Screaming for you

The sunlight filtering through the windows of Vanessa’s office was far too bright for the heavy subject matter hanging in the air. Sidney Prescott sat on the plush velvet sofa, her fingers tracing the worn leather of her handbag. For decades, she had been the survivor, the final girl, the woman who stood tall while the world around her bled out. But being a mother had changed the stakes. The armor was thinning.

Vanessa leaned forward, her expression neutral but empathetic. "You’ve spent your whole life looking over your shoulder, Sidney. But right now, we aren't talking about Ghostface. We’re talking about you. How does it feel to realize that the cycle hasn’t stayed in the past?"

Sidney took a shaky breath, her eyes glassing over for a brief second before she blinked the moisture away. "It feels like a curse," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought if I moved away, if I changed my name, if I built a fortress... I could protect them. But it’s like Stu and Billy are ghosts that refuse to stay buried. Every time I see a mask, I don't just see a killer. I see the boys I used to know. I see the betrayal."

Opening up felt like pulling shards of glass from her skin, but as the session progressed, the weight on her chest eased. For the first time in years, Sidney wasn't just fighting; she was processing.

While Sidney sought peace, the atmosphere in the Carpenter-Meeks apartment was reaching a boiling point. The air was thick with grief and suspicion following the brutal murder of Danny.

In the corner of the kitchen, Tara Carpenter stood face-to-face with Stewart. He looked disheveled, his eyes darting around the room with a frantic energy that made her skin crawl. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of that manic, puppy-like intensity that she couldn't quite place, but it felt dangerously familiar.

"What is wrong with you?" Tara hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. "You’re acting like a stranger, Stewart. You’re cold, you’re jumpy, and you haven't said a single word of comfort since we found Danny. This isn't the man I fell in love with."

Stewart stepped closer, his height intimidating as he loomed over her, reminiscent of a shadow from a nightmare. "The man you fell in love with is trying to stay alive, Tara! Do you have any idea what it’s like? Knowing that at any second, a knife could come through that door?"

"We’re all scared!" Tara shouted, shoving his chest. "But we’re sticking together. You’re pulling away. You’re acting like... like you’re hiding something. Just tell me the truth. Who are you right now?"

Stewart’s face softened suddenly, the frantic edge smoothing out into a look of profound sorrow. He reached out, his long fingers trembling as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The transition was so fast it was jarring.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I’m just... I’m losing it, Tara. I love you more than anything. I’m scared that if I let my guard down, I’ll lose you too. Please, don't hate me."

Tara looked into his green eyes, searching for the boy who had walked her home and made her feel safe. She saw him there, buried under the trauma. She let out a sob and pulled him into a tight embrace, burying her face in his sweater. "I don't hate you. I just need you back. We have to get through this."

"We will," Stewart promised, his chin resting on top of her head. His eyes, however, remained wide and vacant, staring at the wall behind her. "I promise, everything is going to be exactly how it’s supposed to be."

They broke apart as Mindy’s voice rose from the living room, sharp and accusatory. The group had gathered in a circle, the tension vibrating like a plucked string.

"Look, I’m just saying what everyone is thinking!" Mindy yelled, gesturing wildly at Stewart, Sarah, and the others. "The rules have changed, but the archetypes stay the same. We have the grieving boyfriend, the mysterious best friend, and the newcomers with no backstories. Stewart, you’re practically a walking red flag right now. And Sarah? You were 'in the shower' during the attack? That’s literally the oldest trick in the book!"

Sarah glared at her, crossing her arms. "I was washing blood off my hands from trying to help, Mindy! Maybe you’re the killer, trying to deflect by playing movie critic!"

Sam stood in the center, her hands over her ears. "Stop it! All of you! Danny is dead, and we are tearing each other apart. That is exactly what they want!"

The room fell into a sudden, heavy silence. It was broken by the sharp, rhythmic vibration of Sam’s phone on the coffee table. Everyone froze.

Sam picked it up, her face turning pale. "It’s... it’s Danny’s phone."

She hit the speakerphone button with a shaking thumb.

"Hello?" Sam’s voice was a ghost of itself.

"Sam... help me... it’s so cold," the voice on the other end whimpered. It was Danny’s voice. It was his exact cadence, his soft, melodic tone. "Why didn't you save me, Sam?"

Sam let out a choked sob, dropping to her knees. "Danny? Oh god, Danny, I’m so sorry..."

"He’s dead, Sam," Mindy whispered, reaching for her sister. "That’s a voice changer. Don't listen to it."

Suddenly, the voice on the other end changed. The sobbing stopped. The masculine tone shifted, warping into a woman’s voice—soft, melodic, but dripping with a chilling, maternal venom. It was Isabel.

"He really did have a lovely voice, didn't he?" Isabel said, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the weather. "But he was just a distraction. A little appetizer before the main course."

Stewart stood perfectly still, his expression unreadable as he listened to his mother’s voice coming through the speaker.

"Who is this?" Sam demanded, finding her fire through the grief. "Why are you doing this?"

The voice on the phone distorted again, deep and gravelly, the iconic, sliding rasp of the Ghostface persona. The transition was seamless, a masterclass in psychological warfare.

"Because legacy matters, Samantha," the killer growled. "Stu always said that peer pressure was a bitch, but he forgot to mention that family loyalty is even worse. You think you know who you’re standing next to? You think you know who you’ve let into your heart?"

Tara gripped Stewart’s hand, but he didn't squeeze back. He was staring at the phone, a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Where are you?" Sam screamed. "Come out and face us!"

There was a low, bubbling chuckle on the other end—a laugh that sounded hauntingly like the eccentric, manic giggle of Stu Macher.

"I don't need to come out," the voice whispered, the menace vibrating through the speaker. "I’m already in the house."

The lights in the apartment flickered and died, plunging them into total darkness. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the terrified survivors and the faint, lingering dial tone of a disconnected line.

In the shadows, Stewart let go of Tara’s hand.

"Stewart?" Tara whispered, reaching out into the blackness. "Stewart, where are you?"

From the corner of the room, near the hallway that led to the bedrooms, a floorboard creaked. It wasn't the sound of someone hiding; it was the sound of someone stepping into position.

"I'm right here, Tara," Stewart’s voice came from the dark, but it wasn't the voice of the boy she loved. It was flat. It was ready.

A sudden flash of lightning from the window illuminated the room for a split second. In that strobe-light moment, they saw it. The white mask, the draped black hood, and the glint of a buck knife held high.

But there wasn't just one.

Standing near the kitchen was a second figure, smaller but just as deadly. Isabel didn't need the mask to be a monster, but she wore it to honor the man she had loved for one passionate, life-altering night eighteen years ago.

"Mom?" Stewart’s voice was a dark purr in the dark.

"It’s time, my boy," Isabel’s muffled voice responded from behind the shroud. "Finish what your father started. Make him proud."

The screams began, but they were drowned out by the sound of the rain lashing against the glass, and the echo of a dead man's laugh ringing through the halls of a new generation’s nightmare.