell with each breath, Gale blinked at Kinsley. It looked like a great weight had just settled in the pit of her stomach.

“And you’re wrong about me betraying you,” Kinsley continued. “What is all this shit about you doing this out of love for her?” She pointed her knife at Sidney. “You owe her nothing. You’re the one who should have all the glory.”

“OH, DAMN!” Brad exclaimed as he read the comments on his phone. “FoxxyBear2001 just promised a $1000 superchat if I kill Sidney!” Grabbing for his knife, he said, “Bet.”

As his hand reached for the knife, Gale pulled it away. “Get your hands off of me.”

“It’s a thousand bucks,” Brad said, still reaching for his knife. “Don’t be a bitch.”

Fire bloomed in Gale’s eyes when he grabbed her by the wrist of the hand holding the knife. Ripping her arm away, she reared back and plunged the knife into his chest.

No AI filters this time. Brad’s eyes grew into two disbelieving saucers. His whole body did one swift hitch upward as if his bones received an electric shock. A moment later, blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin. Life disappeared from his eyes as he fell to the floor. Dead.

“That’s what I want to see,” Kinsley yelled at the dejected reporter. “A little fire! That’s going to be great for the view count.” Looking over her shoulder at Rory and Sidney, she asked, “What do you two… think… about… Shit!”

During the melee, Rory and Sidney had disappeared from the kitchen.

“We’ve gotta find them!” Kinsley hollered at Gale. But Gale was done. She dropped the bloody knife. It hit the floor with a loud thump. Then she sat down beside Brad’s body.

“Get up!” Kinsley screamed. But Gale didn’t get up—didn’t even acknowledge her partner in crime. “Fine,” Kinsley said. “Forget you. I’ll finish it myself.” With that, she left the room.

14.

Dewey brought his truck to a screeching halt in front of 815 Palm Avenue. Hopping out, with his gun drawn, he immediately ran to his wife’s side.

“Oh my God! Oh God,” he exclaimed. “She’s dead. They killed her!”

“No,” Judy said, coming to. “Not dead, hubba-rino. The bitch just bonked me on the back of the head. That’s all.”

“Higgins, uncuff her.”

Higgins didn’t need to be told. He was already on it.

The rain was coming down harder now. It wasn’t a full-blown thunderstorm yet. However, the sky’s grumbling was moving closer.

Judy sat with her back against her tire and rubbed the knot on the back of her head. Pulling her hand away, she found blood on her fingers. “Is it bad?”

“No,” Higgins answered.

“Stay here,” Dewey said. “Higgins and I—”

“No,” Judy responded, trying to get to her feet. “Duty calls, Sheriff. I’m going in with you.”

Still kneeling beside the patrol car, Dewey glanced across the hood at the safehouse’s front door. Although he didn’t have time to argue with his wife, he tried again. “Judy, please…”

“Higgins,” Judy said. “Help a lady up.”

Deputy Higgins leaned over and offered his arm. She grabbed it, and he brought her up.

“Fine,” Dewey said, standing himself. “But stay behind me.”

After kicking down the door, Dewey barged in. “Sheriff’s office!” he shouted.

Deputy Higgins and Judy followed close behind, holding their service weapons out in front of them. The trio resembled action heroes bursting into the villains’ lair to save the day.

Higgins went into the living room. He checked the wrists of his former co-workers, officers Mickelson and Carrasco. “Definitely dead,” he said.

Judy, standing next to Dewey in the foyer, shook her head at Higgins; a gesture that said: No shit!

On the television screen, Franklin was telling his sister, Sally, to stop pushing his wheelchair through the woods because he heard something. A second later, Leatherface’s chainsaw roared to life, catching Higgins off guard. Having never seen the movie before, he jumped.

Dewey took Higgins’s phone from his pocket and watched the livestream, hoping to get a sense of where Kinsley was. As they pulled up to the house, Kinsley left the kitchen. The livestream showed the young killer’s point of view as she ran through darkness. Since most of the house was cast in shadows, he couldn’t tell much from the video.

With this in mind, he slid the phone back into his pocket and went to the kitchen.

