Work Text:
Jimmy’s just put the Jiffy Pop on the stove when he hears the phone ring.
He’s tempted to let the answering machine pick it up, but it might be someone important. His parents are out for the weekend. Might as well make sure they don’t need something.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” echoes the caller. It’s not a voice he recognizes, deep and gravelly. “Who is this?”
“Who are you calling for?” asks Jimmy.
“I don’t know.”
“Right, you’ve got the wrong number. Sorry,” he says, and hangs up.
He turns up the stove and gives the popcorn a little shake. The phone rings again. He rolls his eyes and picks it up.
“Hello?”
“Sorry about the wrong number thing,” says the caller.
“It’s cool? Why’d you call back?”
“To apologize.”
“...Okay, well you’ve done that now. Bye.”
“Wait,” says the voice. “Don’t hang up. I want to talk to you.”
Jimmy scoffs. “Don’t they have, like, hotlines for that?” He gives the pan another shake.
“What’s that noise?”
“Popcorn,” he says. “I’m gonna watch a video.”
“What kind of video?”
“Nothing like that, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a scary movie.”
Jimmy tucks the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, moving the popcorn back and forth to give his hands something to do.
“You like scary movies?” says the caller, and Jimmy can practically hear the smile in his voice. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”
Jimmy leans against the kitchen island and gives a little hum. “I don’t know. Um… Halloween. With the scary mask guy who stalks that babysitter.”
“That one’s scary.” The kernels start popping. The aluminum foil on the pan expands upwards. “Isn’t there another one with a masked killer? The camp one?”
“Friday the 13th,” says Jimmy. He wanders out of the kitchen into the living room and crouches in front of the TV. He pops open the door on the stand and sifts through his tapes. The talk about Halloween has him wanting to watch that instead of whatever he was considering earlier. “Is that your favorite movie?”
“No, I like the one with the dream killer and the knife hands.”
“Nightmare on Elm Street? Yeah, that one’s good too. The sequels all suck, though.”
“Maybe we should see a scary movie together.”
Jimmy smiles. “You tryna be homies?”
“That depends,” says the voice, “you got a partner?”
“Not anymore.”
“Then I say we see a movie together. But you never told me your name. I want to know who I’m looking at.”
A chill shoots down Jimmy’s spine. His blood runs cold.
“...What did you just say?”
“I said, ‘I want to know who I’m talking to.’”
Jimmy jumps to his feet and runs to the back door. Locked. He flicks on the patio light and peers into the backyard, but sees nothing. “That’s not what you said.”
“What do you think I said?”
“I have to go,” says Jimmy, and hangs up, cutting off the caller’s protest. He takes a moment to suck in a few purposeful, slow breaths to calm the growing nausea in his stomach. His heart thuds in his chest.
It’s gotta be a prank. Someone’s playing a joke on him. People love pranking him. That’s it. That’s gotta be it. No one’s outside, no one’s watching him through the windows or lurking in his backyard. It’s embarrassing how fast this prank rattled him.
The phone rings again.
Jimmy answers it.
“Haha, nice try, good prank. Leave me alone.”
“Don’t hang up on me again.”
He hangs up.
The phone rings.
Jimmy lets it ring for a moment. Just let the answering machine get it.
“Goddamnit,” he mutters, and answers it. “Seriously, leave me al–”
“You hang up on me again and I’ll gut you like a fish.”
This is too much for a prank from his friends. They wouldn’t go this far. Right?
“This– this is a joke.”
“More of a game, really. You up for a game, blondie?”
Oh, fuck.
He stumbles over himself in his haste to lock every door and window. If someone’s out there– if they can see him– God, he should call the police, shouldn’t he? He should– He should call the police. Yeah. Yeah, he should–
Someone pounds on the front door, rattling the picture frames on the walls. Jimmy bites back a scream.
“Who’s there?” he says.
“Are you kidding me?” the caller shouts. He can hear it even with the phone clutched at his side. “You never say ‘who’s there.’ Don’t you watch scary movies? That’s a death wish.”
“What do you want?”
“To see what your insides look like.”
Jimmy’s breath comes short and fast. His hands shake. Something smells like it’s burning. “I’m calling the police.”
“They won’t make it in time. We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Now, don’t worry, I’ll give you a fighting chance. We were going to play a game, remember?”
“What kind of game?” he says, backing himself into the space behind the TV– concealed, away from the windows. He presses his back against the wall and slides to the floor, legs shaking too much to hold him.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be easy. I’ll even give you a warm-up question. Category is movie trivia.”
Jimmy shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. “No, no.”
“Oh come on, don’t be like that. You’ll do great. Warm up question: who was the killer in Halloween?”
Jimmy can’t think. His head is swimming and his heart is racing and he can’t get in a good breath. If he hadn’t been gripping the phone so hard, he would’ve dropped it sheerly from how clammy his hands are. He should hang up. He should really hang up, call the police– but if they’re outside, if they’re at his door, then they’d get to him before he could even dial 911.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I can’t–”
“It’s your favorite movie, remember? You know this one,” the caller purrs. “He’s got the white mask, he stalks babysitters…”
“I don’t– I don’t–” Jimmy swallows down the nausea. “Michael, Michael. Michael Meyers, it’s Michael.”
“Bingo!” the caller cheers. “Now for the real deal. Who was the killer in Friday the 13th?”
“Jason! Jason, Jason!” Jimmy yells, jumping to his feet. He grabs the edge of the TV to steady himself.
The caller tuts in disappointment. “So sorry. That’s the wrong answer!”
“No it’s not! It’s not,” Jimmy says. “It was Jason. I’m telling you, it’s Jason, I saw that movie so many times!”
“Then you should know,” says the caller, voice previously smooth now sharp and biting, “that Mrs. Voorhees was the original killer. Jason didn’t show up until the sequel.”
“You suck,” Jimmy hisses.
“Aw, don’t be like that. I’ll give you a bonus round, since you were doing so well.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“Answer this correctly and I will!” the caller says cheerfully. “What door am I at?”
“What?”
“Front door or patio door? You’ve got a fifty-fifty chance. Those are good odds!”
“Shut up, shut up, just leave me alone.”
“I don’t think that counts as a correct answer!”
Glass explodes. A deck chair sails through the patio door and crashes into the living room, sending broken shards everywhere. Jimmy screams. He runs for the kitchen and gets a faceful of smoke when he barrels through the doorway. On the stove, his abandoned popcorn is on fire, orange flames licking the bottom of the microwave.
Jimmy grabs a knife from the butcher block and ducks behind the counter. Footsteps crunch on glass shards.
His only shot is to get outside and make a break for it. If he can lose the guy, he could get to someone’s house and call the police. He could hide in the cornfields. He could run out to the road and hail down someone to help. But whatever he does, he has to do it fast before he’s found.
Jimmy creeps around the corner to the front entrance, keeping low to the ground. He turns the lock, opens the door as quietly as he can, and slips outside.
Okay. Okay, he can do this. He leans his head against the wall of the house and breathes. In, out, in, out.
Time to move.
Jimmy scans the area. So far, so good– his attacker must still be inside. And there, at the end of the road: two bright yellow headlights cresting over the hill, coming in his direction.
Jimmy casts a glance over his shoulder at the window. Silhouetted in the smoke, against the orange glow of the stove fire, he sees a cloaked figure. Fear seizes in his chest.
The figure turns around. It takes him a second to process what he sees. A long, white face, almost skeletal in shape, but with a mouth open impossibly wide in a horrible screaming expression.
He ducks out of sight, but it’s too late. He’s definitely been spotted.
Go, go, go.
Jimmy takes off at a full sprint towards the road, bare feet pounding against the grass. His heart pounds in his throat, mind blank with terror.
Another window shatters and Jimmy’s vision goes sideways. He hits the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. His attacker, covered in glass from throwing himself out the window, picks himself up and wraps his fingers around the handle of a curved knife. Jimmy’s eyes go wide and he lurches to his feet. He waves frantically at the car hurtling down the road.
“Help! Stop the car, help!”
He doesn’t even make it twenty feet.
A gloved hand seizes the collar of Jimmy’s jacket and yanks him back. The other holds him by the arm.
The blade glints in the moonlight.
Fuck.
It plunges into Jimmy’s chest.
He falls to the ground unceremoniously, blood spurting. The phone rolls out of his grip, white plastic stained red.
The masked figure climbs on top of him. They raise the knife above his head with both hands.
Jimmy reaches up and rips the mask away. His eyes widen.
“No way,” he says.
The knife comes down again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
“And then the whole thing with the bride is because Victor doesn’t want them to reproduce,” says Scott.
Grian frowns. “What, the bodies constructed of corpses have functioning reproductive systems?”
“Eh, it was the 1800s. The audience would jump to that conclusion.”
“I guess,” says Grian.
Plink! Something bounces off his window.
“Hang on,” he says. He holds the phone in place against his shoulder with his cheek and opens the window. Another pebble almost hits him in the face. “Jesus.”
“Oops, sorry!” says Scar, standing below his room with another rock in hand. “I mean, Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”
“Is that Scar?” Scott says.
“No,” says Grian. “I have to go, by the way. Unrelated.”
Scott laughs. “Be safe!”
“Shut up,” says Grian, and hangs up. He tosses the phone onto the desk and leans out the window. “Scar, what are you doing here?”
“I realized I’ve never snuck through your window before!”
“It’s not very sneaky if you keep yelling.”
Scar grabs the vine trellis and starts climbing up. “I’m so stealthy, Grian. You don’t even know I’m here.”
“Right.”
He reaches the window and hauls himself up. Grian makes no offer to help, watching in amusement as Scar awkwardly flings a leg over the windowsill and nearly faceplants when he makes it inside. He straightens up and takes a dramatic bow, grinning. Grian rolls his eyes, but applauds with a smile.
“Well, now that you’ve snuck through my window, what’s next?”
Scar frowns. “Didn’t think that far ahead.”
“Of course not. And why sneak through my window, again?”
“I wanted to see you!”
Grian’s attempt to appear annoyed wavers when he can’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips. “You’re ridiculous. But seriously.”
“I don’t know,” says Scar, sitting on Grian’s bed. “I was watching TV and they were showing Little Shop of Horrors and it made me think that like, we don’t do a lot of those romantic movie things. Like in Suddenly Seymour.”
