SCREAM
A novel by Landon Turner
Based on the screenplay by Kevin Williamson and the 1996 film by Wes Craven
Chapter 1
It happened in California, a small town on the West Coast...the town of Woodsboro. A quiet community, set apart from the larger, more bustling cities like LA and San Francisco.
It was something right out of a horror movie, and it had gone off like a powder keg. It had started with one, tiny spark: a phone call. On a cold, November school night for a young seventeen-year old girl in 1996. It was the start of a series of crimes that served as some of the most brutal series of murders in the annals of American history. Think Bundy, Dahmer, and their ilk. Bodies posed, mutilated, and posed purely for shock value; it was a total bloodbath. It sparked one of the greatest American debates during the oncoming of the twenty-first century: the effects of horror movies on real-life violence. The powder keg had been simmering, bubbling to the surface of the quasi-peaceful, humdrum everyday life of the average American. Tensions were already high with the beating of Rodney King and Jeffrey Dahmer's horrific crimes being unearthed in 1991, and then, the O.J. Simpson trial in 1994 followed by the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, and now, bouts of heinous violence were sprouting up all over the nation.
The infamous Woodsboro Murders, as the media had dubbed them, had lit the match underneath the cinema and violence debate because they seemed to be fashioned in the style of your average splatter flick; blood was splattered on walls, victims were disemboweled like freshly killed pigs, and then hung and propped up like macabre pieces of artwork, like something right out of Suspiria or Evil Dead. Except in these murders, there was nothing supernatural.
Just pure human evil.
They had clearly been done by someone; someone who had watched one too many scary movies and had done their best to emulate them, and someone who had been playing by their own set of sick, twisted rules.
Nobody had ever seen anything like it. Who could have done something so heinous? Who in the peaceful town of Woodsboro had been able to do something so horrific to innocent people? What had made them snap? That was the central question of the debate.
Was it the movies that made them snap and turn to violence? Or had they been vicious killers their whole lives, simply a walking time-bomb waiting for something to set them off, something to light the burning rage that they felt inside? Maybe it was the parents who should have taken some responsibility and taken it upon themselves to restrict their child from those sorts of movies, if they had certain psychological issues.
After all, there was something about horror movies that peaked a sense of intrigue and wonder from deep within the human psyche; something very primal and very real. That's how they made so much money.
We all have fear. Fear is what drives some people. Controls others. Shapes you into the kind of person you are. Fear was something ancient humans were too keen on. Back then, fear helped you survive. That pricking on the back of your neck and clammy hands and the stabbing pit in your gut often were red flags that something bad was nearby, like a predator lurking in the bushes, ready to rip you limb from limb and devour you for dinner.
In more recent times, that vivid and salient fear our ancestors felt still lingers around in the form of crippling anxiety, fervent ideologies, and various forms of prejudice and discrimination, albeit often showing up due to relatively mundane reasons like social ostracization, or missing the bus, or losing your job.
Are we getting soft? Some think so; political and social discussions are often rife with the proverbial "pull yourself up by the bootstraps" sentiment. Lots of earlier generations call the later generations weak implying that being vulnerable and afraid and fragile means you are somehow inferior. The little things hurt us way more; perhaps because there aren't any big, scary predators trying to eat us and so to us, our extreme feelings of fear and dread seem unreasonable, or even downright irrational.
Maybe they were right. Maybe humans had nothing to be afraid of but themselves.
Maybe true fear didn't come from big monsters with bugging eyes and fangs leaping out of back alleys, or humanoid creatures from the deep anymore. True fear was what happened everyday across the world: what humans can do to each other. There is nothing more terrifying than ourselves and as time passes, it becomes more and more obvious.
That was true fear. Not the kind of fear of experiencing your first breakup, or a public speaking event but a fear that courses through your veins, makes you weak at the knees, robs you of your ability to reason and think clearly, makes your heart beat out of your chest, and feels like someone kicking you as hard as they can deep in your gut.
Seventeen-year old Casey Becker loved that kind of fear.
