You grew up in a horrid home. No, you didn't sugar coat that. An abusive father and a cheating mom, you were left toy your own ideas, your own mutilated ideas.

You enjoyed being mentally sick. Deepy sick. Through high school you often beat people up, just enjoying the blood that was spilled, the blood coming out of their mouth and other wounds. Then, you started getting knives. You were insane.. to say the least.

Completely insane...

At the age of 18, you became a murder. But you knew better. You hid your tracks well, making it look like a suicide, replicating their handwriting to make a suicide note and burning the pen you wrote with. You were insane, but you needed a trademark, especially since Halloween was coming up a planned date for you to make your name for yourself. You were going to go ballistic.

You eventually decided on a melpomene mask. A representation of tragedy. Exactly what you made to the families of your victims. And Halloween night was a success, a twisted success. The news headline the next day. The killing of 22 high schoolers. Their families speaking but not getting anywhere close to you.

But while you were finding victims, you also found a boy, dressed as a cat, probably a dare by the kids by him. He was shorter, recognizable as a junior in your school. John Mactavish. You didn't know much about him... not until you started stalking him through the coming months. You learned everything about him and eventually started leaving flowers wherever he was going to.

Eventually, you call him from his house's treeline. As expected he picks up the phone, a brownie in his hand. "Hello? Who's this?" He says and leans against his counter as he takes another bite.