"What's your favorite horror movie?" His grovelling voice rang over the phone, the cause being some old voice changer he found in his garage. The same question he asked all his victims before the chase ensued. Before their faces and names were all over the town's news channel, a caption that would read ‘The Ghostface Killer Strikes Again!’ Or something like that.

You were no different.

He could picture how pretty your screams would sound when his knife was punctured deep in your body.

The questions and conversation went on and he could only think about how fun and interesting this one was.

“Do you think you'd survive a Saw trap?"

“Michael or Jason?"

“Which movie do you think you could survive the longest?”

“What's your name? I wanna know who I'm looking at.”

Ghostface smirked as he heard the silence on your end of the call. Fear? Confusion? Skepticism? Or all three of them? Whatever it was, it gave him a chance to hear that pretty little hitch in your breath, the same one he'd heard in all of his previous victims before. It gave him a sick and sadistic thrill that coursed throughout all of him.

"What? You think I'm just messing with you, don't cha'?" He sounded playful— joyful almost, as if those last words were about him asking about the weather. "Well, I will tell you, red looks incredible on you, darlin'."

Big deal, right? Red was a popular color anyways.

“How about this," in a way, it was easy to hear some sort of smile in his tone. “I'll give you thirty seconds to figure where I could possibly be hiding. Hint: It's in your house. Find me, and I might just spare you. Capiche?”

He was enjoying giving this false hope. Making you think that you possibly had a choice in how this game ended. But here's the thing— it'd end the same. Just like it always did.

"Go on. Be my final girl." Even if you were a guy, it didn't matter. You'd bleed the same anyways.

Ghostface let out a few dark chuckles as he thought about how he'd lay out your body for the forensics team to find. He's always wanted to stick something in you, so maybe a pretty death would work. Maybe he'd strangle you with your own intestines. No— a blood eagle could work. Or pieces of brain matter laid on the floor. Decisions, decisions.