There he found Gale, sitting on the floor. She didn’t look up at him; she just sat there, a blank expression haunting her face. One of Dewey’s earliest memories was of his mother sitting on the kitchen floor of his childhood home. This was ’73 or ’74. As he remembered it, his mother had a faraway look in her eyes. As if she were gazing at a memory steeped in remorse. Although she wasn’t crying or looking hurt in any way—actually, she looked quite peaceful—her disposition frightened him. He remembered thinking something was wrong. His father ushered him out of the kitchen and carried him to his room. Later… years later, Dewey discovered the reason for his mother’s demeanor; she had just gotten off the phone with family. During the call, she found out that her brother had died in Vietnam.

Gale had much the same look as his mother. In that moment, he knew it would take years to accept that the woman he fought beside, the woman he married, one of the few people he trusted with his life—despite their divorce—had turned inward, toward the madness, becoming what she tried so hard to defeat in the past. Maybe he would never accept it. Irony, or something deeper, seemed to hide somewhere in his thoughts, but his head was spinning too much to figure it out.

“Gale,” he said.

Slowly, her head tilted up to him, and their eyes met. For a moment, Dewey fell in love all over again. Not in a way that made him feel like he had betrayed Judy, but in a way nostalgia sometimes wraps you up in the warmth of a memory.

“The spectacle finally turned on me,” she said.

Tears welled in Dewey’s eyes. “Gale, I…”

“Just cuff me.”

Gently, he took her under her arms and stood her up. She put her hands behind her back without protest. “You have the right to…” he cuffed her right wrist. “…the right to remain…” He closed his eyes, squeezing out a small stream of tears. He cuffed her left wrist. “You have the right to remain silent…” When he heard her sniffle, his voice broke. “Gale… why’d you do it?”

A hand touched his shoulder. It was Higgins. “I’ll handle this, Sheriff. Go tend to business with Sidney.”

Dewey walked away. Before leaving, though, he reminded himself he was still the sheriff. With that in mind, he turned to Higgins and whispered, “Put her in the back of Judy’s car.”

“You alright, Sheriff?” Judy asked, noticing his wet eyes and cheeks. She stood behind Higgins.

“No, babe,” Dewey said, leaving the room in search of the others. Before exiting, though, he kissed his wife on the head and simply said, “A long history, you know.”

“I understand,” Judy said, nodding.

15.

Tired and frustrated, Rory struggled up the steps with Sidney’s arm over her shoulder. It wasn’t that Sidney couldn’t walk—she could. It was the slow pace at which she topped out. Rory didn’t know much about ALS, but it must’ve been pretty bad if it kept her from going up the steps as quickly as she needed to save her life.

Once they were in the upstairs hallway, Rory heard someone charging up the steps behind them. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Kinsley rushing toward them.

“Rory, wait!” her former friend called out. “We can go outside and play like we used to.” After saying this, Kinsley let out a laugh that caused Rory’s blood to run cold.

“Come on,” Rory said to Sidney, leading her into the bedroom she and Tyler had occupied a lifetime ago.

Hearing Kinsley stomp up the last few steps—hot on her heels—Rory shoved Sidney toward the bed so she could close and lock the door. The Woodsboro native missed the bed by a few feet and fell to the floor. It was worth shoving her to the floor, however, because if Kinsley had another second, she would’ve been in the bedroom. As it stood, Rory slammed the door in her old friend’s face.

Holding the door shut with her right hand, Rory’s left fumbled with the knob’s lock. At one point, Kinsley shoved the door open a few inches before the frightened blonde shoved it shut once again. Less than a second later, the blade of the knife punctured through the wooden door and sliced into Rory’s hand.

Hurt, she let go of the door and brought her injured hand to her chest. Kinsley shoved the door open. It hit Rory in the head with tremendous force. As she fell to the floor, a reddening knot beginning to form on her forehead, Kinsley stomped in, closed the door, and locked it behind her.

Next, the crazed journalism student took off her glasses and turned them around to face her. “Alright, guys,” she said into the tiny camera, “we don’t have much time. I thought Brad and I would get a jump on the cops, but it didn’t work out that way. I’m going to need some big-time superchats from you all. We’ll call it the Kinsley legal fund.”

She then quickly checked the livestream on her phone, making sure everything was still working properly. 97,698 people were watching. Comments flew: 768-9035_CooL: U R Crazy! DiddyFool89: F\*CK YEAH!, Mun_Plad: This is going a little too far, IdaBHere: I can’t watch anymore!, Opel_World_2000: Greatest nite of my life!, TimmyNoBrakes: You’ll be outta prison in two months just like me!, Looney_Boons219: Kill Rory! Kill Rory! Kill Rory!, Kyle_the_Collector: WE WANT BLOOD!, Smithy_Keviny: KillRory Wuz Here LMFAO!