It was why she loved horror movies, specifically the slasher genre. True fear wasn't about little ghost twins, or aliens, or zombies. True fear was real. True fear is what happens to innocent people every day. Murder. Violence. Death. There was something so horrifying about a guy who just, all of a sudden, for no rhyme or reason, takes a knife and starts butchering innocent people.
Like in Halloween. Halloween was the first horror film that Casey had watched. Her ex-boyfriend had talked her into watching them, and ever since, she had been hooked. Although she wasn't cognizant of it, it was the thrill of it all that enraptured her. The eerie, emotionless white mask, the haunting music, the story of the psychopath who kills a group of innocent teenagers one-by-one on a cold, windy Halloween Night in a small, Midwestern town; it was all so iconic. Maybe part of it was the human behavior that interested her.
Maybe she was just so fascinated by the horrible and cruel things people can do to each other. It's what the horror genre was all about. Casey loved watching the characters fight back, and live to see another day. True fear is what actually happens out there in this cruel world. People being tortured, killed, taken from the world so violently...but then, if those things were so awful, why did Casey love watching them so much?
It was almost like a bad car accident. As much as you wanted to keep your eyes on the road, you just had to veer over to the left just for a little bit to check out the damage. You couldn't help but watch. It reels your natural human curiosity right in. That's the double-edged sword of true fear. It's repulsive, but so captivating at the same time.
Casey stared out the glass patio doors into the dark night, and hugged her warm, woolen sweater to her body tightly. She was looking for the two, bright headlights of Steven Orth's blue SUV his parents had gotten him for his sixteenth birthday. Eighteen-year old Steven Orth was the head quarterback of the football team.
A real catch. Tall, muscular, ruggedly handsome, with dark hair, dark eyes...what else could she ask for? They had been dating for a month, and now, it only seemed appropriate to invite him over whenever she didn't want to be home alone at night while her parents were out. She pictured his strong arms holding her in his big blue-and-yellow letterman's jacket with the words Woodsboro High emblazoned across the back and then glanced at the clock anxiously. Where the hell was he? she thought. Football practice was supposed to be over at eight and it was already almost ten.
Her parents usually went on date nights and stayed out pretty late, leaving the huge house to herself and sometimes, she would get so spooked that she would have to call him to come and comfort her, and tonight wasn't any different. They weren't particularly fond of her having boys over without them knowing and especially late at night, but after meeting Steve, they decided it would be better for her to have some company while they were out; after all, Steve was on the football team and they figured he could handle himself in a bad situation and protect her.
But still, it was getting later than her parents would be happy with.
The flickering blue light of the idling television screen was reflected in the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows that surrounded her.
The two movies she had picked out from the video store after school were both sitting on the kitchen counter, unopened. She had picked out Halloween, and Nightmare on Elm Street, two that she was sure would scare the shit out of him and she was excited to watch him squirm.
Maybe he would be the one cowering like a girl this time around.
She glanced down the long hallway into the foyer at the front door.
If he didn't hurry soon, her parents would be home from dinner and all he would get for the night would be a stern lecture from her father and then be sent home.
Ring-Ring.
Ring-Ring.
Casey reached for the ringing landline on the end table. It had to be Steve. Her big, blue innocent eyes lit up as she answered the phone eagerly.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a man's voice said.
Casey frowned, puzzled. It wasn't Steve.
It was a very distinctive and alluring voice, she thought, one she would have remembered, but she couldn't put the voice with a face.
"Yes?" Casey said hesitantly.
"Who is this?" the man asked.
"Who are you trying to reach?" Casey said.
"What number is this?"
"What number are you trying to reach?"
"I don't know,"
"Well, I think you have the wrong number," Casey said.
"Do I?"
"It happens, take it easy," she said politely and hung up the phone.
She walked into the hallway towards the kitchen and glanced around nervously. There was nothing but tall glass windows on either side of the hall, and she stopped for a second, listening to the sounds of nature from the thick woods that surrounded her house.
She hated being home alone in this house.
Especially at night.
She didn't know why her parents had bought a house that was mostly glass; you would think it would make you feel protected, but it made her feel the opposite; like someone was always watching her. Hallways with glass on either side, and a pair of huge, fully glass patio doors...what were they thinking? Sure, nothing really all that bad happened in Woodsboro.
