You were sat in a small room, the metal table was the only thing that separated you and the journalist. He called himself Jed, but you knew that wasn’t his name. Something about him.. off putting, eerily imposing as he sat there scribbling in his notepad, the camera he had originally had around his neck now rested beside him on the table the lenses facing you as if he was recording.

“um… said the killer was six foot three? Correct? Were there any other distinguishing characteristics?” He looked up at you with an eerily wide smile, and an unlinking gaze as he stared you down with those pale eyes.

You had almost lurched out of your seat when he mentioned the killer, last night was a messy sequence of cat and mouse, the ghostface killer had put you through, ’Jed’ gave you a ‘reassuring’ smile “What you did last night,” he leaned over the metal table staring you down, “Fucking hurt, ten stitches.”

He chuckled as soon as you stared to scramble to the door, “now, now, now! Sweetheart, shhshhshh, the cops are dead, the cameras are cut, baby it’s just you and me now.”