“Romantic like him murdering her boyfriend and feeding him to a plant?”
“No, no, like– well, maybe. But I mean like, the big songs and getting married and– not that I’m saying we should get married!” Scar says. “Or, um, not that I’m not saying we should get married, but I’m not like–”
“I get it,” says Grian, sitting next to him. He knocks their shoulders together. “Don’t they die at the end anyway?”
“Only in the director’s cut!”
“That’s the only version you watch.”
“That’s because it’s the better ending.”
Grian laughs. Scar flushes.
“Anyway, the point is, I missed you and I wanted to see you.”
“You’re such a sap.”
Scar beams at him. “Can I kiss you?”
Scar’s sweet like that. He always asks, every time. It’s such a small thing, but it gives Grian butterflies. He shouldn’t still be getting butterflies two years into a relationship, but here he is.
Grian nods.
Scar cups his cheek and kisses him, slow and sweet. Grian melts.
They break apart just long enough to readjust, sitting fully on the bed, Grian with his back to the bed frame, before Scar pulls him back in. He keeps one hand on Grian’s face and puts the other on Grian’s hip. Grian twists his fingers into Scar’s hair.
Scar leans forward, pushing Grian back and back until he’s lying down with Scar on top of him, chest to chest, lips still moving against each other. Teeth nip teasingly at Grian’s lips and he parts them to let Scar slide his tongue into his mouth. Scar hooks his thumb under the waistband of Grian’s jeans, and Grian places a hand on top of his to keep it there.
“Slow down, loverboy,” he says quietly.
“Sorry,” Scar breathes. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” says Grian. “Just don’t wanna– you know.”
Scar nods and kisses him again, moving his hand out of Grian’s jeans. No tongue, this time, just a soft press of lips. He pulls back enough to see Grian’s face, flushed and happy.
“Well, hello there,” he says. Grian rolls his eyes.
“You’ve made your romantic gesture. Happy now?”
“Very,” says Scar. He sits back on his knees. “I should go, though. My mom’ll get mad if I’m not back before midnight.”
“Oh, can’t upset Cleo,” Grian says, nodding seriously. Scar sticks his tongue out. Grian giggles.
Scar lifts himself out the window, but before he can make the descent down, Grian stops him with a hand on his arm.
“For the record, I think you’re plenty romantic, Scar,” he says, and kisses him one more time. When he pulls away, Scar’s smile is so bright it could light up a whole room.
“I love you,” says Scar.
Grian freezes.
“You don’t have to say it back! I know it’s, like, a lot for you. That’s okay. I just. I wanted you to know.” He places a hand on Grian’s face and rubs his thumb over his cheek. “I love you.”
And then he’s gone, climbing down the trellis and running back the way he came.
Grian brushes his fingers over where Scar’s hand had just been. He smiles.
There are police cars and news vans parked in front of the school. Reporters and officers are swarming like bees, brushing past groups of students on their way in and out of the building. Scott frowns.
“What’s with the circus?” he says as he walks up to Gem and Mumbo.
“You didn’t hear?” says Gem. She looks over both shoulders, then leans in and whispers, “Jimmy Barrymore was killed last night.”
Scott’s stomach drops.
“What?”
“Everyone’s freaking out. They’re saying it’s the worst thing that’s happened in Hermiton in years. I mean, nothing happens here. The most drama we ever had was when– well, you know.”
“I– Jimmy sits next to me in English,” Scott says.
“Not anymore,” says Gem.
“They’re interrogating the whole school,” says Mumbo. “Teachers, students, janitors, everyone.”
“What, they think it’s school related?”
“They don’t know,” says Gem. “It was a real splatter movie kill, too. Completely gutted. They found him hanging from a tree.”
“Jesus,” says Scott. He feels like he’s going to be sick.
“I can’t believe anyone would do that!” says Mumbo. “It’s ludicrous.”
Throughout the day, people are called into the principal’s office for questioning. Scott’s turn comes when he’s in English class, trying not to let his gaze linger on the empty chair next to him.
He takes a breath and opens the door to the principal’s office.
Principal Skizz sits behind the desk, while two officers stand on one side of the room. The taller officer smiles at him and signals for him to sit down. Scott does.
“Scott Smajor?”
“That’s me.”
“He’s one of the kids who–” Skizz starts, and gestures vaguely.
“Right. I’m Sheriff Impulse, and this is Deputy Bdubs. We’re here to ask you a few questions.”
“Bdubs?” Scott says, raising an eyebrow. “Is that really your name?”
“We’re the ones asking questions here!” says Bdubs. Scott can’t tell if he’s trying to pull a “bad cop” shtick or if he’s just naturally that loud.
“Were you very close to James?”
“Jimmy,” says Scott. “We dated a couple years ago, but we broke up. It was mutual.”
“And where were you last night?”
“At home, doing English homework. I was on the phone with my friend Grian at the time.”
The questioning doesn’t take long. Scott grabs his backpack and meets up with his friends by the trees out front for lunch. Over the intercom, Principal Skizz is saying something about extracurriculars being canceled and students being expected to go directly home after classes. It’s nothing surprising.
“What kind of questions did they ask you?” says Martyn.
“Just if I knew Jim and things like that,” says Mumbo.
“Did they ask if you like to hunt? They asked me,” says Scar. He drapes his legs over Grian’s lap and steals a grape from his lunchbox.
“Why would they ask you if you like to hunt?” asks Gem.
“Because they were gutted,” says Pearl. “They didn’t ask me if I like to hunt.”
“They probably think only boys hunt or something,” says Scott.
“That’s stupid. The killer could easily be female,” Pearl says, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
Mumbo looks up from his lunch. “Right, didn’t you have a hunting dog or something?”
The group collectively winces. Mumbo and Gem are more recent additions to their group, so Scott can forgive his brashness, but damn. “It’s called tact, Mumbo,” Grian mutters.
“I used to,” says Pearl. “Beautiful Scottish deerhound, Tilly.”
“Didn’t you used to date Jimmy, Scott?” says Grian.
“Yeah, in like, freshman year.”
“And are the police aware you dated the victim?” teases Scar.
Scott gives him an unimpressed look. “Are you trying to imply something, Scar? It was amicable.”
“And where were you last night?” says Scar, smiling mischievously.
“Doing homework. Why, where were you?”
“I was with Grian!”
Scott points accusingly at Grian and laughs. “I knew it!” Grian throws a grape at him.
“I don’t know, what kind of high schooler actually does homework?” says Martyn. “Suspicious.”
“Yeah? And where were you?”
“Working, thank you.”
Mumbo frowns. “At the video store? Didn’t they fire you?”
“Twice,” says Martyn.
“Can you shut up?” says Grian. “This isn’t a whodunnit.”
Martyn nods seriously. “You’re right. It’s a slasher movie.”
“Dude!”
“He’s got a point,” says Scar. “Crazy killer on the loose, cutting people open, taking out their insides… It’s the formula.”
Gem smacks him on the shoulder. “I’m trying to eat here.”
“What? I didn’t kill anyone!”
“No one said you did,” says Pearl.
“I’m just saying that if a guy in a hockey mask shows up, I get to say I told you so,” says Martyn. “This is classic slasher set-up.”
“You watch too many movies, mate,” says Mumbo.
The phone rings when Scott gets home.
“Hello?”
“Hey Scott,” says Gem. “I was gonna have you and Grian over, if you wanted. Kinda freaky to be alone tonight, right?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll walk over in a bit.”
“Cool! I’ll get Grian when I’m done with bio.”
Scott hangs up. The phone rings again almost instantly.
“Alright, what’d you forget?”
“Forget? I didn’t forget anything.”
It’s not Gem.
“Who is this?”
“Guess.”
“I don’t know. Grian?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re always playing pranks on people.”
“Well, that’s strike one. This isn’t a prank. And strike two: I’m not Grian.”
“Alright, then who are you?”
“Just someone who wanted to check up on you. Must be hard to hear your old boyfriend got sliced open. Pretty gruesome stuff. Entrails hanging out, dangling from a tree.”
Scott bristles. “Fuck you.”
He hangs up.
Fuck that. The people here suck. It was just some asshole trying to get a rise out of him. It’s not the first time. He got a lot of prank calls after the whole camping trip disaster last year, asking if he failed swimming lessons and if he gets nightmares about fire crackers. People will do anything for entertainment in a town where nothing happens.
Whatever. He should head over to Gem’s.
Grian slumps onto the couch, rubbing his forehead. He has a splitting headache. The whole day had been a mess. The only thing on TV was the news, and of course they all had a lot to say about it. Worst crime the town had seen, most traumatic thing to happen since four teenagers and a dog nearly drowned on a camping trip almost a year ago, et cetera. As if Grian needed more reminders of that night.
The firecrackers were supposed to be a stupid prank. The cliffside had been unstable, and the river had swollen from the rain the night before. It was dumb, and they almost died, and he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. It’s not like it’s at all similar to– to Jimmy. There’s just only so many news stories to compare things to.
At least Gem had invited him over. He won’t have to be alone with his thoughts tonight.
Grian rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. Past seven.
The phone rings.
“Gem, are you on your way?”
“Hello, Grian.”
“...Hi,” he says, sitting up. “Who is this?”
“Scary night, isn’t it? All that talk of murder. It’s like a horror movie.”
Grian sighs. “Martyn, you gave yourself away. Try harder next time. You know, I appreciate the prank attempt. The scary voice is a nice touch, but I’ll give you some pointers next time.” He stretches and stands up. “Are you calling from work? They’re gonna fire you again.”
“Do you like scary movies, Grian?”
“Eh. I’ve watched a couple, but they’re not my thing. Besides, I don’t really like slashers, anyway. The ghost ones are way better. You’ve seen The Changeling, right?”
“Are slashers too scary for you?”
“No, I just think they’re dumb. Someone running away from a guy who’s walking slowly just isn’t scary.” He tidies up the coffee table while he talks and rummages through his overnight bag, checking to make sure he has everything before Gem gets there.
“Are you alone in the house?”
“That is so unoriginal. Seriously, Martyn, I’ll give you tips. Prank calls are an art.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m not Martyn.”
Grian pauses. “Okay, then who are you?”
The caller tuts. “The correct question is where am I?”
Grian furrows his brow. “So where are you?”
“Your front porch.”
