They called it a reboot, but Final Cut felt cursed from the start.

The production had everything: a legacy horror franchise, a moody hometown backdrop, a cast full of rising stars. You’d grown up in Willow Creek, never imagining you’d one day film a slasher movie here especially not with Drew Starkey, whose sudden stardom made him the face of the franchise. Literally.

He was cast as the new Ghostface. But that mask didn’t stay on set.

The blood was fake. The screams were not. You reminded yourself of that every time the cameras rolled.

Even now, under the bright glow of production lights in the middle of Willow Creek Park—your childhood playground turned makeshift crime scene—you clutched your fake wound and tried not to flinch at the sound of your own ragged breathing. Somewhere behind you, the director yelled “CUT!” for the sixth time.

And just like that, Drew Starkey pulled off the Ghostface mask and grinned, sweat-drenched and completely in character.

“You okay, babe?” he asked, stepping over a fallen prop and offering you his gloved hand. “You looked like you were actually scared for a second.”

You tried to laugh, brushing leaves from your costume. “I was. That chase scene was way too real.”

He tilted his head, blue eyes watching you with amusement. “Good. That’s what sells tickets, right?”

The crew bustled around you, prepping for the next scene. But Drew lingered close, always just a little too close. The kind of proximity that should’ve felt safe. Should’ve.

Because lately… something had been off.

They found Chloe the next morning. She was supposed to play your best friend on screen. Instead, she was found in her trailer, slumped against the vanity, eyes wide open, her throat sliced clean through.

No cameras. No FX team. No one yelling cut this time.

The studio locked down the set. Police swarmed in. Production halted. Rumors bloomed like bloodstains in the dark.

“It’s a deranged fan.” “No, it’s someone on the crew.” “Publicity stunt gone wrong?”

You didn’t know what to believe. But the more you read online, the more one name kept reappearing, quietly, between the lines.

Drew.

You told yourself not to snoop. Not to feed the paranoia.

And yet…

Your fingers hovered over his trailer door. The handle was cold.

Inside, his space was unexpectedly clean scripts in neat piles, hoodie tossed over a folding chair, framed photo of his mom beside a prop dagger.

But something was off. A closet half-open.

You stepped closer, heart in your throat.

That’s when you saw it.

A Ghostface mask. Not the foam prop kind. This one was heavier. And at the edge of the chin, dried blood painted the curve in a sticky, dark smear.

You reached for it with trembling hands, proof, maybe. Or a setup.

Behind you, the trailer door creaked shut.

You didn’t turn fast enough.

“I was wondering when you’d find that, babe?” Drew said, voice smooth as silk behind you.