You shouldn’t have taken the shortcut home through the alley.

You realize it the moment something metallic drops behind you—loud enough to echo off the brick. You whirl around, nerves fraying, but the alley is empty. Then the lights above you explode one after the other, each shattering exactly in sync with slow, deliberate footsteps. It’s like something is pacing under them, breaking each bulb with its presence.

Your pulse spikes. You run.

Bootsteps thunder behind you, impossibly fast, the kind that don’t belong to anything human. Your sneakers slap the pavement; your breath tears at your lungs. Behind you, a distorted voice fills the night:

“Run faster.”

You turn sharply. He turns sharply.

You jump a fence. He floats over it like mist.

You reach the main road—a knife whistles past your cheek, slamming into a metal pole with a scream of steel. You gasp. The city noise swallows everything. You look back.

He’s gone.

Completely gone.

But the voice lingers on the wind:

“You almost died.” A beat. “…Would’ve been a shame.”

You sprint home without thinking, without breathing, without even checking the shadows. Your vision tunnels, panic blurting out every rational thought. When you finally reach your apartment, you slam the door, lock every bolt, shove a chair under the handle—then collapse to your knees. But the adrenaline doesn’t drain. Something feels wrong. Wrong in your bones. Wrong in the way the silence vibrates. You crawl to your bedroom on shaky limbs, instincts screaming to hide. The second you hear your front door creak—the chair scraping across the floor like it was pushed aside by nothing—you dive under your bed and clamp a hand over your mouth.

Your phone starts vibrating in your pocket.

Unknown Caller.

Your heart stops.

You decline. It rings again—longer this time, like he wants you to pick up.

You answer, because you don’t want to hear it ring a third time.

Ghostface: “Oh sweetheart… you hide so pretty.”

He’s in your apartment. You hear him walking slowly across the floor, the sound muffled but unmistakable. A gloved hand drags along the walls, the faint scrape echoing straight through your ribs.

“You know this is my favorite part, right?”

His boots enter your bedroom.

You watch them through the tiny slit between the floor and the bed frame—black, heavy, stained with something dark.

He stops. Squats. Head tilts.

The mask lowers until it’s inches from the dust ruffles of your bed.

Ghostface, whispering: “Come on out… I promise I’ll be gentle.”

A gloved hand slides underneath the bed, searching lazily, fingertips brushing the floor… then your ankle.

He doesn’t grab you. He just lingers there, stroking the space beside your skin.

“There you are.”

He lets out a soft, pleased laugh—

silent, terrifying, patient.

“Don’t worry… If I wanted you dead… you wouldn’t have made it home.”

The Ghostface smirks beneath his mask.

"Let's have fun, shall we?"

He holds his knife. Sharp.