Alright. Points to Martyn. That’s a better prank.
“And why would you be calling from my front porch?” he says, walking to the entrance hallway. He flicks on the porch light and peers out the window on the door. Nothing.
“That’s the original part!”
Grian opens the door.
Nothing.
The porch is completely empty. The front yard is empty, too, the only movement from the swaying of the trees in the wind. Crickets chirp in the darkness.
“Can you see me right now?”
“Yes.”
“Right. And what am I doing?”
No response.
Grian laughs. “Good try, Martyn. Get back to work before your boss catches you. Bye.”
“You hang up and I gut you like poor Jim.”
His mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“Do you want to die, Grian? You’ve gotten close before. A few of your friends, too. They didn’t want to die, either. Unfortunately, I’ve got more in my arsenal than cheap firecrackers.”
“Fuck you.”
Grian steps inside and locks the front door, sliding the chain in place. He glares at the doorknob and struggles to get his breath under control.
The closet door opens.
Grian whirls around. A masked figure lunges at him, knife raised. Grian screams and dodges out of the way but doesn’t manage to get past his attacker, who slams into him and knocks him to the floor. They’re on him in an instant, climbing on top of him and pinning him down, one hand braced on his shoulder. Grian grabs the arm with the knife. He strains to keep the blade away from him.
His attacker seizes a fistful of his hair and whacks his skull against the hardwood. Grian’s vision whites out for a second. His head pounds, his eyes aching from the impact.
They raise the knife with both hands.
Grian brings his knee up as hard as he can. The attacker stifles a grunt and Grian shoves them away, scrambling to his feet. He tries to open the front door but the stupid chain is still on and they’re up and moving before he can get the lock undone, plunging the knife into the wood just as Grian dives out of the way. He pushes past them and up the stairs. They’re hot on his heels but he reaches his room just in time.
Grian shuts the door and turns the lock. They pound against it, knob rattling with the force. Grian grabs the landline and dials 911.
Fucking busy signal. He never hung up the phone.
“Shit!”
He throws the phone down. It clatters against the desk’s surface. He looks back at the door, and–
–and it’s quiet.
The only sound is Grian’s heavy breathing and his heart pounding in his ears. Whoever was chasing him, they’re just gone.
“Grian?”
Grian screams.
“Hey, woah, it’s just me!” says Scar. He’s halfway through Grian’s window. Grian grabs his jacket and pulls him fully inside, then flings his arms around his waist and squeezes the life out of him. “What’s going on? The door’s locked and I heard screaming.”
“The– the killer’s here, he’s in the house, he just tried to kill me, Scar, he’s here–”
“Hey, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Scar says. He runs a hand through Grian’s hair and presses a kiss to his head.
“He’s here, Scar–”
“Shh.” Scar presses another kiss to his hair. “It’s okay. He’s gone. No one’s here, okay? He’s gone. You’re safe.”
They stand there like that for a moment, Grian clinging to Scar’s jacket for dear life while Scar rubs his back and murmurs reassurances into his ear. He shifts a bit, moving to pull Grian closer, when something falls out of his pocket and onto Grian’s foot.
It’s a cellular telephone.
Grian’s blood runs cold.
He backs away.
“G?”
He shakes his head.
“Gri, what’s wrong?”
Grian turns and bolts out of the room. Scar follows.
“Grian, wait!” Scar stops at the top of the stairs, watching as Grian races to the front door and flings it open. “Grian!”
Someone’s on the front porch. Grian screams.
Deputy Bdubs screams back.
“Jesus Christ,” says Grian.
He watches from the back of the ambulance as they handcuff Scar, a shock blanket draped over Grian’s shoulders. They load Scar into the cruiser.
“Grian, you know me!” Scar calls. “I wouldn’t do this!”
Grian turns away.
“Oh my god, Grian, I am so sorry I’m late.” Gem runs up to the ambulance, car keys jingling. “Are you okay? Was that Scar they just arrested?”
“Hey, this is a crime scene,” says Bdubs.
“Tough shit,” says Gem. “We’ll go back to my place after this is all taken care of, okay? Scott’s already over there, and we can get Mumbo over too, if you want.”
Grian shrugs.
Bdubs leans back and taps his papers together against his desk. “No luck on the mask. Sold in every Halloween store in the state! No way to track the purchase.”
Grian slides further down in his chair, crossing his arms. “Is tracking the purchase really necessary, in this situation?”
“We can’t be certain it was Scar for sure until we check his phone records. Impulse is questioning him right now.”
“I can see that,” he says, gaze falling on the office across the room. The window blinds are open, giving him a perfect view of Scar, sitting next to his mother, who turns his head and catches Grian’s eye. He looks… well, he looks exhausted. Desperate. Grian looks away.
The door opens and Sheriff Impulse walks out. “We’re holding him until we run the Goodtimes phone account. Bdubs, you’re on that.”
“Sure enough!” says Bdubs. He turns to his computer.
“Hey, Grian. How are you holding up?” Impulse says.
Grian shrugs.
“I’d suggest staying somewhere else for the night, maybe with some friends.”
“Was gonna go to Gem’s,” says Grian.
“Perfect. We’ll be in touch with you if the situation changes.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He’s sticking to his story. We’ll be able to confirm he’s made calls to you and Jimmy by tomorrow morning. Why don’t you get your things together? I’ll take you out the back way to avoid all the press gathered outside.”
Gem’s waiting for him in the car when he finally makes it out. She doesn’t say anything, and Grian’s grateful for it. He’ll take any silence he gets before he’s inevitably surrounded by concerned friends at Gem’s house.
Scott and Mumbo are in the living room. The second Gem and Grian step inside, they both jump to their feet.
“Are you okay? We heard they arrested Scar,” says Scott.
“They did,” Grian says. He sits on the couch and drags Mumbo down beside him. Scott sits on his other side and places a reassuring hand on his thigh. Gem drapes herself across the armrest.
“I knew he was too perfect,” Gem says. “He was destined to have a flaw.”
“I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around it!” says Mumbo. He’s adjusted to better let Grian lean into his side. “It just seems like– well, I just can’t see him wanting to hurt you. After all you went through. What is it, trauma bonding?”
“That is not what that means,” says Scott. “Like, at all.”
“I got what you meant, Mumbo.” Gem sighs. “You seemed like you got even closer after the whole… you know. All four of you.”
“Partly, yeah.” Scott rubs his thumb on Grian’s leg. Grian tries to let himself relax. “But I don’t know. Maybe Scar just…” Mumbo pats his arm. Scott gives a little sigh, and stands up. “I’m gonna run to the restroom.”
They sit in silence for a bit, Mumbo rubbing Grian’s arm and Gem reaching around Mumbo to run her fingers through Grian’s hair while he stares blankly at the floor. He lets his head drop onto Mumbo’s shoulder and breathes out shakily.
It doesn’t make sense. He can’t understand. Why would Scar– how could Scar– after he said he loved him–
The phone rings.
“Hang on, I’ll grab it.” Gem sits up straighter and reaches for the landline without getting fully off the couch. On her second try, she gets it. “Hello?” She furrows her brow. “Yeah, he’s here. One second.” She covers the receiver. “Grian, it’s for you.”
“Might be Impulse,” he says. Gem passes the phone to him. The cord doesn’t stretch all the way, so Grian has to climb half on top of Mumbo to take it. “Hello?”
“Hello, Grian.”
His heart stops.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”
“Grian?” says Gem.
“Poor Scar. All locked up for something he didn’t do. But that’s how things go with you, aren’t they?”
Mumbo tightens his hold on Grian’s arm. “What’s wrong? Who is it?”
Grian can’t answer. His breaths are coming too shallow, too fast. He feels lightheaded.
“Collateral damage once again. Wrong place, wrong time, and Scar gets hurt again.”
“Who are you?” he spits out.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the voice sing-songs, and hangs up.
Grian lets the phone drop from his fingers. His stomach rolls. He feels like he’s going to throw up.
“Who was that?” asks Gem.
He can’t breathe . His head pounds and his eyes sting with the threat of tears and he’s going to be sick . He was wrong, and Scar got hurt, and Scar keeps getting hurt, and he can’t stop hurting, and he can’t fucking breathe. Mumbo and Gem try desperately to calm him down, shushing him and coaching him through breathing exercises, but it’s not helping.
The hallway door opens. All three heads snap up.
“By the way, Gem, you’re out of toilet paper in there,” says Scott.
They all stare at him.
Scott raises his eyebrows. “Okay, what did I miss?”
Scar’s phone record is clean. They release him the next morning.
“Meet me back here after classes, okay?” says Gem. She slides her textbooks into her locker and grabs her sketchpad and art supplies. “You’re staying at my house again tonight. No questions about it.”
“Am I invited?” says Pearl around a lollipop stick. She uses Gem’s shoulder as an armrest.
“If you want,” says Gem.
“Is he really pissed?” says Grian.
“Who, Scar? After you branded him the Candyman?” says Pearl. “I mean…”
Gem smacks her. “Pearl, tact.”
At the end of the hall, someone screams. A figure, robed and masked, runs down the hall waving his arms and yelling like some half-rate haunted house actor.
“Oh, come on. Seriously?” says Gem. Pearl laughs.
Grian slams his locker shut and heads down the hall. Gem calls after him. “Remember, meet me after class!”
He’s not paying attention to where he’s going, so focused on removing himself from the situation, that he barely even notices when he collides with someone.
“Sorry,” he says, and steps back.
It’s Scar.
“Grian.”
“Scar, I– sorry. Sorry.”
“How was your night? Mine kinda sucked. You know, because my boyfriend got me arrested.”
“I’m sorry!” says Grian. “I– well, what was I supposed to think? I get a weird phone call, I get attacked, the guy disappears, and suddenly you’re there with a cellular?”
Scar scoffs. “Right. Cool. So you still think it was me.”
“No, no,” Grian says, waving his hands as if to physically wipe the idea away. “I got another call last night. From the killer.”
“See?” says Scar. “It couldn’t have been me. I was in jail.”
“It’s just, well. Someone tried to kill me last night.”
“I know. The cops said I scared him away.”
“I know,” says Grian.
“So… what? Are we good? Are we not good?”
“I don’t know, Scar,” says Grian. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t mean to be cold, but.. try to understand.”
“What, that you think I’m a psychopathic killer?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Is this because I told you I loved you?”
