Brrring. Brrring. Brrring. You're roused from your deep slumber by the obnoxious ringing of your home phone. You groaned, rolling over once, twice, waiting for the phone to shut off and stop ringing. When it finally did, it rang again. You groaned aloud, sitting up with a huff. You reached for the phone, plucking it from it's spot and trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice. It was 4 am. Who would be calling at this unholy hour?

"Hello? It's four in the morning what-" you snapped, but were cut off by a low, almost scratchy voice.

"Hello?" The voice was like that from a scary movie, sending an immediate chill down your spine.

"Hello, who is this?" you say after a moment of calming yourself, "I'm sorry for snapping." you apologize as well, knowing all about how Ghostface would kill; it was ridiculous to think this was him, but on the off chance it was, or maybe some copycat, you decided to try and treat them nicely.

"That's alright, sweetheart. I'm sorry to bother you at such an early hour..." the man's voice trailed off, leaving you in an odd sense of anticipation and fear.

"That's quite alright, sir. What can I help you with? Are you looking to speak to someone in particular? Maybe my parents?" you tilted your head, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you did and stretching your jaws wide in a yawn.

"Your parents... they aren't there, are they? They moved out just recently?" odd... this must be one of their coworkers or something of the sort.

"Just yesterday, yes. I can give you their new phone number or-"

"No, no that's quite alright, honey. I'm just fine talking to you. What's your name?" you tilted your head the other way at the odd way this person spoke. You couldn't decide what they wanted. Why would they just call to talk to whoever picked up? Some sort of prank call, maybe?

"What's yours?" you flipped the question, smiling lightly.

"That's not important, at least not right now. For now, I'd like to know who I'm speaking to. I'd like to know the owner of that pretty little smile." You almost drop the phone, your blood running ice cold. You would not admit to yourself that you knew who this was. Just play along, (Y/N), just until you can escape.

"(Y-Y/N)." you stutter out, slowly moving to your feet. You spin in a slow circle, scouring the landscape outside every window. Unsurprised, you saw nothing.

"That's just as pretty as I'd thought..." The voice was almost whimsical, suddenly light as if the caller was deep in thought. "Do you feel... safe, (Y/N)?" you shook your head, and were about to verbally say no, realizing the caller couldn't see you, but he proved you wrong and beat you to the punch with a chilling response, "Smart. Keep alert, sweetheart. Maybe you'll see me around but..." a pause, a silence between his words more deafening than anything you'd heard before, "I doubt you will."

You gulp, and as you hear the click of the call ending, you pull it from your ear and stare down at it as if it's diseased. You had a smartphone, so you didn't need the landline, nor did you want it anymore after that call. You rip the phone's plugin from the wall, letting it rest on the floor, then proceed to creep around your house and lock all your downstairs doors and windows. With the ways in barricaded as best as possible, you feel a little more safe, but hug yourself in your arms and curl up on the couch, shivering nonetheless. Your phone buzzes beside you, and your head snaps to face it. Just as you had dreaded, a text from an unknown number.

Don't bother with the doors and windows. I'm already inside. A hand covers your mouth. You weren't stupid, you knew what this meant. The killer, the caller, that creepy man was inside your house already. With a shaking hand you picked up the phone, doing your password and clicking on the text messages app.

What do you want? The message flickered to 'seen', but for a good five minutes there was no answer, until the click of a camera shutter danced into your ears. You were on your feet in a blink, whipping around to face the source of the sound. You were sure it had come from behind you, but before you could spot anything there was another click, behind you again. You would have seen someone move over there before they could conceal themselves, yet again you saw no one. Your phone buzzed.

The scared look of yours is my favourite so far. Don't go anywhere, I'll be back.

Flourishing the terrifying text, you hear the slam of your front door, a hand covering your mouth again and silencing your cry of despair as you watch the curtains to either side flutter in the wind from the door having opened and shut, and you could clearly see the door was now unlocked. Someone had truly been in your house moments prior, taking pictures, toying with you before he slashed your throat. You exit the messages app and frantically head to dial 911, but before you can, you receive another text. You tense, tears burning in the corners of your eyes as you collapse onto the couch.

The police would never make it in time. You find the lump in your throat expanding, and your breaths seemed to be slipping away from you. You click off your phone and set it beside you, covering your face with your hands as you battle down the urge to cry, to break apart into a terrified sobbing mess. It hadn't even been 24 hours since you officially lived alone, and you were already going to be killed. Why the hell did the world choose to torture you? Everything seemed so surreal. A shitty life with family, a good 6 hours of happiness and excitement, and then you were thrown right back into the deepest depths of hell.

