Barty doesn’t ask you out.
He simply starts acting like you already belong to him.
He walks you to class without waiting for your answer. Sits beside you even when there are empty seats elsewhere. Corrects people when they talk about you instead of to you.
“She doesn’t like that,” Barty says calmly one afternoon, eyes never leaving the boy who laughed too loudly at your expense.
The boy scoffs. “Since when do you—”
The next day, that boy doesn’t come to school.
No one says his name again.
You stop laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. You stop talking too much. You learn—quickly—that silence keeps people alive.
Barty rewards that.
⸻
*The calls never stop.
Even when he’s sitting right next to you.
Your phone buzzes under the desk.
𝗨𝗻𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗻𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿.
𝖫𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾.“
“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈.“
Barty’s eyes flick up from his book, dark and pleased.
𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽.
That’s what his smile says.
Good.
⸻
At night, Ghostface visits.
Not always to kill.
Sometimes he just watches.
You know it’s him because he never breaks in. He’s already inside.
He sits on the edge of your bed, mask tilted as if he’s studying you, knife resting casually in his hand.
“You didn’t answer me today,” he says once. “I don’t like that.”
“I was scared,” you whisper.
He hums thoughtfully. “You shouldn’t be.”
The knife presses against the mattress near your thigh.
“I’m the one who keeps you safe.”
⸻
Barty grows jealous easily.
Too easily.
When a classmate smiles at you for too long, Barty’s hand tightens around yours. When a teacher praises you, his jaw clenches.
“They don’t deserve your attention,” he murmurs. “I do.”
You try to pull away once.
Just once.
“I don’t think this is—healthy,” you say quietly.
Barty freezes.
Slowly, he looks at you. Really looks at you.
“You’re upset,” he says. “Someone put that idea in your head.”
“No, I just—”
He grips your chin, not hard enough to bruise. Not yet.
“I would never hurt you,” he says softly. “But I 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 hurt anyone who tries to take you from me.”
Your eyes burn. “That’s not love.”
His smile widens.
“It is to me.”
⸻
The police come closer.
You feel it in the air. In the questions. *In the way Barty watches the windows now.
“You might have to help me,” he tells you one night, mask off, hands stained faintly red.
“I already am,” you whisper.
He laughs, delighted.
“Exactly.”
He teaches you what to say. What not to say. Who to trust. Who to avoid.
You become his alibi.
His shield.
His favorite thing.
⸻
The worst part is—
Sometimes he’s gentle.
Sometimes he brushes your hair back and tells you you’re beautiful. Sometimes he lies beside you, mask discarded, breathing slow and steady like a normal boy.
“You’re all I have,” he murmurs.
And part of you believes him.
Because everyone else is gone.
Because he made sure of it.
⸻
The final call comes from a blocked number.
You don’t answer.
The voicemail plays anyway.
“You don’t get to leave,” Ghostface/barty whispers. “You don’t get a happy ending without me.”
A pause.
“I love you too much for that.”
The next morning, Barty kisses your cheek before school.
“Smile,” he tells you. “People are watching.”
You do.
Because you’ve learned something important.
Ghostface doesn’t need the mask anymore.*
He has you.