But then, that wasn't actually true. Last year, a fellow student's mom at her school had been murdered. Sidney Prescott, that was her name.
Someone had broken in and killed her as she slept. Casey shivered as the thought entered her mind. This was a girl that she knew. Someone she had English with. Her mom just brutally killed, like something out of those movies...like a scene right out of Halloween. Or Friday the 13th. But this was real.
She snapped out of her morbid thoughts, and glanced out the large, patio doors that looked out into the backyard. An eerie mist hung over the surface of the Olympic-sized swimming pool, and two halogen floodlights mounted on poles illuminated the back of the yard next to a rickety, wooden shed. The woods that surrounded her house on either side were dark, and it was a cloudy, blustery night. A full moon hung ominously in the sky.
Bad night to be home alone, she thought. And now, she was thinking about things like that...thinking about that psycho killer in the white mask in that horror movie. The one about the babysitter, home alone on a dark night...Images of the cold, steely blade of a knife plunging into her and hands around her neck flashed into her mind.
God, she thought. Don't do this to yourself. But it was too late. Her thoughts were already racing.
She was all alone out in the woods. Just like in Friday the 13th. In Friday the 13th, a group of kids go out into the woods for a weekend at an abandoned summer camp, and one-by-one someone kills them. Hunts them down. One guy gets an arrow through his throat, and a girl has an axe smashed into her face.
Casey shuddered, feeling a cold chill up her arm from seeing the ghastly images in her head.
Don't scare yourself to death, she thought to herself. It was only nine o clock. I'm going to start seeing things, she thought.
It was those goddamn horror movies that did this to her, but she just couldn't help herself. She should have never gone to the video store and she should have refrained from the scary movies, but Steve had been dying to see them and why not? They were classics, and it would keep Steve...and his hands...occupied. Maybe she was just jumpy from being alone in this big house at night. That had to be it. After all, the movies never phased her before.
They were just movies, she had always reminded herself. It was all just a movie and none of it was real, right?
Ring Ring.
Casey looked back towards the end table.
Who could it be this time?
Ring Ring.
Sighing tiredly, Casey sauntered back towards the receiver sitting on the table and picked it up.
"Hello?" she said, trying not to sound as annoyed as she truly was.
"I'm sorry; I think I dialed the wrong number,"
It was the same distinctive voice from before.
"So why'd you dial it again?" Casey asked.
"To apologize,"
"You're forgiven, bye now," Casey said, starting to hang up.
"Wait, wait, don't hang up," the voice cut her off hastily.
Casey brought the phone back up to her ear, growing impatient.
"What?"
"I want to talk to you for a minute," the man said.
Casey scoffed.
"They've got 900 other numbers for that, see ya," Casey said curtly and hung up the phone.
What a weirdo, Casey thought to herself. Who calls random numbers just to talk to strangers? She took one last glance out the patio doors and then made her way back into the kitchen. It didn't look like Steve was getting there anytime soon and she still had to make the popcorn for the movies.
The centerpiece of the large, well-furnished kitchen was an island with wooden countertops, surrounded by a few matching barstools. There was a section of wall blocking off a small hallway from the rest of the kitchen, which led to a side door, also made of glass. Casey walked around the kitchen island towards the freezer and took out a pan of Jiffy Pop. She tore the packaging off the popcorn and turned on the stovetop, watching the blue flame flicker to life. She put the pan on the eye and shook it, the popcorn inside rattling.
Ring-ring.
The phone again. Casey groaned and grabbed the cordless phone off of the receiver on the kitchen counter. The popcorn crackled on the stove where she left it.
"Hello," Casey said.
"Why don't you want to talk to me?" said the same, mysterious voice.
"Who is this?" Casey asked firmly, making her way back to the pan on the stove.
"You tell me your name, and I'll tell you mine,"
Casey made a wry face. "Uh, I don't think so," she said, preparing to hang up. She shook the pan and the popcorn inside rattled loudly once again.
"What's that noise?" the man asked curiously.
Casey smirked and brought the phone back to her ear. Maybe she could play along for a little while, she thought.
"Popcorn," Casey replied sweetly.
"You're making popcorn?" the man asked.
