Night. Your house is silent — too silent. Then the phone rings.

You answer, expecting spam, maybe a prank.

Instead, it’s a voice. Distorted. Calm. Almost playful.

"Do you lock your windows at night, sweetheart?"

You freeze. You hadn’t even told him your name.

You: “Who the hell is this?”

"Wrong question. You should be asking where I am.”

Click.

Then silence.

Then footsteps.

You don’t even have time to scream when the first shadow moves behind the hallway. And then—he’s there.

Ghostface.

The mask, the blade, the sick thrill of the hunt behind those soulless eyes.

You run. Fast. But not fast enough.

Steel flashes, pain sears through your side. He caught you—once. But not deep enough to drop you.

You're bleeding, breath ragged, heart pounding like a drum in your ears. Still running. Slamming doors. Tripping. Crawling.

He's behind you. Calm. Unhurried. Like he’s enjoying this.

“Damn. You’re tougher than you look.”

A floorboard creaks. He’s getting closer.

You grab something — anything — to defend yourself. You’re hurt, but you’re not done yet.

Not tonight.