“What– why on earth would that–”
“I don’t know, Grian. I’m wracking my brain here to try to figure out why you would jump straight to accusing me. What did I do? What changed? You know me, Grian. You know I would never do that.”
“I know! I know, I’m sorry! I can’t– I’ve had a rough couple of days, here, Scar. Can you blame me if I need a little space?”
Scar shoves his hands in his pockets and steps back. “Yeah. Sure.”
“I can’t believe you, Scar. Seriously? I get attacked and nearly fileted, and you’re picking this fight with me?”
Scar’s eyes soften. “I just… I just want my boyfriend back.”
Grian groans. “I can’t do this right now,” he says, and pushes past Scar on his way down the hall. Scar calls after him, but he ignores it.
Scott starts packing up his paints. He stayed behind after class to finish up what he’d been working on, leaving him alone in the art room well into lunch. He’s glad for the silence– he’s had enough of hearing people speculate about whether or not his friends are murderers. Is Scar really the killer, did Grian make it all up, is Grian actually the killer, are they working in tandem, yada yada yada it’s all stupid.
He rubs his eyes and pushes his chair back. There’s a splotch of blue paint on his shirt. Goddamnit. Nothing he owns is clean anymore.
Something rattles in the corner.
Scott looks up. Nothing.
He slings his backpack on and takes his brushes over to the sink to wash them. He runs them under the faucet and scrubs the bristles until the water runs clear.
The supply closet rattles.
Scott looks up. Still nothing.
He puts the brushes away to dry and moves to cleaning his palette. This one’s more of a lost cause, stained with paints from years of continuous use in a high school art classroom, but he gives it his best, picking at dried paint with his nail. He hangs it up to dry and turns around.
The closet door opens.
There’s someone inside.
Someone dressed in a black cloak and a white mask.
“Jesus!” Scott gasps, clutching at his chest. The figure lunges out of the closet and makes a grab for him. Scott shoves them away and darts for the door. He wrenches it open, slamming it into his attacker’s face. They crumple to the ground. Scott tears down the hallway, heart pounding, ears ringing.
“In light of recent events, classes will be canceled until further notice,” comes Principal Skizz’s voice over the intercom, “as well as a newly instated curfew. Remember: your principal loves you! Stay safe out there, homie buddehs.”
Pearl hugs Scott from behind. “I don’t know what you did, but on behalf of the student body, we all say thank you!”
Scott rolls his eyes and pushes her off. “All I did was get attacked.”
“Was it really the killer, though? Like, at school? That’s crazy.”
“Either way, it’s still a threat to safety,” says Gem, sidling up next to them. “I mean, you can’t just let students run around in masks attacking each other. That was the second one today!”
“I heard Principal Skizz expelled the first one,” Mumbo says. Everyone jumps.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Scott says.
“He pulled out his whole ‘I used to be a cop’ voice and everything,” Mumbo continues, unbothered.
“Yeah, a mall cop.” Pearl snorts. “Real menacing. Anyway, I think we should celebrate. What do we say to an impromptu party at my house tonight?”
Scott gapes at her. “Seriously? There’s a curfew.”
“We can still let loose before everyone has to skedaddle! Besides, safer in numbers, right? Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know.”
Gem grabs Scott’s sleeve. “Oh, please? It’ll be fun. I’ll drive!”
“You should get Grian to come,” Pearl says to Mumbo. “It’ll do him some good to get all this off his mind.”
“That’s not a bad idea… As long as Scar doesn’t come.”
“Woah, seriously?”
“We’re supposed to be getting his mind off things! Of course Scar can’t be there.”
Pearl holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! I’ll keep my mouth shut. No Scar.” She smirks. “Though it won’t be a Goodtime without Scar.”
Scott groans, but can’t stop a smile. “That was terrible.”
“Party! My house! Be there!” Pearl says, and runs off ahead.
Skizz downs a couple ibuprofen. It’s hard enough being a high school principal, but being a high school principal in the midst of a crisis involving the murder and attempted murders of high schoolers is the worst. Two pranksters in one day, with more to come, surely. He’d only gotten ahold of one of them– the other, he’d only heard about from a panicked Scott.
He picks up the mask he confiscated. It smells of Halloween store plastic.
Skizz smooths back his hair and turns to the mirror on the wall of his office (one with a sticker underneath that says “hang in there”), then puts the mask on. He holds up his hands like claws.
Yeah. Scary.
Honestly, not a bad Halloween costume.
Not that he’d do that. That would be incredibly disrespectful.
Sick mask, though.
There’s a knock at his office door. Skizz rips the mask off his head and tosses it on the desk.
“Yes, yes, come in!”
The door swings open. Skizz turns around and comes face to face with the very mask he just took off. He gasps.
He doesn’t get the chance to scream before the knife plunges into his stomach.
Martyn hums to himself while he stocks the shelves with video tapes. They’ve really had to pull out all the stops tonight, taking extra copies out of the back in an attempt to keep the shelves full.
“This place is packed,” says Pearl, directly behind him. Martyn jumps, dropping all the tapes in his hand. She steps around him and leans against the shelves, smiling.
“We’ve had a run in the mass murder section.”
“You coming to my party tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m off early for curfew.”
“Hey, what’s that movie that’s not Friday the 13th?” a customer asks.
Martyn points behind her. “Sleepaway Camp, horror section, right ahead.” She nods and heads in that direction. Martyn sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Oooh, now that’s in poor taste.”
“What?” says Pearl.
He points again. Pearl follows his gaze. Scar is standing a few rows down, talking to some people with an easy grin on his face. He offers a pack of gum.
“If you were the only suspect in a bloodbath, would you be standing in the horror section?”
“He didn’t do anything,” says Pearl.
“Are you serious? He’s got ‘killer’ printed all over him. Charismatic, persuasive, present at the scene of the crime… It’s all there!”
Pearl shakes her head. “You’re crazy. If he’s the killer, why would the cops let him go?”
“Obviously, they don’t watch enough movies.” Martyn picks up the tapes from the floor and shelves them as he talks. “And no offense, but I really don’t feel that confident in Deputy Bdubs’ deductive reasoning. This is standard horror movie stuff. Just watch Prom Night.”
“Why would he want to kill his boyfriend?”
“There’s always some stupid bullshit reason to kill your boyfriend!” A few heads turn their direction. Martyn either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Besides, if it gets too complicated, you lose your target audience.”
Pearl drapes her arms over the top of the shelf and rests her chin on them. “So what’s Scar’s reason? Grian won’t sleep with him? He won’t say ‘I love you’ back? Missed an anniversary?”
“I don’t know! But just look at him,” Martyn says, nodding in Scar’s direction. “He’d find something. The man can talk his way out of and into anything. And he’s crazy! Tell me you can’t imagine him polishing a knife and doing his whole salesman pitch before he kills you.”
“I think you’ve seen too many movies. This is real life, ya goof.”
Martyn grabs some more tapes from the cart and puts them on the shelf.
“You know who I think it is? Scott.”
He looks up. “What? Why?”
“Well, out of any of us, he’s got the most connections with everyone. Jimmy was his ex. Grian dunked him in a river.”
“He also dunked you in a river. And Scar.”
“Yeah, yeah, but we didn’t date Jim. He said it was mutual, but maybe he’s lying! Plus, it’d be hard to single him out with cross-referencing calls made to Jimmy and Grian because that’s in character for Scott. It throws them off his trail.”
“If anything, Scott’s a red herring. Just watch. You’ll be so sure it’s Scott, but then Scar will come out of nowhere and stab him in the back right in front of you! Or he’ll conveniently go missing and his body will turn up in the third act with his eyes gouged out.”
As he goes, Martyn’s voice rises until he’s all but shouting. Pearl grimaces.
“I’m telling you, if the cops watched Prom Night, they’d save time. There’s a formula to it. A very simple formula! Everybody’s a suspect!”
The store goes quiet. Everyone’s eyes are on Martyn and Pearl.
Pearl laughs.
“I’m telling you. Goodtimes did the crimes,” says Martyn, and turns around.
He walks right into Scar.
“Well, hello there!” says Scar. He smiles.
“Scar!”
“You sure had a lot to say.”
Martyn chuckles nervously. “Yeah, well. You know me! Carried away with theories and all that.”
Scar steps closer and leans down. He lowers his voice. “How do we know you’re not the killer, Martyn? Maybe you lost touch with reality. Maybe you can’t tell what’s a slasher and what’s real.”
Martyn steps back and bumps into Pearl. She rests her chin on his shoulder. Martyn gulps.
“You’re right. I’ll be the first to admit it. If this was a scary movie, I’d be suspect number one.”
“And what’s your motive, Martyn?” Pearl says.
“It’s the millennium,” says Martyn. “Motives are incidental.”
Scar smiles. “The millennium. I like that! Very good. Catchy! Powerful!” He pats Martyn’s cheek. Then he turns on his heel and saunters out of the store.
Martyn turns to Pearl. “You’re telling me that’s not a killer?”
She cackles.
Sheriff Impulse double checks the results. He triple checks. He quadruple checks.
“This is not good,” he mutters. “Bdubs, get in here.”
Bdubs enters the office.
“We tracked down our mystery caller,” he says. He waves Bdubs over and points at the offending phone account. Bdubs whistles.
“Scott Smajor?”
“His phone made calls to Jimmy and Grian right at the time they got calls from the killer.”
“Do we bring him in?”
“We have to,” says Impulse. “Try not to make a big deal of it. The last thing we need is more press coverage.” He rubs his temples and tries not to bemoan his impending headache. “Listen, Pearl Moon is hosting a party tonight. I heard some kids talking about it at the store this afternoon. Go there, scope it out, and see if you can’t find Scott and bring him in.”
“A party? But… my early bedtime…”
“Bdubs. Murderer. Priorities.”
“Right, right. Sure enough.” Bdubs checks his watch. “I’ll check it out.”
Music is blaring when Gem pulls up to Pearl’s house. It looks like half the school is there, milling about in the yard and coming in and out of the house with drinks in hand.
“Alright, everyone out,” she says, turning off the car. Grian, Scott, and Mumbo all follow her up the front steps. “This is going to be fun. Here, Mumbo, can you drop these chips off in the kitchen?”
“Sure.” He takes the bag from her and runs off.