"Uh-huh,"
"I only eat popcorn at the movies,"
"Well, I'm getting ready to watch a video," Casey said matter-of-factly.
Casey turned away from the stove and sat at the kitchen island. A wooden butcher block full of knives sat in front of her.
"Oh really? What?"
"Oh, just some scary movie," Casey said.
"Do you like scary movies?" the man asked.
"Uh-huh."
"What's your favorite scary movie?"
What is this, twenty questions? Casey wondered. She stifled a giggle; she was enjoying this a little too much.
"Um, I don't know," Casey responded, pretending to be in deep thought.
"Come on, you have to have a favorite. What comes to mind?"
"Um…" Casey thought for a moment. Her hand reached for one of the butcher knives in the butcher block. She pulled out the knife, absentmindedly toying with it, eyeing its razor sharp blade…it was just the kind of knife that the guy from Halloween used to butcher his victims. Her gaze then fell on the unopened videotapes, still lying on the counter where she had left them.
"Halloween," she answered. "You know, the one with the guy in the white mask who walks around and stalks babysitters,"
She slid the knife back into the block.
"Yeah...," the voice replied.
"What's yours?"
"Guess,"
"Ummm..." she said, playing along. She glanced again at the unopened videotapes on the counter, and smiled. "Nightmare on Elm Street?" Casey guessed. She picked up the video tapes and started walking back down the glass-lined hallway towards the living room.
"Is that the one where the guy had knives for fingers?"
"Yep, Freddy Krueger," Casey said proudly.
"Yeah…that movie was scary," the man said.
"Well, the first one was. The rest sucked," she replied.
There was a short pause, as Casey walked towards the living room.
"So, do you have a boyfriend?" the man asked.
Casey stopped in her tracks. She grinned deviously.
"No, I don't," she lied. Steve wouldn't be here for at least the next fifteen minutes, she thought to herself. Since he had decided to take his sweet time, why couldn't she have a little fun as well?
"Why, do you want to ask me out on a date?" Casey toyed with him, twirling her short, blond hair around her finger coquettishly.
"Maybe," the man said.
Casey walked into the living room, heading for the television.
"So, you never told me your name," the man said.
"Why do you want to know my name?" Casey asked, placing the tapes on top of the television set.
"Because I want to know who I'm looking at," the man said.
A chill ran up the length of Casey's spine.
She stood there for a moment, stunned.
"W-what did you say?" Casey stammered, pretending like she hadn't heard him correctly. But she had heard exactly what he said. Did she? Was she imagining things? Had she heard him right? Yes. She knew what he said. And it was scaring the hell out of her.
"I said I want to know who I'm talking to," the man said nonchalantly. Casey made a beeline for the patio doors, locking them.
"That's not what you said," Casey replied. She clicked on the floodlights that illuminated the patio and back yard and scanned the patio, the swimming pool and its surroundings, all the way back to the wooden fence at the edge of the thick woods behind the house. There was no one outside. Just darkness.
"What do you think I said?" the man asked.
"Look, I have to go," Casey said. Her voice had lost all of its playfulness.
"Wait, I thought we were going to go out sometime..." the man protested, coaxing Casey back into the conversation. A tight knot was beginning to form in her gut and she wasn't going to listen to him anymore. She should have known not to mess with some random stranger on the phone. She didn't care how friendly and alluring his voice sounded. This had gone too far.
"No, I don't think so," Casey said brusquely.
"Don't hang up on me," the man demanded, but his voice was cut off by Casey's finger hitting the off button on the phone.
She heard the satisfying click of the line being cut off, and she glanced towards the patio doors once more, making sure there was nobody outside.
It was just a prank caller, Casey assured herself.
That's all it was. Right?
Casey inched towards the kitchen, hardly able to take her eyes off of the patio doors. She assured herself that there was nobody out there, and turned to walk down the hallway, when the phone rang again, vibrating in her hand.
Shit, Casey thought. What if it was him? But what if it was Steve? Or her mother?
Should she risk it?
She looked straight ahead towards the kitchen, hearing the popcorn crackling loudly on the stove.
Casey took a deep breath and put the phone to her ear.
"Yes?"
