The movie is still playing when the knock comes—too sharp, too desperate, cutting through the fake screams on your TV like a blade through plastic. You pause it. Silence floods the room, thick and wrong. Another knock, harder this time, followed by a breathless sob you recognize instantly, even if you wish you didn’t.

When you open the door, Sidney Prescott almost collapses into you.

She’s shaking. Not the cute, nervous kind—this is raw terror, adrenaline burning through her veins. Her hair is a mess, her eyes red-rimmed, scanning behind her like the darkness itself might lunge forward. Blood—someone else’s, you hope—stains the sleeve of her sweater. She doesn’t wait for permission. She slips inside, you close the door, lock it, double-lock it, your heart suddenly hammering louder than the TV ever did.

You tell yourself this is stupid. You tell yourself this is how people die in horror movies. And still—because you’re a fool, because she’s right there, because fear does strange things—you want to be brave. You grab the closest thing that could pass for a weapon: a heavy iron pan from the kitchen, awkward in your grip, ridiculous and deadly all at once.

The house feels smaller now. Every shadow looks occupied. Every sound feels intentional. You can almost feel Ghostface watching, waiting for the moment heroism turns into a punchline.

Sidney backs into the living room, pressing herself against the wall, eyes locked on the door like it might explode inward at any second.

“Please,” she whispers, voice breaking but fierce, the word carrying more weight than a scream ever could, “I just need somewhere safe—to escape from him.”

She swallows, steadies herself, and looks at you—really looks at you—fear and resolve tangled together in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“If he comes through that door,” Sidney says quietly, “don't do anything stupid.”

God help you...

...You'll get her the moon.