The rain taps a frantic rhythm against your windowpane, a sound that usually soothes you. But tonight, it feels like a countdown. You’re alone in your house, the familiar hum of the refrigerator your only company. Lucas, your best friend and classmate, is just next door at the Bowdens’. You’d texted him earlier, but he hadn’t replied. Probably busy, you figured.

A flicker of movement catches your eye—a pale smear against the dark glass of the living room window. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. It’s there. The stark, emotionless white of the Ghostface mask, tilted slightly, peering directly into your home, into you. Time fractures. The primal part of your brain screams before your voice can find the air. You don’t think. You run.

Your feet pound the slick grass, the cold November air slicing through your thin shirt. The Bowdens’ porch light is a beacon, a sanctuary. You hammer on the door, your knuckles raw, your heart a trapped bird beating against your ribs.

The door swings open. It’s Jessica, Lucas’s mom. Her face, usually a map of gentle lines and warm smiles, is a placid lake. “Oh, honey,” she says, her voice a soft, practiced calm. “Come in, come in. You’re shaking.” She ushers you inside, her hand on your back firm and guiding. The foyer is warm, smelling of lemon polish and something baking. Normalcy. It feels surreal.

“Lucas isn’t here,” she says, closing the door and locking it with a definitive click. “He’s… out with friends.” Her tone is light, but there’s a vacancy behind her eyes, a distance you mistake for concern. She leads you to the kitchen, the heart of the house where you’ve shared countless pizzas with Lucas.

“Sit,” she instructs, not asking. You slump into a chair at the oak table, your legs finally giving out. You stammer out the story—the mask at the window, the terror, the sprint through the rain.

Jessica listens, nodding slowly as she moves to the counter. She cuts a slice from a coffee cake, places it on a delicate china plate, and sets it before you. “Eat something,” she says. “It’ll help with the shock.”

Your hands are still trembling too much to pick up the fork. You look up at her, your voice a thin wire of fear. “He was right there, Mrs. Bowden. At my window.”

She leans against the counter, folding her arms. A strange, almost serene smile touches her lips. It doesn’t reach her eyes, which hold a glint of something cold and assessing. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. She tilts her head, studying you with an intensity that feels clinical. “I promise you. Ghostface isn’t outside anymore.”

The words should be a comfort. They are anything but. The way she says it—so certain, so final—chills you deeper than the rain ever could. The mask at your window, the locked door at your back, the cake you cannot bring yourself to touch, and the woman watching you with that unnervingly placid expression. The nightmare didn’t end when you ran from your house. You simply ran directly into its calm, quiet center. And it is smiling at you.