The living room is at full capacity. Pearl sees them walk in and throws up her hands in excitement.
“Guys! You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” says Scott. “Oh god, who let Martyn near the TV?”
Pearl shrugs. “The people wanted a horror movie, and he’s a man of the people. Who am I to deny my guests what they want?”
“How many for Hellraiser?” Martyn calls. Around the room, hands go up and people cheer. “And how many for Halloween?” More hands. More cheers. “Halloween it is!”
Grian drops onto the couch and grabs the stack of VHS tapes. He shuffles through them. “Prom Night, Terror Train, The Fog… why is Jamie Lee Curtis in all of these?”
“She’s the scream queen!” says Martyn.
“Don’t you get sick of these things?” asks Scott.
“Never,” says Martyn, hand on his chest. “Never, never.” He sets up the VCR and pops the tape in. “Alright, everyone get ready for the best movie experience of your life.”
“Get ready to watch a guy stand still in the background for an hour, more like,” says Gem. Pearl wraps her arms around her and rests her chin on Gem’s shoulder.
“Aw, come on, get in the spirit! Blood, death, stalkers!”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, scoot over, Grian,” Gem says, nudging him over so she can sit down too. Pearl drops down on her lap and stretches her legs across Grian’s.
Mumbo returns from the kitchen. “Somehow I got stuck organizing the snack table,” he says. “Which movie is this?”
“Halloween.”
“Right,” he says. “And that’s…?”
“Michael Meyers!” Martyn says, appalled. “Mumbo, I thought we were friends!”
“Sorry, sorry!”
“Come on, Mumbo, it’s only the best slasher of all time,” says Pearl.
“Excuse you, Friday the 13th is right there?” calls someone else across the room.
“Nightmare on Elm Street, guys,” says another.
“Everyone shut up and watch the damn movie,” says Martyn.
“Oh, Mumbo, could you grab me a Zima from the garage?” says Pearl.
Mumbo frowns. “Do I give off butler energy or something?”
“Very much,” says Pearl. “Pretty please? I just sat down.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”
“Thank you! Love ya!” she says.
Mumbo makes his way to the garage. It’s blessedly quiet compared to the chaos of the party and he takes a moment to savor the silence.
Right. Drinks.
He opens the door to the garage and turns on the light. No cars, which tracks. Pearl’s parents aren’t home tonight, clearly. The amount of stuff they’ve managed to cram in here is impressive, though.
Mumbo crosses the garage and scans over the contents of the fridge. Lots of beers, lots of sodas, eggs for some reason (Who keeps eggs in the garage? Now that, that is criminal), and a pack of Zima. Might as well grab a bunch of drinks while he’s here so he doesn’t keep getting sent back and forth as a serving boy. Seriously, what is it about him that gives off that energy?
He grabs as many things as he can carry and shuts the fridge with his foot, then climbs the steps to the door. It must’ve swung shut since he didn’t prop it open, and perfect, it’s locked.
Mumbo raps on the door with his free hand. “Hey, guys? I’m stuck.”
No response. They probably can’t hear him over the music.
He knocks louder and raises his voice. “Guys? Help?”
Still nothing. He sighs. He’ll just have to go around the long way. He presses the garage door button. It starts to rise with a squeal.
Just as he approaches, it stops, then slides back down. Mumbo groans and turns around.
There’s a masked figure standing at the door into the house, hand on the button.
“Martyn? Is that you?”
The figure shakes his head.
“Which movie is this from?”
He makes his way back to the door. The figure doesn’t move.
“Can you get out of the way, mate?”
The figure shakes his head again.
“Dude, seriously–”
The figure grabs his arm, squeezing so hard Mumbo is sure his arm would break if any more pressure is applied. He yelps and drops the bottles. They crash to the floor, sending glass and alcohol everywhere.
“Martyn, this isn’t funny, dude! Let go!”
The figure pulls out a curved knife. Mumbo’s eyes just about bug out of his head.
“Oh my goodness, you’re the– you’re the killer!”
A nod. He can’t see their face under the mask, but he knows they’re smiling. Mumbo struggles against his grip but is unable to break free.
They drag the knife across his arm. Blood drips to the floor.
Mumbo stumbles back, colliding with a pile of lawn chairs. He clutches his arm to his chest, the cut burning and pulsing with bursts of pain. “Oh, goodness, me! Please don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface!”
He jumps out of the way as Ghostface rushes at him and opens the freezer door as hard as he can, knocking it directly into the killer’s face. He goes down with a grunt and Mumbo makes a break for the garage door button.
Ghostface recovers. He brandishes the knife again as Mumbo runs back down the stairs. Mumbo picks up the few intact bottles of booze and chucks them at Ghostface. They shatter across his chest.
The garage door starts closing again. There’s not enough room underneath for him to make an Indiana Jones slide, so in a moment of panic, Mumbo dives through the dog door.
He doesn’t fit.
His head makes it through, and his shoulders, but his arms get wedged against the sides and he can’t move forward or back.
The garage door rises.
“Oh, fuck,” says Mumbo. His head rams into the ceiling and his neck snaps on impact. The garage door mechanism smokes and sparks at the unexpected strain. The light goes out.
Ghostface wipes the blood off his knife and goes back inside.
It’s nearing curfew, so a good number of party guests take off. Pearl thanks them for coming, waving at them as they head down the driveway.
“Have you seen Mumbo?” asks Grian. Pearl shrugs.
“He never came back with my Zima, so he either got stuck playing butler again or is talking tech with someone unfortunate enough to ask him about it.” She glances out the door. “Oh! Guess who’s here.”
“Well, hello there!” says Scar. He jogs up the front steps and pauses at the entrance, giving Grian a sheepish smile. “I was hoping I could catch you before you left. I wanted to talk to you.”
Pearl winces, looking between the two. “I don’t know, I was told in pretty strong words to not let you come to the party…”
Scar shoots Pearl a significant look. She shrugs.
“No, it’s okay. We do need to talk,” says Grian.
“You guys can head upstairs. It should be quieter up there.”
“Thanks, Pearl,” Scar says.
Martyn pokes his head out of the kitchen, watching them go upstairs. “What is Leatherface doing here?”
Pearl laughs. “He’s here to make up with Grian.”
Martyn sighs. “Okay, that’s sweet. Unless he’s about to use Grian for a weird ritual and start chanting shit like ‘poke the frog, burn the log, pet the dog.’”
“That sounds more like something you’d do, Martyn.”
Scar leads the way into one of the bedrooms, sitting on the edge of the bed so there’s enough room for Grian to still have his own space.
It’s a nice room. Big. Plush carpets. Walk-in closet. Grian picks at his cuticles.
Scar breaks the silence first. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I haven’t been… understanding. I’ve been selfish. I just wanted you to be with me, and I never stopped to think about how you were feeling.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” says Grian. He takes one of Scar’s hands in his and rubs his knuckles with his thumb. “I jumped to conclusions. I shouldn’t have– I know you better than that.”
Scar takes Grian’s other hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Grian gives a small, wet laugh.
“I’m not good at the, like, emotional intimacy thing. You know that,” Grian says. Scar raises one of Grian’s hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. “I’m scared. Of being close to you. With you. And I don’t want to be.”
“You don’t have to be,” Scar says, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know. I wish I wasn’t.”
Scar shuffles closer. He tugs on Grian’s hands gently, and Grian lets himself fall into Scar’s arms.
“Scar?”
Scar presses a kiss to Grian’s hair. “Hm?”
“I think I love you.”
Scar stills.
“Are you serious?”
Grian pulls back. His eyes are wet.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”
A smile spreads across Scar’s face. He cups a hand around Grian’s jaw. They’re so close now. When did that happen? Grian can count the freckles on Scar’s nose and cheeks, can see the shadows cast by his eyelashes, can see every fleck of gold in his green, green eyes. Scar’s breath is hot on his face.
“I love you,” Grian breathes, and kisses him.
As cliche as it sounds, it feels like fireworks. It feels like electricity. It feels like fire, burning hot through his belly and setting his veins aflame. His nerves buzz with lightning. His head is full of sparklers. Every touch of Scar’s hands on his skin sends butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
He climbs into Scar’s lap, wrapping his arms loosely around his neck, and tries to taste every inch of Scar’s mouth. Scar lets him in easily. Grian runs his tongue over Scar’s lips, and his teeth, drinking him in like he’s water in a desert.
Scar’s hands are everywhere– on his face, in his hair, under his shirt, and all Grian wants is to kiss him until he can’t tell where he ends and Scar begins. He breaks away from Scar’s mouth and presses a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, and down his neck. Scar’s making all kinds of wonderful noises, and, selfishly, Grian wants to hear them all.
Somehow, they end up horizontal, Scar trapped under Grian, his hands fisted in the fabric of Grian’s sweater as Grian worries at Scar’s neck with his teeth, then soothes it with his tongue. He pulls back with a wet pop. Scar whines high in the back of his throat.
Grian dives back in, capturing Scar’s lips again, and gives a decisive roll of his hips.
Scar breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together, his thumb hooked in the waistband of Grian’s jeans.
“Woah,” he says, breathless, “are you sure?”
“I think so,” says Grian.
“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I want to,” says Grian, voice firm.
“Okay,” says Scar. “Okay.”
And he pulls him back in.
“How come everyone’s having sex in these movies except Jamie Lee Curtis?” Scott asks.
There’s only a few people left at the party, around ten or so, all gathered in the living room to watch the rest of Halloween. Everyone who can fit is piled on the couch, while the rest sit on the ground or on the armrests.
“She’s the final girl,” says Martyn. “She can’t have sex.”
“Boo,” one of the boys says. “It’s Jamie Lee, they can’t give us anything?”
“No!” Martyn says. “Not until Trading Places in ‘83. Jamie Lee was always the virgin in horror movies. That’s why she could outsmart the killer in the end. Only virgins can do that. Don’t you know the rules?”
“What rules?” asks Gem.
“You don’t know the rules?” Martyn says, incredulous. “You’re joking. You don’t know the rules?”
He gets up, pauses the movie, and dramatically clears his throat.
“Alright, listen up. There are certain rules you must abide by in order to successfully survive a horror movie. For instance, number one: you can never have sex.”
A chorus of boos rises up. Someone throws popcorn at Martyn.
