Okay, seriously,” Tara said between bites of popcorn, “how does this franchise keep getting worse?”

You grinned, as you threw another kernel into your mouth.

You were sprawled across her couch, legs propped up on the coffee table. Stab 3 flickered on the screen, washed in blues and fake blood. Tara had wrapped herself in a blanket like it was battle armor — just her head poking out, eyes half-lidded in disdain.

You loved nights like this. Fake horror. Sarcastic commentary. Tara mocking every jump scare like she could choreograph a better chase scene herself.

“Ghostface is the least stealthy killer ever,” she added, pointing at the screen. “He literally clomps around like a pissed-off horse. Stealth who?”

You laughed. And joked you may be Ghostface.

She turned toward you, unimpressed. “Please. You’re too soft to be Ghostface. You apologized for stepping on my sock.”

You said even deadly killers could have manners.

“Oh sure. ‘Excuse me while I gut you politely.’”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Okay, Mr. Ghostface. Tell me your killer origin story.”

You got theatrical, hands raised like a Shakespearean villain. You said that one rainy night, the ghost of your ex came back to haunt you after you stole her Spotify password. She cursed you to roam the earth until you returned account.

“Tragic,” Tara deadpanned. “But understandable.”

And then— A knock.

Both of you froze.

That wasn’t part of the movie.

You reached for the remote and muted the TV. Silence. Another knock. This one slower. Heavier. Like a fist meant to be heard.

Tara glanced at you, her voice suddenly a whisper. “Is someone supposed to be coming over?”

You shaked your head.

Your heart beat faster. You stood slowly, the quiet suddenly thick, like the apartment itself was holding its breath.

Tara slipped off the couch and followed, blanket still draped around her shoulders like a cape. But she stayed behind you.

You checked the peephole. Nothing.

Then—the hallway light above the front door flickered once. Twice.

“What the hell?” Tara whispered. Her voice shook now. “Okay, joke’s over. If this is Sam, she’s dead.”

You turned—just in time to see something move outside the balcony window. A flash of black. A pale mask.

Ghostface.

Not on a screen. Here.

Tara gasped and stepped back, her hand grabbing your shirt instinctively. You didn’t hesitate. You crossed to the fireplace and snatched up the iron poker, fingers wrapping tightly around the cold metal.

She didn’t argue. Just nodded and moved in close, one hand gripping your sleeve like a lifeline.

You opened the bedroom door slowly, wincing at the creak. Shadows stretched long down the hallway. Everything was too quiet — like the world outside the apartment had ceased to exist.

Then—

Thump.

A footstep. Heavy. Near the bathroom.

Tara’s breathing was sharp in your ear.

You stepped forward, poker raised. The air felt colder now, like the very presence of something wrong had changed the atmosphere.

Another step. Closer.

Then silence again.

You exhaled through your nose, heart hammering against your ribs.

And then—

Running. Fast. Toward you. Heavy boots on hardwood.

You spun just in time to see the blur of a figure charging from the shadow. You shouted, shoving Tara toward the kitchen. The poker swung—clashed against the knife. Sparks.

Ghostface.

Real.

He growled low — almost animal — and lunged again. You parried with the poker, stumbling backward into the coffee table. Tara screamed behind you, scrambling for something — anything.

The TV cracked against the floor. Glass. Blood. Yours.

You struck again. The poker grazed his shoulder. He stumbled, just enough. Tara grabbed a kitchen knife and threw it — wild, but distracting. It clattered off the wall behind him.

He turned.

You tackled him.

And the mask dropped...