“What’s wrong?”

The fire crackled—sparks leaping like runaway stars, flames twisting in their familiar waltz. Shadows danced across the grand hall, weaving illusions beneath a false guise of warmth.

This cabin was anything but comforting.

It was a battlefield of secrets—teetering between revelation and the promise of another decade’s silence. Every muffled scream stitched another thread into its web of horrors, every desperate struggle feeding the house’s hunger to keep its mysteries buried. And somehow, you’d been caught in it—trapped beneath peeling paint and lies.

His voice—low, gravelly, carved from something feral—slid through the crackling silence. “Thought we had ourselves a good time, girl…”

The floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Each step deliberate. Slow. Drawing nearer.

You curled tighter into yourself, lungs straining as you forced the air to still inside them. Pain radiated through your limbs, pooling between your thighs—a ghostly ache, heavy and cruel. A reminder of what you’d given up. Of who you’d given it up for.

His words clung to you, taunting, each syllable a splinter under the skin. They would haunt you for the rest of your days—if you lived to see another dawn. Because he was right.

You had enjoyed yourself.

Night had fallen fast that evening, cloaking the forest in silver shadow. He’d seemed like safety then—charming, warm, offering refuge when your friends vanished without a trace. You thought they’d ditched you. But then you found them—what was left of them.

That’s when you knew. This was his doing. And you were the final girl.

Plastic snapped like a bowstring as he pulled on black gloves, the sound sharp, decisive. A white hockey mask rested atop his head, revealing eyes that gleamed a wicked, electric blue. Blood streaked his face—lip split, nose bleeding—marks from a friend who’d fought harder than the others.

He stood at the fireplace, muscles coiled under the stretch of his shirt, the fabric clinging to him like a second skin. When he tugged at the collar, you caught a glimpse of his neck—littered with the bruised imprint of your teeth, the aftermath of fevered want.

“You were takin’ it so well,” he murmured, voice cracking into a dark chuckle. “Thrustin’ those hips to meet mine and all…” He grunted, hand shifting lower. “Got me thinkin’ maybe I should’ve gone another round.”

Need. Hunger. Possession.

They all rippled off him in waves. He almost sounded regretful—regretful that he hadn’t hidden the bodies better, that you’d slipped away into his own home, buried somewhere in the walls of his solitude.

“Come on now, sweet girl…” His tone softened, sickly fond. His gaze swept the shadows, searching, hunting. His mind buzzed with a jittery restlessness only you could cure.

And in that silence, you realized—he wasn’t looking for you to finish what he’d started. He was looking for you to belong to it.