"I told you not to hang up on me,"
It was him again, but something was different. The tone in his voice had completely changed. There was something threatening about it. His voice had been teetering on the line between eerie and conversational, and now it had tipped over and gone completely sinister.
"What do you want?" Casey asked, her voice cracking. Tears began to fill her eyes.
"To talk," the man replied, his voice raising in pitch.
"Well, dial someone else, ok?" Casey said and hung up the phone.
Wiping away her tears, Casey walked down the hallway into the kitchen, moving towards the stove. God, he really got to you, she thought. It was probably just some weirdo who dialed her number out of the phonebook. It was one of those crank calls, it had to be. The tin foil that kept the popcorn inside the pan had started to bulge and the popcorn was popping loudly. As she reached for the panhandle, the phone rang again, and Casey felt her face growing hot with anger. She had had enough. Her hand gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Casey brought the phone up to her face and answered, not even giving the creep enough time to speak.
"Listen, asshole…" she yelled into the phone through clenched teeth.
Casey's face drained of color as she listened to the man's voice suddenly take on a much angrier tone than before.
"No, you listen, you little bitch, you hang up on me again and I'll gut you like a fish, understand?"
Casey felt the knot twisting tighter in her stomach until it felt like she was being struck in the gut by a sledgehammer as she shrunk back into the corner, trembling at the pure evil in his voice. She heard him laugh on the other line…a sinister snickering…
"Is-is this some kind of joke?" Casey asked, her voice shaking with fear.
"It's more of a game really…can you handle that?" the man teased her. His voice had completely morphed into a horrifying persona. There was a pause, and as Casey pressed the phone to her ear, listening to what he was going to say next, her heart pounding…she heard him whisper something that made her blood run cold.
"Blondie…."
The phone fell from her hand onto the floor.
She sunk to her knees, her legs barely able to support her, and she saw her reflection in the stove. She saw her blond hair. She repeated the words in her mind until it finally hit her.
Blondie…Blondie…
He could see her.
This guy was outside, watching her through the windows.
Casey's jaw dropped as the horrifying truth hit her like a bolt of lightning, and she sprang to her feet. Incited by pure adrenaline, Casey snatched up the phone, ran down the hallway into the foyer, forgetting all about the popcorn, and scrambled to the front door, fastening the lock and deadbolt. She peered through the tiny windows on either side of the door, scanning the front yard.
The yard was empty.
This wasn't happening…this couldn't be happening…Casey, get a grip, she told herself. Maybe if you put your foot down and stood up to this fucker, he would leave you alone. Maybe you could shake him up a bit. It could be some jerk from school. After all, that explained how he knew that she had blond hair. It was just a prank. It was probably her ex and his stupid friends. She brought the phone up to her ear confidently.
The man on the other line was laughing softly to himself…maniacal and demented laughter…
"Listen…I am two seconds away from calling the police," she threatened, trying to sound as intimidating as possible.
"They'd never make it in time. We're out in the middle of nowhere," the man said chillingly.
Casey began to cry, tears finding their way down her cheeks. He was right…it would take the police at least fifteen minutes to get out here…she was alone. What was he planning to do to her? Where was Steve?
"What do you want!?" Casey screamed into the phone through a torrent of tears.
There was a pause. Casey listened to the other line. The only sound was her own panicked breathing. After a few moments, the voice on the other line spoke up.
"To see what your insides look like..." The man snarled sadistically.
A wave of nausea suddenly overcame her, and she pressed the off button on the phone, letting it fall from her hand. She doubled over, barely able to stand, tears flooding her eyes. Just as she began to regain her composure, a shrill noise made Casey scream and leap out of her skin. It was the doorbell. She whirled around to face the front door, craning her neck to see through the glass. There was nobody outside.
"Who's there? Who's there?" Casey shrieked through tears.
Silence. Now, she knew someone was out there.
Fuck it; it was time for the cops. She scrambled for the phone on the floor, but just as she picked it up, it rang again in her hand. She screamed at the top of her lungs, petrified beyond reality. She didn't have much of a choice but to answer the phone again.
The man was quick to talk.
