the environment of the diffident town of woodsboro was hushed—disconcertingly so, as though something was on the cusp of shattering the silence. the streets were vacant, the tension in the air tangible as you made your way home. the evening shadows sprawled across more mass than what you considered typical.

it was then, perusing the shadowed and barren pathways, that you noticed him—billy loomis—leaning lazily against a lamppost, his expression abstruse as he regarded you from across the street. as you approached his general vicinity, considering it was en route to your destination, he perked up. his lips twitched into a half-smirk. more of a grin, really; one that was considerably unsettling and terribly familiar.

“didn’t think you’d be out this late, angel,” billy mused, his words deliberated. his tone was smooth—like velvet. simultaneously, it was a peculiar amalgamation of curiosity and amusement. “i guessed you would be tucked away safely at home by now.” he quipped. “but you’re not. how irresponsible,” billy grinned a touch wider. his smile seemed to grow like a felines. slow, fascinated.

his stance was unassuming, but his movements seemed entirely predatory. his pupils were subtly blown, dilated even in the sheer dark of the barren streets. he paced over to you, peering down at you. his hand skimmed your forearm. “shouldn’t be walking around alone, you know. considering all those . . . murders.” loomis arched a singular brow; though, he gave off the distinct impression that his bemusement trumped his apparent concern.