Screaming for you

The neon glow of the Los Angeles skyline bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hollywood Hills mansion. Inside, David Warner, the actor who had achieved cult status for his manic portrayal of Stu Macher in the original *Stab* movie, lounged on a velvet sofa. He was in his fifties now, his face a bit more lined, but his ego remained as inflated as it was in the nineties.

Beside him sat Chloe, a twenty-four-year-old aspiring starlet who was currently more interested in her reflection in her wine glass than the movie playing on the screen.

"You know," David said, gesturing toward the television where his younger self was licking stage blood off his fingers, "I really captured the kinetic energy of a psychopath. It’s all in the eyes. The 'puppy-dog' look that hides the wolf."

Chloe giggled, leaning into him. "You’re still plenty scary, David."

The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted the moment. David groaned, reaching for the device on the coffee table. He saw an 'Unknown' ID and rolled his eyes.

"Another fanboy," he muttered, sliding the green icon. "Listen, kid, I’ve heard every 'Surprise, Sidney' impression in the book. If you want an autograph, call my agent."

"Do you think it’s a game, David?" The voice on the other end was distorted, that familiar, gravelly rasp that had haunted the box office for decades. "Playing a legend doesn't make you one. It just makes you a parody."

David sighed, leaning back. "Yeah, yeah. 'What's my favorite scary movie?' It's *The Sound of Music*. Now leave us alone, I’m busy."

He hung up without waiting for a response and tossed the phone onto the cushions. "Tired of the same calls. Every anniversary, every remake, they come out of the woodwork."

"I'm going to get more wine," Chloe said, standing up and smoothing out her silk slip dress. "Don't start the best part without me."

David watched her walk toward the kitchen, admiring the view. He turned his attention back to the screen, watching his fictional counterpart scream about his parents being "so mad" at him.

Minutes passed. The house was too quiet.

"Chloe? The Pinot is in the cellar fridge if it’s not in the rack!" David called out.

No answer.

David frowned, standing up. "Chloe?"

He walked toward the kitchen, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rugs. As he rounded the marble island, he stopped dead. The smell hit him first—metallic and hot.

Chloe was pinned against the backsplash. Her silk dress was no longer champagne-colored; it was a ruined, sodden crimson. Her midsection had been opened with surgical precision, her insides spilling over the granite counter like a grotesque feast. Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing.

David’s breath hitched, a high-pitched whine escaping his throat. This wasn't a movie set. There was no "cut," no makeup artist coming to wipe away the corn syrup.

"Oh god... oh no..."

A shadow shifted in the corner of the dining room. A figure stepped out, clad in the heavy, shimmering black robes of the Ghostface costume. The mask was stark white, the hollow eyes fixed on the man who had spent thirty years profiting off a killer’s legacy.

David turned and bolted. He ran through the living room, his loafers slipping on the polished hardwood. He scrambled toward the stairs, but the killer was faster, moving with a terrifying, youthful agility. A gloved hand grabbed David’s collar, throwing him backward.

David crashed into the glass coffee table, shattering it. He scrambled up, sobbing, and backed away until his calves hit the console table beneath his massive, eighty-inch flat-screen television.

The killer approached slowly, tilting their head in that familiar, bird-like curiosity.

"Please!" David begged, holding up his hands. "I'm just an actor! I’m not him! I’m not Stu!"

The killer reached up, the voice changer clicking off. A younger, sharper voice—one that sounded hauntingly like the real Stu Macher—spoke with cold, focused venom.

"I know you're not. You’re a parasite. You lived off his name while he rotted."

The killer stepped forward, placing a hand on the top of the heavy, wall-mounted television.

"You could never be my dad," the voice whispered, the manic edge finally breaking through. "But you can die just like him."

With a guttural roar of effort, the killer ripped the television from its mount. David looked up, his eyes widening as the massive weight descended. The screen slammed into his face, the glass sparking as it crushed his skull against the floor. The electrical surge crackled through David’s twitching body, a grim mimicry of the 1996 finale.

The killer stood over the body for a moment, breathing heavily, before vanishing into the California night.

***

Three thousand miles away, the air in Woodsboro was thick with the scent of damp earth and old secrets.

Isabel stood at the edge of the Becker property, her dark hair pulled back, her face a mask of calm resolve. She wasn't the shy, quiet girl who had let Stu Macher charm her into her bed all those years ago. She was a woman who had raised two sons in the shadow of a monster, honing them into weapons.

Inside the Becker house, the phone rang.

Mr. Becker, now silver-haired and slowed by age, picked up the receiver in the kitchen. "Hello?"

"Do you remember the sound of the wind that night, Mr. Becker?" a voice asked. It was a woman’s voice—Isabel’s—but it held a chilling, hollow quality. "The night your daughter didn't come home?"

Mr. Becker’s hand shook. "Who is this? We don't take these calls anymore. The police trace everything now."

"The police can't protect you from the past," Isabel said softly. "It’s time to finish the story."

Mr. Becker hung up, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Martha!" he called out to his wife in the living room. "Another one. I’m going to go check the shed, make sure the locks are set. I don’t like the feel of tonight."