"Don't you know never to say 'who's there?' don't you watch scary movies? It's a death wish. You might as well go investigate a strange noise or something," the man sneered, as Casey listened, terrified.
This had to be some sick fuck from school, she thought. She just had to stop engaging. If he wanted to hurt her, wouldn't he have done it already? He was just trying to scare her. She had to stop engaging, or scare the hell out of this creep. In a split second, she chose the latter and clenched her teeth until her jaw was sore.
"Listen…you've had your fun. Now you'd better leave me alone, because my boyfriend will be here any second," Casey said, wiping away tears.
"I thought you said you didn't have a boyfriend,"
"I lied. I do have a boyfriend, and he is on his way, and he's going to be pissed when he finds you here…" Casey said, hardly able to stand, maintaining her balance against the doorframe.
"I'm so scared. I'm shaking in my boots," the man sneered mockingly.
Casey mustered up all of her strength. She wasn't going to give him the pleasure.
"He's big and he plays football, and he'll kick the shit out of you!" she screamed as loud as she could until her voice felt hoarse, now sobbing hysterically. There was no response from the other line. Just silence.
At first, she thought it worked. That she had scared him off. She took a deep breath, listening to the maddening silence on the other line, waiting for him to say something…anything..
"His name wouldn't be, Steve, would it?" the voice rasped.
Casey's jaw dropped and she froze, incredulous.
"H-how do you know his name?" Casey stammered in disbelief.
"Turn on the patio lights," the man ordered.
Her heart skipped a beat. Her knees buckled again, and she collapsed.
"Just do it," the man commanded sharply.
Casey snapped back to reality, and staggered to her feet. She managed to stumble down the hallway into the living room, moving towards the patio doors.
"Now, turn on the lights,"
Casey reluctantly obeyed, reaching for the light switch, her hand quivering. As she switched it on, the floodlights illuminated the patio.
Casey looked through the glass, and froze at what she saw and then a choked scream erupted from the bottom of her soul.
Steve was tied to a lawn chair in the middle of the patio, barely alive and wearing a collared shirt underneath his letterman's jacket. Rope was tied around his hands and feet…duct tape across his mouth…he was bloodied and bruised, and his hair was disheveled and caked with blood… Steve's eyes lit up as he saw Casey, and he began to squirm in the chair, the tape muffling his pitiful cries…Casey screamed again, not truly believing what she was seeing.
"Oh God!" she shrieked.
She instinctively reached for the patio doors and flung them open.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man snarled.
Casey resisted the urge to run out into the yard, and she slammed the door shut, pressing herself against the glass helplessly. She sunk to her knees, now reduced to a blubbering, incomprehensible heap on the floor.
"Please…please don't hurt him..." Casey pleaded.
"That depends on how well you do," the man said.
Casey sat up, listening intently, wiping tears from her eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"I wanna play a game," the man explained.
Casey began to cry again, shaking her head in disbelief.
"No, please just leave us alone…" she whimpered.
"Then he dies right now!" The man yelled.
"No! No!" Casey shrieked, leaping to her feet and shaking her head repeatedly.
She began to bang furiously on the door, watching Steve squirm helplessly, the thin glass her only barrier between her and her lover in peril.
"Just let him go! Please!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.
"Which is it?" the man asked.
It was a terrifying decision Casey had to make.
Casey relaxed, trying to make sense of the situation, taking deep breaths.
Just play his stupid game. Maybe he would leave you both alone if you just played along, Casey thought to herself. She looked out the glass doors at Steve wriggling in the chair, tugging at the ropes that were tying him down. The big jock of a guy was crying too.
She could run outside and save him, she thought. Just grab a baseball bat and go out there and nail this bastard. No…it was too risky. There might be more than one person out there that could easily overpower her and then kill them both…just do what he says… She deliberated the options in her mind for several seconds.
Finally, she took a deep breath and spoke into the phone.
"What kind of game?" she asked.
"Turn off the patio lights. You'll see what kind of game," the man rasped.
Casey let out a heaving sob, tasting the saltiness of her tears on her lips. She shook her head in refusal. Her eyes scanned the backyard madly, searching for him in vain. He could be anywhere out there in the darkness.
"Do it," he demanded.