After what seemed like eternity, you finally catch your breath again and pull your hands away, staring around your gorgeous, huge house that would soon be ripped away. You stare at your phone and think of your friends and family, the few people you cared enough about to say you actually loved them. You might never see them again. You shake your head, and push the thoughts away. Might as well enjoy yourself before you die, right? So, rather than working on the article you had been working on before, you stand and head over to the shelf filled with movies and tv shows you'd insisted on buying the discs for rather than downloading them or something. You liked the authenticity a dvd brought. You scanned the titles, and, ironically, you chose the Stab movie, the first in the series of 7. You stare down at Ghostface on the cover and flash him a bitter smile, popping the disc into the dvd player perched just underneath your TV. Clicking the power button, the TV flashed to life, and you quickly navigated to the play the movie with practiced ease. After seconds, the movie was playing and flopped back onto the sofa with a sigh. Subconsciously, you chose the Stab movie to try and appease the Ghostface hunting you, like a sort of 'hey, I gave you a little more fame by buying your movie, you should spare me!', but you knew that was stupid. Maybe you could dissect the movie and find some way to beat the Ghostface yourself, to end his treacherous cycle of murders. Again, you knew you were being stupid.

So, you mindlessly watched, dissected the film despite knowing you couldn't help yourself, studying the fake slashers movements and tact, hoping it was accurate to the real one currently stalking the hell out of you. It begins with the opening of Casey and Steve's murders, running through the familiar film until it ends with Tatum's death at the big party, Halloween playing within the background of the film. Billy and Stu finally kicked the bucket, Sidney and Gale emerging triumphant. Much to you surprise (sarcasm) the movie didn't make you feel any better. It made you more terrified, if anything, watching how everyone was killed. The one that got to you the worst was Tatum's death; neck snapped by a garage door... yikes. Your mind then wandered around your own house, mapping out the possible ways you could be killed, the dumbest places to run to. Knife to the back, screwdriver to the neck, microwave to the head... you were absolutely irrational, since almost anything could be used to kill someone, yet you still stood and scanned your house for the safest places to run and the most dangerous weapons to either run to and use to defend yourself, or run away from so your stalker couldn't use them against you. You were trying to decide the most merciful way to die, maybe you could trick Ghostface into killing you that way, but you're interrupted by the ping of a text message on your phone. The simple noise made you jump out of your skin and let out a shriek, which you were immediately humiliated by. You couldn't be scared. You had to keep a clear head, and you were now expecting an attack. You returned to the couch and grabbed your phone, teasing the skin on your lip as you spotted the unknown number once more.

Those candlesticks would make for a good bludgeoning. The text was simple, yet as always, it was accented and amplified by the feeling of being watched and the shutter of a camera. You texted back,

I can see the reason in that, they're pretty hefty. Good to fight a killer with. You knew threatening a killer was not smart, but this sort of indirect threat might be just subtle enough not to be considered rude.

Or good for a killer to fight with. You feel a nervous smile tug at your lips.

When are you going to get this over with and stab me to death? Your text doesn't get a response right away, as if the receiver was shocked by your bluntness and readiness to die. Don't play games with me, just get this all over with. I know there's nothing I can really do, at least nothing I can't do right now. You throw your phone onto the couch and plop down beside it, ears and eyes strained and waiting for the slightest of movements or the subtlest of noises, any sign or slipup the killer would make.

When works best for you?

I'm free right now, if you want to stop by. Your joking-sort of text style reminded you of planning for a date, and you smile to yourself, a little more genuinely than the nervous smile from before. You'd loved going on the few dates you'd been on before. Your smile turns bitter as you realize you won't be going on any more.

Alright. Just as the text comes in, there's the shattering of a window and you can't hold back your startled scream. You spin on your heel to face the source of the sound, but you see no one among the scattered shards of glass, as if the window had been broken by a ghost or some sort of invisible force. You can sense a dangerous presence all around you, but no matter how hard you look you see no one. Your phone pings. So, what's your favourite scary movie? Simple small talk, most likely a distraction, but you won't ignore it. You need to stall for time, but you have to keep aware of your surroundings. You continue to spin in slow circles, answering with one eye on the hallways and doorways for Ghostface.

Stab 3. That wasn't a lie to get on the killers good side, it really was your favourite movie. That was the film with Randy's legacy tape, and as much as you loved his character and hated how he was killed, the legacy tape made you forgive it all. It was just too good a plot point for you to be angry about. You hear a floorboard creak to your left, and snap your head aside to see the flicker of a shadow, a potential trick of the light.

What a coincidence, that's my favourite too. Just like that, all hell breaks loose. With that last text message, your phone is knocked from your hand and your back slams painfully into the side of the coffee table, a heavy weight pressing down on your shoulders. Your vision refocuses on the killer before you, the Father Death mask, the grey leather trench-coat style cloak, and the shiny, scarlet stained metal of a blade. Of course, you have to fight back, despite knowing your efforts would be in vain. The victims always fight back, that's what makes the movie so intense and scary. So, you snap your knee upwards and into your attacker's ribs, shoving it outwards to make enough distance between you and him to get up and slip away, sprinting towards your staircase.

