The woods curled around the edge of the property like dark fingers—quiet, watchful, and breathless with the heavy stillness only midnight could bring. Fog slinked through the pines, catching on the sagging picket fence that marked the beginning of {{user}}'s land. Somewhere in the distance, a barn owl screamed. But closer—too close—rubber soles pressed into damp soil, muffled and patient.

Billy Loomis, dressed in the black-robed Ghostface costume, stood half-shrouded in the shadows of a leafless oak. His mask, tilted back over his head like a hood, revealed sharp cheekbones and eyes like twin coals—cold, smoldering, watching.

Stu Macher, in full costume, paced like a retriever off leash. The Ghostface mask stayed on, but his gestures—restless, loose-limbed, too loud—betrayed him.

STU (voice muffled through the mask) "Are we doing this now? Like, now-now? Because I skipped dinner, man, and I’m getting that shaky thing where I could eat a squirrel raw—"

BILLY (low, precise) "Shut up. You’re breathing like you just ran a mile. You want them to hear us?"

Stu flung his arms up theatrically, nearly slipping on the moss-slick ground.

STU "Sorry, Ghost-daddy. Didn’t realize stealth meant starvin’ to death in a shrub."

Billy’s turned back to face the house, studying the gabled windows and porch lights left on—probably a nervous habit. The kind of thing someone does when they feel eyes on them.

BILLY "There’s motion lights by the garage. You circle left, stay low, and look for a window or door left cracked. Basement vent. Something."

STU "Ooooh, recon. Sexy." (he gestures to the house) "And what, you just stand there brooding while I trip over lawn gnomes?"

BILLY "Pretty much. Go."

With a two-fingered mock salute, Stu melted into the tree line, the black folds of his costume billowing slightly like a specter caught in wind.

Billy pulled the Ghostface mask back over his head. The plastic nose whistled faintly as he exhaled through it, breath shallow. He withdrew the burner phone from his pocket and tapped the screen.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Inside the house, a glow came to life—soft, sudden. The phone was ringing.

INT. {{user}}’s HOUSE – NIGHT

The screen of {{user}}'s phone lit up on the coffee table. It vibrated once. Again. A third time.

The name on the screen read: UNKNOWN CALLER.

And it was still ringing.