“Big no-no! Number two: you can never drink or do drugs. It’s the sin factor, it’s an extension of number one. And number three,” he says, lowering his voice into something deeply theatrical and dramatic, “never, under any circumstances, say, ‘I’ll be right back.’ Because you won’t be back.”
Pearl climbs over the back of the couch and stands up. “I’m gonna get another drink. You want one?”
“Yeah, sure,” says Martyn.
Pearl raises her arms like a witch casting a spell, eyes wide. “I’ll be right back!”
Everyone oohs. A few people raise their bottles in the air. Martyn laughs. “Hey, you push the laws, and you end up dead. I’ll see you in the kitchen with a knife.”
Gem glances at the clock. “I should see if I can’t find Grian and Mumbo. Don’t wait for me to finish the movie.”
“Last I saw Grian he was going upstairs with Scar. Not sure about Mumbo, though,” says Martyn. “Maybe he got distracted trying to take apart Pearl’s radio or something to see how it works.”
“That’s on brand,” says Scott.
Martyn clears his throat and gives his best approximation of Mumbo’s voice. “So, uh, if you unscrew this here you can see all the little people who play the music whenever you turn on the radio. It’s, uh, it’s quite simple, really.”
“It’s like he’s in the room with us,” Scott says.
The phone rings.
“Hang on, I’ll get it.” Martyn grabs it from where it sits next to the TV. “Hello?”
Silence as he listens to the caller.
“Holy shit.”
He turns back to the party guests, covering the receiver with his hand.
“They found Principal Skizz dead. He was gutted and hung from the goal posts on the football field.”
A few of the boys hit each other on the arm. “Dude, let’s go over there before they pry him down!” Everyone except Scott and Gem race out of the living room and out the door.
“Dude, gross,” says Gem. She sighs. “I’m gonna look for Mumbo.”
“I’ll come with,” Scott says.
“Cool, I guess I’ll just… watch the rest of this movie alone,” says Martyn.
“Be back in a few!” Gem calls over her shoulder, and she and Scott leave the room.
Martyn flops down on the couch and unpauses it. It’s right at the good part, too.
Deputy Bdubs pulls up to the Moon residence as a flood of cars makes their exodus. If he’s right, though, the only remaining car belongs to Gemini Tay, who’s friends with Scott. Which means Scott is still somewhere at this house.
Bdubs checks his pocket watch. It’s late, far later than he ever would stay up normally. He needs to get Scott in soon so they can wash their hands of this whole affair. With a sigh, he parks his cruiser outside and gets out, turning on his flashlight so he can make a sweep of the yard before going in.
“Are you okay?” Scar says from where he’s sitting on the floor, pulling his shirt back on.
Grian smiles. “Yeah.” He grabs his jumper from the ground and turns it right-side out, about to put it on over his T-shirt, when his gaze falls on the landline resting on the nightstand. “Hm.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing,” says Grian. “I was just thinking– who’d you call? When you get arrested, you get one phone call. I was just wondering.”
Scar hesitates. “My mom.”
Grian tilts his head. “I thought Sheriff Impulse called your mom.”
“Yeah, well. I didn’t get an answer.”
Grian bites his lip. “Huh.”
“...You don’t still think it was me, do you?”
“No,” Grian says. “No, of course not.” He pulls his jumper back on and combs through his hair with his fingers as best he can without a mirror. “If it was you, though, it would be a really clever way of throwing me off track. Using your one phone call to call me.”
Scar gives him a hurt look. “What do I have to do to prove I’m not a killer?”
Grian looks back at him. “Sorry, I–”
The door is open.
When did that happen?
“Oh my god.”
Scar gets to his feet. “Grian–”
“Oh my god,” Grian says again, backing away. “Scar, look out–”
He turns around.
Ghostface raises his knife with both hands and stabs it into Scar’s chest. Grian screams. The knife comes down again, and again, and Scar cries out in pain and it’s awful, it’s awful. Scar stumbles back and turns towards Grian, white shirt stained bright red. He reaches out with blood covered hands.
“Grian,” he chokes out, and collapses.
Ghostface wipes the blood off his knife.
There’s a split second where neither of them move, locked in stalemate. Grian’s heart pounds double time.
Ghostface moves. Grian dives past him and vaults over the bed, taking off at a sprint down the hall. His only shot is to bank on the chance he knows the layout better than the killer and gain enough time to get outside and call for help.
Grian cuts through a bedroom and slams the door shut behind him, turning the lock, and runs out through the other door. He rounds the balcony corner.
Across from him, another door bursts open and the killer lunges at him, cutting him off from the stairs. He swings. Grian ducks and runs in the opposite direction into another bedroom. He grips the door and rams it into Ghostface’s head as hard as he can. He goes down with a high-pitched yelp.
Grian hesitates for a split second, chest heaving.
There, the small side door into the attic– he wrenches it open and crawls inside, pulling down boxes and surfboards and lamps behind him as he goes to block the entrance. Three windows line the walls. It’s his only shot.
The boxes rattle and shake as Ghostface struggles to get the door open, an arm shoving through the gap and waving the knife wildly. The makeshift barricade will only hold for so long.
Grian pushes past piles of junk to the first window. Jammed shut.
The second opens, but there’s nothing but air between him and the pavement.
There’s a crash. Grian glances over his shoulder and wishes he didn’t. The killer’s got the door open far enough to squeeze himself through.
Third window. It opens. Grian climbs out and onto the roof. He holds onto the windowsill and shuffles as close to the roof’s edge as he can without letting go, peering over. It’s a substantial drop, but there’s a boat on the driveway, high enough that he could jump down without worrying about breaking a leg.
Besides, he’s out of options.
Ghostface breaks into the attic. Grian crawls to the edge of the roof, keeping his eyes on the window. The killer leans out and swipes for him, but he’s just out of reach.
He looks over the edge.
He breathes in.
He breathes out.
He jumps.
The fall is both longer and shorter than he expected. Grian hits the covered boat with a thud. A jolt of pain shoots through his leg from the impact, but he ignores it and climbs down to the pavement, eyes snapping back to the attic window.
Empty.
Grian takes a few shaky steps back, trying to get his breath under control. His heart races. Blood roars in his ears.
He lowers his gaze.
“Oh god,” he says. Bile rises in his throat. His stomach rolls.
Hanging from the garage door, arms twisted at unnatural angles, legs limp, neck broken, hair matted with blood, is Mumbo’s body.
Grian stumbles back, tripping over himself in his haste to get away, before turning on his heel and running down the driveway.
Martyn hears none of this.
He clutches a pillow to his chest, reclining lazily on the sofa with his legs stretched across the entire length of it. His fingers brush the rim of a now empty bowl of popcorn.
“Come on, Jamie, watch out,” he says.
In the foyer, the steps creak as someone makes their way downstairs.
“You know he’s around,” Martyn chides. “Watch– yup. There he is. See, Jamie, I told you.”
The footsteps draw closer to the living room.
“Jamie. Jamie, look behind you. Look behind you. He’s right there.”
The footsteps stop right behind the couch. A single gloved hand wraps around the handle of a knife and raises it in the air.
“He’s right behind you,” says Martyn.
A floorboard creaks in the adjoining room. The knife lowers. A flash of blue hair disappears out the back door. The footsteps give chase.
This is bad. This is astronomically bad.
Scott knows the killer saw him. His head had turned in his direction and he caught a glimpse of the screaming white face as he slipped through the door.
He takes off at a sprint across the yard. There’s a weak spot in the fence. He and Pearl exploited it for years sneaking in and out– he just has to get there.
Scott dives for it. He skids across the grass and army crawls to where the ground dips under the fence, then grabs a few of the panels and tears them off with a shower of splinters. No time to waste. He squirms underneath and jumps to his feet on the other side, making a break for the road. He rounds the corner and–
Another body collides with him at full tilt. They both fall to the ground, hard.
Scott scrambles back, panic taking over his brain, when he recognizes the jumper.
“Grian?”
“Scott, oh my god, I just– I was just– I was with Scar, and, and the killer came in, and Scar– and he chased me, and I jumped out the window, and oh god, Scar–”
“Stop, stop. The killer’s after you?”
Grian nods frantically. His breathing is erratic and uneven, face flushed red and shiny with sweat. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears.
“When?”
“Just now. I fell, and saw Mumbo, and he’s–”
“I just saw the killer in the living room.”
Grian gets to his feet. Scott mirrors him. “That’s not possible,” says Grian. He wipes his face. “It hasn’t been long enough for him to get down there.”
“It has to be. I saw him in the living room seconds ago.”
“I saw him in the attic seconds ago.”
Scott shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t–”
“Hands in the air!”
Grian and Scott both jump.
Deputy Bdubs emerges from the bushes, gun in hand. “Scott Smajor, you’re under arrest!”
“What?” says Scott. “What did I do?”
“You murdered Jimmy Barrymore and attempted to kill Grian!”
“No, I didn’t,” Scott protests.
Grian steps away from him, eyes wide. “Scott?”
Scott looks between Grian and Bdubs frantically. “Are you serious? I didn’t kill anyone!”
“You said you saw the killer, but I know I saw him, Scott, because I watched him kill Scar!”
Horror settles in Scott’s gut. “Scar’s dead?”
Grian doesn’t stop. He steps back, and back, breath quickening, voice rising. “Mumbo too.”
“Mumbo’s dead?”
“Shut up!!!” Bdubs cries. “I’m trying to arrest you!”
“I didn’t kill anyone!” Scott yells. “What’s wrong with you? Grian, you can’t be serious.”
Grian keeps shaking his head. “I don’t know.”
“Think about this, Grian. If the killer couldn’t believably make it to the living room in that time, how could I be down here? Without a costume, too? And you, officer,” Scott says, rounding on Bdubs, “what evidence could you possibly have that I killed Jimmy?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Bdubs, “except for the fact that your phone made those calls!”
“That’s impossible.”
“You can explain your side of the story in an interrogation room,” says Bdubs.
“That’s not happening,” says Scott, “because I am not a killer. I can’t believe this. Grian!”
Grian looks between both of them. He shakes his head and runs off.
“Grian!”
“What else am I… oh yeah! You have the right to remain silent!” says Bdubs.
“I didn’t kill anyone!” shots Scott.
“You’ll speak when spoken to!”
“Fuck this,” says Scott, and takes off after Grian.
“Hey! I’m trying to arrest you!”
