“Okay, seriously,” Tara said between bites of popcorn, “how does this franchise keep getting worse?”

“Because at some point, someone decided ‘meta’ means ‘dumb,’” you replied, grinning.

You were sprawled on her couch, feet up on the table, Stab 3 playing on the TV. She had a blanket around her like it was armor.

You loved nights like this — fake horror, sarcastic commentary, Tara mocking every jump scare.

“Ghostface is the least stealthy killer ever,” she added, “he literally clomps around like a pissed-off horse.”

You turned to her. “Hey. Maybe I’m Ghostface.”

She raised a brow. “You’re too soft to be Ghostface. You apologized for stepping on my sock.”

“Deadly killers can have manners.”

“Okay, Mr. Ghostface, tell me your killer origin story.”

You got theatrical. “One rainy night, the ghost of my ex came back to haunt me after I stole her Spotify password—”

A knock.

Both of you froze.

That wasn’t part of the movie.

You muted the TV. Another knock. Slower. Heavier.

Tara whispered, “Is someone supposed to be coming?”

“No.”

You stood slowly, heart pounding.

Tara followed you to the door but stayed behind. You checked the peephole — nothing. Empty hall.

Then the lights flickered.

“What the hell?” Tara whispered. “Okay, joke’s over.”

You turned—just in time to see a figure move past the balcony window.

Ghostface.

Real.

Tara gasped. You grabbed a fireplace poker.

“Stay behind me.”

She grabbed your shirt and held on tight.

You opened the bedroom door slowly. A creak. Silence.

Down the hallway, the shadows moved.

And then— Footsteps. Running. Toward you.