“Come on, guys,” Kinsley said into her glasses. “Call your friends, let’s get this to 100,000 viewers!”

Sidney, still lying on the floor, spoke to Kinsley as she put her glasses back on. “Look, I don’t know what you were expecting to accomplish with all this, but let her go.” She motioned toward Rory. “If you need to satisfy your bloodlust, take me.”

“Oh, no,” Kinsley said. “I’m not letting either of you go. I’m going to use you to make some serious dough.”

Kinsley then spoke to someone who didn’t seem to be there. This action was so disorienting that it took Rory and Sidney a moment to understand Kinsley was talking to her livestream viewers. “I want everyone to get your superchats in right now. If I reach $25,000, I’ll kill Sidney after I kill my pal, Rory. But you have to hurry up. The cops are downstairs!”

Tears poured out of Rory’s eyes while blood poured out of her hand and oozed from a cut on her cheek where the door had struck her. The carpet around her was dotted with deep red puddles. “Kins,” she cried, “this has gone too far!”

A $250 superchat came in. “Hold on, Rory,” Kinsley said. “Tay_N_Tay writes: ‘Did you forget to take meds? I’ll give you more money if you let them go.’ Sorry, Tay_N_Tay. No can do. And I don’t take meds. I’m perfectly sane!” She then cackled in a short burst before cutting it off and saying, “Thanks for the superchat, though.”

“Why?” Rory asked, her voice thready. “Why did you kill our friends?”

Without warning, Kinsley dove for the retreating Rory. “No!” Rory screamed, reaching out, trying to defend herself from the attack. Her bloody hand was slippery, however, making her attempts to defend herself awkward and futile. “Get off me!” Tears mixed with blood dripped down onto her face from her raised hands. Not that long ago, she used to have sleepovers with the lunatic now on top of her. “Kinsley, please!”

CRASH!

Kinsley fell over, holding her head and dropping the knife. Sidney stood over the two girls, holding the now-broken base of the nightstand lamp.

Adrenaline must’ve been flowing through Kinsley’s veins because the blow didn’t keep her down long. Barely a moment passed before she was up, shoving Sidney to the ground. Sidney hit the floor hard, wincing.

“You bitch!” Kinsley sneered.

From behind, Rory grabbed Kinsley’s long brown hair and yanked her to the floor. When the brunette hit the bloody patch of carpet, her glasses flew off her face and landed a few feet away.

“No!” Kinsley exclaimed. “The livestream.”

Instead of trying to get Rory off of her and finish the job of killing her, Kinsley clawed at the carpet, trying to get to her glasses and her precious livestream. Rory wouldn’t let go of her hair, though.

“Get off me,” Kinsley said through gritted teeth, the tips of her fingers caressing the right lens of her glasses.

CRUNCH!

A sock-covered heel came down on the glasses, breaking the camera in the process. Looking up, Kinsley saw that this foot belonged to Sidney.

Sidney Prescott stared down at the pathetic, whimpering girl with a mixed expression of pity, hate, and exhaustion.

“I’m going to kill you!” Kinsley screamed, jumping to her feet, leaving two large clumps of her mane in Rory’s fists.

Kinsley wrapped her hands around Sidney’s throat and squeezed. “You ruined my plan! You ruined Gale! You ruined my livestream!”

After she said this, her eyes widened in surprise, and the pressure on Sidney’s throat eased. Slowly, she let go of Sidney and turned around. Rory stood before her, holding the bloody knife she had just used to stab her in the back.

Breathing erratically, Kinsley wheezed, “Rory…”

Because her voice was nothing but a raspy gasp, Rory couldn’t get a feel for her old friend’s tone. Was she trying to say, “Rory, I want to kill you”? Or was the knife in the back a wake-up call? A hard slap to the face? A… SNAP OUT OF IT! A… THIS IS CRAZY! And was she trying to say, “Rory… I’m sorry”?

Rory never found out. Kinsley fell to the ground, dead.

Dropping the knife to the floor, Rory walked across the room, soaked in sweat, barefoot, dirty, and bloody. She clutched her injured hand to her chest, curled up in a ball, and wept. Sidney knelt beside her and cradled the frightened girl in her arms.

When Dewey kicked open the door a few moments later, he found Sidney rocking Rory back and forth… back and forth… over and over again.