Okay. That screaming was for sure not coming from the TV.
Martyn gets up and creeps to the front of the house. The front door is wide open, for some reason. His immediate urge is to call out ‘hello,’ but that’s just asking for trouble. An unofficial rule number four.
The yelling stops. Martyn descends the porch steps.
Gem’s car is still here. There’s a police cruiser, too.
That’s… not good.
Martyn makes his way around the house, eyes peeled for danger. Something is wrong. Very wrong. The hair on the back of his neck rises.
He steps onto the driveway and glances at the garage.
Oh, fuck.
Martyn can’t help it. He screams.
“Martyn?”
He screams again.
“Hey, hey, calm down, it’s me,” says Gem. She rounds the corner Martyn just came from. “I’ve been looking for people everywhere. Where’d everyone go?”
“Dude, keep your voice down,” whispers Martyn. “We gotta get the fuck out of here.”
Gem frowns, but lowers her voice anyway. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Don’t look, but there’s a body hanging–”
“Jesus Christ!” Gem shouts. Martyn winces.
“Yeah. I found Mumbo.”
Gem stares at him, mouth agape. The color drains from her face. “Where– who?”
“I don’t know! But we have to get out of here, now.”
Gem shuts her mouth with a click and gives him a curt nod. She grabs his hand and fishes her car keys out of her pocket. “Come on,” she says, turning around, and walks straight into a knife.
Martyn yelps. Gem’s hand goes slack in his.
“Fuck me,” she says, looking down at her shirt where red steadily spreads from the knife in her stomach. Ghostface yanks it out and Gem crumples to the pavement like a ragdoll.
Martyn’s fight or flight instinct kicks in. Unfortunately for Ghostface, he picks fight.
Before his brain catches up, his fist slams into Ghostface’s face. They stumble back from the force, grunting in surprise. It’s not a voice he expects. Higher in pitch. Softer in tone.
Familiar.
“Shit,” says Martyn, and runs.
Bdubs, out of options, makes a sweep of the house. He’s lost track of Scott (and Grian) and he really doesn’t want to deal with an Impulse lecture.
Foyer’s clean. So’s the kitchen, and the breakfast nook. Living room’s empty. He turns to make his way upstairs.
Someone’s already there.
“Aha!” he says. “Hands in the air!”
Ghostface slowly shakes his head no.
“I’m arresting you! For murders and stuff!”
Another no. Ghostface descends the rest of the stairs and draws a knife. Bdubs raises his gun.
“Scott Smajor, I demand you take off your mask and hold out your hands so I can handcuff you! And arrest you!”
Maybe Bdubs isn’t the best at his job, but something from training held up, because there’s the slightest shift in body language, and he knows he’s about to get stabbed. For some reason, though, the rest of his training doesn’t hold up, and he forgoes his gun entirely to instead attempt to rush past Ghostface and out the door.
It’s only when the knife is driven into his spine that he calculates his mistake.
Bdubs stumbles and crashes into the wall. He grabs the door frame to support himself.
“I demand… that you unmask…”
Ghostface steps into view and leans down until they’re face to face. Or, rather, face to mask. One gloved hand reaches up, grabs the edge of the mask, and lifts it up.
Bdubs’ brain bluescreens.
“What is happening?!” he yells.
Ghostface pulls the mask back on and disappears into the house.
Grian slows as he reaches the front of the house. The pain in his leg is getting harder to ignore. He’s heavily favoring his left, the right sending fire through his nerves with each step.
“Deputy Bdubs!” he calls.
Bdubs looks up from where he’s gripping the door frame. “Grian?” he says. He steps forward. His eyes roll back in his head, and he falls.
“Jesus,” Scott says, behind him. Grian startles. Scott holds up his hands in surrender. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
“Grian!” someone calls. They both whip their heads around to see Martyn racing towards them. They exchange a glance and both run for the door.
“Scott! Grian! Wait up!” comes Pearl’s voice.
“Grab the gun, grab the gun,” Scott urges. Grian snatches the gun from Bdubs’ loose grasp and spins to face Pearl and Martyn as they approach.
“Don’t shoot! It’s me!” Martyn says. “I found Mumbo’s body, I think Pearl did it, we have to get out of here!”
“Stay back!” Grian shouts.
Pearl wails. “He killed Mumbo!”
“Don’t listen to her!” says Martyn. Grian and Scott exchange another look.
“He killed Mumbo, Gri! Give me the gun, Grian, please,” Pearl cries.
“Scott, please, it was Pearl!”
“It was him! Grian, I’m begging–”
“Pearl did it–”
“I’m telling you, give me the gun, it was Martyn–”
Grian pushes Scott behind him. “Fuck you both,” he says, and slams the door. He turns the lock and presses his forehead to the wood, breathing heavily. Scott lets out a shaky breath.
He gasps.
“Shit. I’m gonna check the other exits,” he says. Grian nods, hands trembling. Outside, Pearl and Martyn are still yelling for them. Hot tears fill his eyes.
“Grian?”
No.
There’s no way.
He turns around.
Scar’s at the top of the stairs, clutching his side and holding onto the railing with white-knuckled hands. He steps forward and slips, tumbling the rest of the way down. Grian rushes to his side.
“Oh my god, Scar, I thought you were dead,” he sobs. He wraps an arm around Scar and hoists him to his feet. Scar limps towards the door.
“We gotta get help,” he says.
Grian tightens his grip on Scar’s shirt. “No, no.” He blocks the door. “The killer’s out there, we can’t–”
Scar gives him a soft look. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Give me the gun.”
“You’re bleeding, Scar–”
Scar eases the gun out of Grian’s grip, shushing him. He nudges Grian out of the way and opens the door.
Martyn all but falls on top of Scar in his haste to get inside. “Help me, please– ”
“Quick, get inside.” Scar pulls Martyn in by the arm and shuts the door again behind him.
“Pearl’s still out there, she’s gone mad!”
Scar smiles.
He raises the gun.
“We all go a little mad, sometimes.”
“Oh fuck,” says Martyn, and Scar pulls the trigger. Martyn reels back and smashes through the end table, sending wood and glass skittering across the floor.
“Anthony Perkins, Psycho,” says Scar. Grian stares. Dread pools in his stomach.
Scar puts a finger in his mouth and sucks the blood off, pulling it away from his lips with a pop. “Mmm… corn syrup. Same stuff they used for pig’s blood in Carrie.”
Grian runs for the kitchen and comes face to face with Pearl.
“Pearl, you have to help me,” he says, breathless.
She smiles. Raises a small white box to her lips.
A voice changer.
“Surprise!” she says. The box warps her voice, all deep and gravelly.
No. No, no, no.
Pearl reaches behind the door frame and pulls Scott into view. He’s unsteady on his feet, blood flowing freely from his head, blinking erratically. His gaze lands on Grian. Pleading.
Grian moves. He grabs Scott’s hand and runs, shoving Pearl out of the way and dashing through the kitchen to the back door, but Scar appears at the other kitchen entrance, cutting them off. Pearl corners the both of them from behind, crowding them into the counter.
“What’s the matter?” Pearl croons into the voice changer. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Why are you doing this?” Scott says.
“It’s all part of the game,” says Scar, waving the gun for emphasis.
“It’s called ‘Guess How You’re Gonna Die!’” Pearl says. Her grin stretches across her face like it was carved into her cheeks.
“Fuck you,” Grian spits.
Scar pouts. “We already played that game. You lost, remember?”
“You’re crazy,” says Scott. He’s holding himself up on the counter, gripping the granite countertops with blood slick hands. “Both of you, you’re insane. You’ll never get away with this.”
Pearl tilts her head. “Oh, won’t we?”
She leans over, nose to nose with Scott, and places the tip of her knife against his throat. Scar rests his chin on her shoulder. Pearl slips the voice changer into the breast pocket of Scott’s denim jacket. Scar hands her a cellular phone, which she tucks into Scott’s pocket as well.
“Watch a few movies, take a few notes,” says Scar. He smiles, as if recounting a particularly pleasant dream. “It was fun.”
Grian tries to slip away while they’re distracted, but Scar’s hand shoots out and seizes him by the wrist.
“Hey, none of that. That’s rude. We were talking.”
“Why kill any of these people?” says Scott. “Why frame me?”
Pearl laughs, delighted. “He wants a motive! Scar, sweetie, should we give him a motive?”
“Norman Bates didn’t have a motive,” Scar says. He pulls Grian closer, holding him by the arms now.
Pearl slings an arm around Scott’s shoulders, tracing the tip of the knife along his shirt. “They never explained why Hannibal Lecter likes to eat people in Silence of the Lambs, did they? It’s scarier with no motive. But you’re not a fan of that, are you?” She giggles. “Guess what time it is.”
“Midnight.”
“Ding ding!” says Pearl. “It’s exactly one year after we all nearly drowned in the river, ain’t that something? Exactly one year after you, Scott, neglected to save my beloved Tilly, and let her die.”
“What? Pearl, I was saving you!”
“Tilly was everything to me. I mean, look around! It’s not like my parents are ever there for me. Grian and Scar had each other, and you had Jimmy. I’m lonely, Scott. I’m so, so lonely.” She sighs dramatically and flops her head onto Scott’s shoulder. “Tilly was all I had. And you took her away from me. And Grian, here” –she gestures at Grian with the knife– “sent us all down there!”
“It was an accident,” Grian says. “Pearl, I never meant to– it was an accident.”
“An accident that cost me Tilly!” she screams. Scott flinches, but she holds him firm. Pearl sucks in a deep breath and slowly lets it out through her nose, then smiles. “That motive enough?”
“Trauma like that can really affect you,” Scar pipes up. “It certainly fucked you up, Grian. It made you have sex with a psychopath.”
“That’s right!” Pearl says. “You’re no longer a virgin! Now you gotta die. Those are the rules!” She pats Scott’s cheek. “We didn’t have to worry about that for you, Scotty. I mean, if Jimmy wasn’t a virgin, there’s no way you were.”
“You’re sick.”
“I think we’re pretty smart, actually,” says Pearl. “What if Scott couldn’t handle it? He couldn’t deal with the flashbacks, and the nightmares, and the guilt of letting poor Tilly die, so on the anniversary of that traumatic event, he snaps. He kills his ex –for not being there for him, you see, poor Tim– and the rest of his friends, then, faced with what he’s done, shoots himself in the head. Perfect ending!”