He grabbed his flashlight and stepped out into the backyard. The grass was overgrown, the swing set where Casey had once sat long gone. He made his way to the heavy wooden shed at the back of the property.

As he stepped inside, the smell of gasoline and oil filled his nostrils. He reached for the light switch, but the bulb just flickered and died.

A rhythmic *thwack-hiss* echoed from the corner.

Mr. Becker turned his flashlight toward the sound. A figure in a Ghostface mask stood there, holding a heavy-duty industrial nail gun.

Before the old man could scream, a three-inch steel spike slammed through his right hand, pinning it to the wooden workbench. He shrieked, dropping the flashlight. Another *thwack* sent a nail through his left shoulder, anchoring him to the wall.

"Please... why?" he wheezed, blood dripping onto his shoes.

The killer didn't answer. Instead, they reached down and pulled the cord on a chainsaw. The engine roared to life, a mechanical scream that drowned out the sounds of the Woodsboro night. The smell of exhaust filled the cramped space.

The killer stepped forward, the spinning chain glinting in the moonlight filtering through the slats. With a brutal, vertical stroke, the saw tore through the old man, a spray of crimson painting the tools on the wall.

Back in the house, Martha Becker sat on the sofa, her brow furrowed. She heard a faint buzzing sound from the yard, followed by the chime of her husband’s cell phone which he had left on the side table.

A message appeared on the screen. *Come to the shed, Martha. I found something of Casey’s.*

Tears pricked her eyes. She stood up, her joints aching, and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She stepped out into the cool air, walking toward the shed where the buzzing had finally stopped.

"Henry?" she called out. "Henry, what did you find?"

She pushed the heavy door open.

The sight was enough to stop her heart. Her husband was no longer a man; he was two separate pieces of meat, slumped against the workbench and the floor, the floorboards slick with his life force.

Standing over the remains was the specter of her nightmares. The Ghostface mask was splattered with gore.

Martha turned to run, but her legs were frail. She stumbled toward the house, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She saw the kitchen window—the very window Casey had tried to reach. She scrambled toward it, her fingers clawing at the frame.

She almost made it. She had her torso through the window, her hands reaching for the safety of her kitchen floor, when the killer caught her.

The window slammed down with bone-crushing force, pinning her at the waist. Martha screamed, her eyes locking onto the framed photo of Casey on the counter just inches away.

The chainsaw roared to life again behind her.

The killer didn't hesitate. The blade bit into Martha’s lower back, carving through spine and sinew. With a final, sickening lurch, the saw cut clean through. Martha’s top half fell forward onto the kitchen linoleum, her fingers twitching once before going still.

Isabel stepped out from the shadows of the porch, watching the killer—her son, Stewart—wipe the blood from the mask.

"Well done," she whispered.

Together, they took Martha’s upper torso and dragged it to the large oak tree in the front yard. Using a length of sturdy hemp rope, they strung her up, her grey hair matted with blood, her empty eyes staring down at the road.

***

By morning, Woodsboro was a hive of blue and red lights.

Sheriff’s deputies stood in stunned silence at the Becker property. It was a mirror image of the crime that had started it all, but with a level of ferocity that suggested something far more personal than a movie-obsessed teenager.

Inside the station, a television was perched on a desk, tuned to a national news broadcast.

"Tragedy in Hollywood tonight," the anchor announced. "David Warner, the actor famous for his role in the *Stab* franchise, was found dead in his home alongside a female companion. Early reports indicate a gruesome scene involving a television set—an eerie echo of the character he portrayed. Police are investigating whether this is the work of a copycat killer or something more sinister."

A group of younger officers stood around the screen, their faces pale.

"It’s happening again," one of them whispered.

"No," a senior detective said, looking at the photos coming in from the Becker scene and comparing them to the grainy faxes from Los Angeles. "This isn't a copycat. This is a message."

He looked at the image of Martha Becker hanging from the tree.

"The crew in LA and the locals here... they think they're dealing with a fan. But look at the precision. Look at the rage." He shook his head. "This isn't a normal Ghostface. This is a legacy."

Deep in the woods of a neighboring county, in a small, nondescript cabin, Isabel sat at a wooden table. Her two sons, Stu and Stewart, sat opposite her. They were tall, slender, and shared that same boyish, puppy-like charm their father had possessed—a charm that masked the jagged, psychotic depths of their souls.

"The world remembers the victims," Isabel said, sliding a newspaper clipping of Sidney Prescott across the table. "They remember the survivors. But they forgot the man who started it all. They turned him into a joke. A caricature."

She reached out, taking the hands of her sons.

"Now," she whispered, her green eyes flashing with a terrifying light. "They’re going to remember the Machers."

Stu, the elder twin, tilted his head, a manic grin spreading across his face. "We’re just getting started, Mom. I think it’s time we went back to school."

The three of them sat in the silence, a family united by blood and a thirst for a vengeance that had been twenty years in the making. The Ghostface mask sat on the table between them, its hollow eyes waiting for the next scream.