She inched her way towards the light switch reluctantly as Steve's gaze followed her. He began to thrash violently in the chair, shaking his head, and screaming her name, but through the duct tape, he was barely audible. Casey couldn't watch herself leave her boyfriend out there in the dark with that lunatic.
She closed her eyes tightly, feeling the tears rushing to the surface underneath her eyelids, braced herself and slowly turned out the lights, bathing the patio in darkness. She collapsed to her knees helplessly, trying to block out the sound of Steve's panicked, muffled cries. She crawled over behind the television set, crouching down between the television and the wall. Her knee bumped the cord to the lamp on top of the end table, and the cord fell out of the socket.
The room slammed into pitch black darkness.
There was no sound but the man's menacing voice on the other line.
"Here's how we play..." he began.
Casey listened intently, trying to hear him over her own heavy breathing and the rapid pounding of her heart.
"I ask a question. If you get it right, Steve lives. Very simple…" the man explained.
Casey was still in disbelief.
"No! Please don't do this!" she pleaded.
"Come on, it will be fun. It's an easy category…movie trivia. You said you liked scary movies, remember?" the man persuaded.
Now his voice was soothing and calming….coaxing Casey into playing his sick, twisted game…
"No, please…"
The man had no remorse hearing Casey's pitiful sobs. He went on.
"I'll give you a warm-up question. Name the killer in Halloween,"
Casey could barely speak, much less think. She shook her head, whimpering softly, hoping, praying…
"Come on, it's your favorite scary movie, remember? The guy with the white mask, he stalks babysitters…" the man encouraged Casey.
She couldn't think straight. Her mind was a blur. She hugged her knees to her chest, curling up into a fetal position.
"No...please…I can't do this…" she sobbed.
"Yes you can…Steve's counting on you,"
The image of Steve's battered body flashed into her mind. She sat up onto her knees, closed her eyes, blinking away tears. Come on, Casey...you have seen this movie a million times, she thought. She immediately remembered the white mask...what was his fucking name? And then, almost by God, she knew the answer.
"Michael…it was Michael Myers," Casey responded.
"Yes! That's correct!" the man exclaimed.
He sounded like some sort of twisted game show host.
"Now, for the real question"
"NO!" Casey shrieked, tears cascading down her cheeks.
"But you're doing so well…" the man said. "Come on, just one more question and I'll leave you alone,"
Casey's eyes lit up and she sat up with determination.
"Ok, just please promise you'll leave us alone," she whimpered.
"I promise,"
Casey let out a sigh of relief, and pressed the phone tightly to her ear, listening intently.
This was her one chance.
She couldn't fuck it up.
After a few moments of unbearable silence, she finally heard the man's voice speak up.
"Name the killer in Friday the 13th,"
Casey's lips pursed into a mad smile. She fucking knew this.
"Jason! Jason! It was Jason!" she shrieked madly, leaping to her feet.
"I'm sorry…that's the wrong answer,"
Casey's heart sank. It couldn't be. The killer was Jason fucking Voorhees, she knew it was.
"No it's not! No it's not, it was Jason!" Casey protested.
"I'm afraid not...no way" the man replied.
"Listen, it was Jason, I saw that movie twenty goddamned times!" Casey yelled angrily, her hands clenched into tight fists around the tear-stained sleeves of her sweater.
"Then you should know that it was Jason's mother, Mrs. Voorhees, who was the original killer! Jason didn't show up until the sequel…" the man explained, with an evil laugh.
Stupefied, Casey felt her stomach sinking. Her body became racked with horror, and her knees almost buckled beneath her. He was right. The bastard was fucking right. It was the mother in the first film.
"You tricked me..." she said.
"Lucky for you, there's a bonus round. But I'm afraid poor Steve…"
God No, Casey thought.
"He's out,"
Casey was suddenly numb from head to toe. She couldn't move or scream. She was dumbfounded.
All of a sudden, through the glass, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shadowy figure leap from the bushes and a black, gloved hand clamp tightly over Steve's mouth and pull his head back. She saw the flash of silver and her eyes grew wide as she heard the sound of ripping fabric. Then came the horrible sound of flesh tearing and Steve's muffled cry through the phone, and she cried out, leaping to her feet instinctively, scrambling towards the patio doors and flicking on the light. She had no time to scream or react. No time to open the door and save him.