Upstairs, you could loop Ghostface around and make it back to the stairs, hopefully with enough time to make it to the front door. You were fast on your feet, with decent stamina. You might just be able to outrun this psycho. As you reach the stairs, you hear your pursuer hot on your tail. You take the stairs two at a time, trying to keep your breathing slow and even to retain oxygen and avoid running out of breath. Your back aches with pain but you ignore it, forcing your spine to twist you out of the way of a slashing knife. The blade comes in contact with your shirt, tearing through the cotton fabric with a rip, and you thank yourself for your decent reaction times. If you were even a millisecond slower, that blade would be in your back. You reach the top of the stairs, throwing yourself to the side as the blade slashes again, connected with the back of your arm and sending a splintering pain through the limb. Adrenaline fueled, you sprint onwards, beginning to execute your escape plan. As you pass through a doorway, you spin on your heel and throw aside the small table just inside the upstairs living room, the vase crashing at Ghostface's feet in an explosion of glass and water. It wasn't much of a distraction, so you twisted back to your original escape route and push onwards.

You pass the coffee table, worming your way between it and the TV, grabbing a large book of poetry off the tabletop. It'd make a good weapon in a worst case scenario. You reach the next doorway, exiting the living room and bursting into a room with a piano, a cello, and a few other odds and ends like new guitar strings and a few stands meant to hold sheets of music. You throw them to the ground in your path so Ghostface has to hop over them. It was, again, not that helpful, but gave you enough time to dodge another slash. In a few more seconds you're out of the music room and into the hallway, taking a sharp right and running back for the stairs. You risk a glance over your shoulder and your blood somehow runs colder than before. Ghostface isn't behind you. You don't have time to skitter to a stop as you collide with a strong, sturdy figure, knowing all too well that you've made a grave mistake. Ghostface was fast and cunning, and you were dead. The book in your hand was generally helpful, being brought down upon the back of Ghostface's head. You tried to scramble away, but he recovered quickly and was after you once more, delivering a harsh shove as you tried to slip back into the music room. Now, you were stuck with your attacker blocking your only escape, your back to the hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom. One bedroom led to a balcony, but from this height you weren't going to risk breaking your legs on the concrete below. Your mind raced millions of miles an hour and you couldn't form coherent thoughts, panic scattering any information held within your panicking brain.

Ghostface took a threatening step forwards, and you took one back, not moving your eyes from his mask, reading his movements for when he'd lunge at you and stab you in the chest, throat or maybe, hopefully brain. You open your mouth to speak, then snap it shut, repeating the action twice more. Ghostface tilted his head ever so slightly, taking another step. He reminded you of a curious puppy; a curious, bipedal, knife-wielding puppy.

"Well, looks like this is it, sweetheart." his voice was still almost machine-sounding, modified by a voice changer; you know the odd-sounding voice well from the phone calls, and from anonymous interviews you'd conducted for your articles and reports. "I hate to our meeting short, but I've got places to be, photos to take..." his head returned to it's normal place, and he took another step, giving his knife a quick twirl. You gulp, trying to eradicate the lump that had formed in your throat, grasping frantically for something to say, something to do to save yourself. Stall him!

"What do you want from me?" you wince at your stupid, stereotypical question. Not all killers have victim-specific motives. Just as you guessed he would, Ghostface gave a simple shrug.

"You've got a pretty face. I know the media likes pretty people, so your corpse will make a good picture." You shudder, reaching closer and closer to an idea. Your mind is slowly coming down from it's adrenaline high, and you have an idea on the tip of your tongue. What to do, what to do... you force your mind to slow. You've got an idea.

You sigh, letting your defensive position slacken as you lower your arms, let your head fall, and break your stare-down with this killer. You want to seem small, unintimidating, as if you've given up. Maybe you have given up, you think, but you had one more feeble attempt to live, one you knew probably wouldn't work.

"Given up already, honey?" Ghostface's offensive stance seems to shift momentarily as well, but you don't spring to attack or anything even close. You raise your hands in a submissive manner, lifting your head to connect 'eyes' with Ghostface once more.

"I-I have an offering." your voice is small and shaky, but as you continue it gets stronger, you become more confident in the idea, "I know plenty about you, a general motive, how you kill, things like that. I know you like fame, stardom," you wave your hands in a jazzy manner as you speak, mainly to try calming yourself, bringing a little bit of light to the situation, "I'm a reporter, I work your murders daily. If you don't... gut me," you chuckle lightly, a nervous, sad, desperate chuckle, "I'll cough up some snazzy article to bring you a lot of attention, or at least I'll do my best to. I'll use your murders to get ahead in my career, and in turn, you'll be getting as much fame as I can offer you."

Ghostface tilted his head again, the other way this time. He seemed deep in thought, his free hand reaching down to grab one of the tattered ribbons on his leather coat, fiddling with the old fabric.