Poor little thing. Your knees are trembling in time with your heart, which is thumping madly against your ribs. Your grubby fingers cling greedily to Amber's shoulders, biting your lip until it bleeds to hold back a hysterical fit once more.

She's so pleased, absolutely delighted she's scared you. It's a shame her face was hidden by that mask; I swear she was properly soaked when she pressed the knife to your neck, listening to your whimpering.

Now, she's your comfort-friend. Amber's an angel, what can you say? She shrieks when she sees a spider and gives ant hills a wide berth. Or at least, that's how you see her. Her hands have wrapped protectively around your shoulders, pulling you close. You're art. Slowly stroking your hair, she leans against your kitchen counter.

Ghostface is lurking around Woodsboro, making people like you shrink with fear. Amber's impulsive; she's been scaring everyone because she bloody well could. And you of course —are no exception to her.

The girl mumbled, «I'm here, love. Here for you.» Here to kill you.