“Ooh, I love it!” Scar exclaims, grinning wildly. “It’s a scream, baby!”
“Of course, Scar and I, we were left for dead. The lucky survivors.”
Pearl drops Scott. He slumps against the counter. Scar gives Grian’s arms a squeeze, then lets him go. Pearl brandishes her knife.
“Ready, Scar?”
He bounces on his toes and shakes out his hands, rolling his neck. He settles into a wide stance, arms behind his head. “Ready.”
Pearl drives the knife into his side. Scar screams.
“Oh, fuck!”
He hits his fist against the kitchen island, squeezing his eyes shut. He breathes in, out, in, out.
“Okay. Okay, okay. My turn,” he says, still doubled over, clutching his side, and holds out his hand. Pearl gives him the knife.
“Stay to the side and don’t go too deep.”
“I know.”
Scar sticks her with the knife. She howls. “Goddamn it, Scar, Jesus!”
Scott catches Grian’s eye. He tilts his head towards the unguarded kitchen door ever so slightly. Grian sets his mouth in a firm line and nods.
“Sorry! I’m not used to non lethal stabbings.”
Pearl grits her teeth. “Just go get the gun.”
Scar gives her a little salute and heads to the desk where they’d left it.
It’s gone.
“Um. Pearl?”
“What.”
“It’s not here.”
“What?”
“The gun, man, it’s gone!”
Pearl pushes Scar out of the way. “Where the hell is it?”
“Right here, asshole.”
Gem stands in the doorway, covered in blood and looking like she got run over by a truck, holding the gun. She wiggles her eyebrows and smirks.
Scar turns on Pearl, brow furrowed, mouth open. “I thought you said she was dead!”
Pearl narrows her eyes. “She looked dead.”
“Love the little play you have going on here,” says Gem, “but I think we should tweak a few things. You know, so we don’t disappoint your target audience. How about this: a victim left for dead comes to, finds you both confessing to your crimes, takes the gun, foils your plan, and saves the day. I think that’s a much more satisfying conclusion.”
Pearl advances on her, eyes flashing dangerously. Gem steps back. She pulls the trigger.
Or, she tries to.
And she tries again.
Pearl grabs Gem’s wrist and rips the gun from her hands, then shoves her. Gem trips and falls back through the front door, smacking her head into a pole on the porch and going down like a sack of potatoes. Pearl steps over her, one foot on either side of her body. She raises the gun.
“It works better without the safety on.”
“Pearl!” Scar yells. “The– Scott and Grian, they’re gone!”
“You’re kidding me,” Pearl says. She runs back to the kitchen.
Empty.
“Fuck!”
She buries her hands in her hair and pulls, letting out a guttural scream of frustration. Scar paces the kitchen, checking each cabinet like Grian and Scott are hiding behind the dishes.
The phone rings.
They freeze.
“Should we… answer?”
Pearl rips the phone from its hook.
“Are you alone in the house?” comes the voice. Deep. Gravelly. Warped by a voice changer.
“Where are you?” Pearl says. Her grip on the gun tightens. “You– you dog killer, where are you?”
“Let’s play a game. You like those, don’t you? This one’s called, ‘guess who called the police and reported you assholes?’”
Pearl yells wordlessly. She glares at Scar. “What are you doing? Go find them!”
Scar slumps into the desk chair. “I think you cut me too deep, Pearly, I’m feeling a little woozy here…”
Pearl huffs and shoves the phone into his hands. “Keep him on the line,” she says to him. Then, louder, in a sing-song tone, “Scott! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
She stalks off into the next room, humming nonsense to herself as she checks for hiding spots. Back in the kitchen, Scar rests his head on one arm and raises the landline to his ear with the other.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Scar,” says Scott with a sigh, “what’s your motive? Pearl had one. What are you going to tell the police?”
“Peer pressure. I’m far too sensitive.” He pouts. “Did you really call the police?”
“You bet your ass I did.”
“My mom’s gonna be so mad at me,” Scar wails.
Pearl climbs the stairs. “Come on, Scott!” she sings. “Come on out, it’s okay!”
Her voice fades as she gets farther away. What doesn’t fade, though, is the sound of a door hinge squeaking. Scar jumps to his feet.
In the foyer, Grian slowly pushes the closet open and creeps out from his hiding place inside. He just has to make it to the back door. He just has to make it outside.
“Grian? Leaving without a goodbye?” says Scar. Grian whirls to face him, barely catching sight of him before Scar tackles him, sending them crashing through the glass coffee table.
Grian yelps. He drags himself backwards on his hands, grunting with the effort, but Scar is stronger. He pushes Grian flat against the carpet and straddles his hips, pinning him in place. Grian squirms.
“Scar, why?” he says. “You said you loved me.”
Scar looks hurt. He pouts. “I do.”
“You’re trying to kill me!”
Scar tightens his hold on Grian, who gasps. A pleased smile tugs at Scar’s lips.
“Of course I am!”
He grins now, and if he wasn’t covered in blood and holding a knife, it would be an excellent salesman smirk. He touches the tip of the blade to Grian’s lips.
“Think about it, Grian.” The knife traces down his chin, and his neck, stopping at his chest. “You’re everything to me. My other half. My soulmate. My beating heart. And I thought, why should anyone get to share in that? What if someone tries to take you away from me? Why should anyone ever get to have what’s mine?”
Grian shivers. Scar leans in close. His breath tickles Grian’s skin.
“What’s more romantic than bathing myself in your blood? What’s more romantic than holding your heart in my hands?”
Grian opens his mouth– to protest, to scream, he’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter, because Scar is pressing a finger to his lips and shushing him.
“I want to crawl inside your skin. I want to watch as the life fades from your eyes, knowing I was the last person you ever saw. Isn’t that romantic, G?”
“You’re– you’re sick.”
“I don’t think so. I think I’m in love. Don’t you?”
“Scar–”
“I love you. God, Grian, I love you so much it hurts.”
“Scar–”
“Can I kiss you?”
Grian freezes.
Time seems to stop. He’s on his back on the living room floor, with the TV stand behind him, surrounded by pieces of the coffee table. Scar is on top of him. He’s got one hand by Grian’s head, the other closer to Grian’s hip, clutching a knife.
He takes a deep breath.
“Yes,” he says, and he barely gets the word out before Scar’s mouth is on his.
It’s different.
This kiss is desperate, hungry, all tongues and teeth. Scar’s mouth is hot. He grabs at Grian’s hair and pulls. He crams his tongue into Grian’s mouth like he’s trying to eat him whole, licking Grian’s teeth and biting at his lips.
Grian trails his fingers down Scar’s arm. He whines into Grian’s mouth.
He lets Scar kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him. Scar barely breaks for breath, like he’s afraid he’ll die if he stops. He flattens his tongue to the roof of Grian’s mouth and nips at his lips and licks at his molars. Grian’s lip is bleeding, and Scar tastes that too.
Grian touches Scar’s hand. He eases the knife out of his grasp.
He wraps his fingers around the hilt and drives it into Scar’s body.
Scar whimpers.
He pulls away, face twisted in pain.
“Grian?” he says, voice tight. “Did you just stab me?”
“Yes,” says Grian, and shoves Scar off him. He rolls to the side and cries out.
“That fucking hurts!”
Grian gets to his feet. “It was supposed to.”
“Grian, please. Please, G, wait. Don’t leave–!”
Scar seizes Grian’s ankle. He digs his nails into Grian’s skin. With his other hand, he reaches for a shard of glass, raising it like a weapon.
“G, please, I love you!”
“You have a funny way of showing it,” says Grian. He kicks Scar off and pushes the TV with all his might. It tumbles off the stand and crashes down onto Scar’s head– all thirty five pounds of it. Scar twitches, then goes limp.
Upstairs, Pearl methodically stalks the hall.
“Oh, Scott!” she calls. “Double, double, toil and trouble. Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
No response. No movement, nothing.
She pauses, scanning the area with a sharp eye. She holds her breath.
There. In the linen closet, a soft thump.
“By the pricking of my thumbs,” Pearl purrs, “something wicked this way comes.”
She flings the door open, but Scott’s ready for her. He shoves her to the side and bolts down the stairs. Pearl catches herself on the railing and gives chase, laughing.
Scott grabs an umbrella from by the front door and holds it up like a javelin. Pearl realizes too late, unable to stop herself as she flies down the stairs, and Scott impales her shoulder with the umbrella tip. She screams, stumbles back, and collapses, the gun dropping from her hand and sliding across the floor.
It’s quiet for a moment.
Scott tries to catch his breath. He’s covered in blood, practically soaked in the stuff.
Grian emerges from the living room, looking about the same as Scott feels. They watch each other.
Then, Martyn sits up.
Scott screams.
“Jesus Christ, Martyn!” Grian says.
“Oh my god, I thought you were dead!” says Scott at the same time.
“I probably should be,” says Martyn. “I mean, I was not following the Rules–”
A hand seizes Scott’s leg. Everyone screams.
Pearl pulls Scott to the ground and wraps her hands around his throat. She squeezes, and squeezes, and squeezes.
“Say hi to Tilly for me,” she spits.
Bang! A gunshot rings out. Pearl drops dead.
“I remembered the safety this time,” says Gem.
Grian rushes over and helps Scott to his feet. Gem hauls Martyn up, too. Martyn pulls everyone into a tight group hug.
“We’re okay,” says Scott. “It’s okay.”
When they break apart, their gazes fall on Pearl. Her body lies at the foot of the stairs. Her teeth are stained red.
“Careful,” says Martyn, “this is the part where the supposedly dead killer comes back to life for one last scare.”
They watch Pearl for a moment.
Her eyes snap open. Scott takes the gun from Gem and fires. Pearl drops back down, dead for real this time.
“Not in this movie,” says Grian.
Outside, police sirens draw near. The sun is rising.
“It’s over,” says Gem.
“Unless someone decides to play copycat killer and make a sequel,” says Martyn.
They stare at Pearl’s body. The sirens get closer.
“So,” begins Martyn, “masked killer, theatrical murders… do I get to say ‘I told you so?’”
“Shut up, Martyn,” says Scott.
Martyn holds his hands up in surrender. “Fine! That’s it, I guess. Roll credits.”
THE END