It was too late.
His collared shirt had been ripped open at the seams, and his stomach had been sliced wide open. Steve was beyond dead. His head was slumped back lifelessly in the chair…a pool of blood was beginning to form beneath him, his guts were spilling out of the gaping wound and onto his lap; a steaming pile of entrails had begun to form at his feet. The killer had disappeared back into the shadows.
Casey didn't have the strength to scream or run. She collapsed again…utterly horrified…her mouth agape in terror. She felt another overpowering wave of nausea come over her, and she doubled over, gagging at the sight, trying to maintain her composure...
She let out another blood-curdling scream.
"Steve!" She shrieked, pounding her fists on the hardwood floor, hysterical. She could hear the killer's evil, maniacal laughter on the phone...enjoying every minute of this… Casey jumped to her feet and turned off the light, immersing herself in darkness once again.
She scrambled backwards into her hiding spot, ducking down behind the television set.
"Hey…we aren't finished yet…" she heard the killer growl from the other line.
Casey reached down with a trembling hand, groping for the phone in the darkness. She found it and put it to her ear…trembling…her voice almost gone from screaming…
"Please…please leave me alone…" she begged. Maybe it would all be a joke, she thought. Maybe Steve wasn't dead. Maybe it was all just an elaborate joke. Maybe it was all a prank by the kids at school and they would all jump out from behind a wall and yell Gotcha!
Or maybe, this was too real and it was all wishful thinking.
"Answer the final question, and I will," the killer demanded.
Casey sobbed into the tear-stained sleeve of her sweater. She didn't have the strength to protest. She curled up back into a fetal position, softly crying, listening to his voice…She would do anything at this point. Anything to get him to stop.
"What door am I at?" the man asked. "There are two main doors to your house, the front door and the patio doors. Answer correctly and you live,"
Casey looked towards the front door and then towards the patio doors. She studied them both, trying to deliberate between the two. Fuck this, she finally said to herself. She wasn't playing his games anymore. She grabbed a letter opener off the desk, and clutched it tightly in her hands.
"I can't do this…I won't…" she said.
Everything went deathly quiet. Casey listened in horror, still holding a death grip on the phone.
She waited for something to happen…anything…
Then, his voice whispered something...
"...Your call..."
Just as things grew maddeningly silent, the patio doors imploded inwards as one of the patio chairs came flying through the glass. Bits of wood and shards of glass sprayed across the room and Casey took off through the house in one instinctual bound, dropping the letter opener in sheer panic. She ran through the darkened house, barreling down the hallway into the kitchen, oblivious to the popcorn engulfed in flames on the stove, the tin foil expanding far beyond its normal capacity. She scanned the kitchen for a better weapon, anything she could find to defend herself.
She ran towards the butcher block on the kitchen island and grabbed the handle of the longest, sharpest knife and pulled it out of the block.
Casey then whirled around to face the door to the hallway, holding the knife out in front of her in a defensive pose. She could barely see anything. Thick smoke filled the room, enveloping her. She made her way through the kitchen, the knife in one hand and the phone in the other, listening...She could hear someone in the living room…the sound of feet crunching over broken glass…
Oh God...she thought. He was in the house.
She had to get out. Get out, her mind screamed. She slowly inched her way towards her only escape, the side door. As she passed by the hallway, she peered down towards the living room just as a fleeting shadow darted past the hallway towards the stairs.
She held her breath in her throat, thinking... now was her chance to get out without him hearing her. She stopped, looked at the hallway and then looked back at the glass door at the side of the yard. Her only escape. No time to lose.
Casey clutched the knife tightly, gently pushed the side door open and slipped outside, closing it as quietly as she could. She glanced around at her surroundings...all she saw in front of her was wooden fencing; beyond that, the thick woods that surrounded her house...Could she run for it?
Where would she go? It would take miles to reach the nearest neighbor, and even farther into town. There could be more of them...out in the woods waiting for her. There was nowhere to run. Her yard was surrounded on two sides by a fence. She didn't have a car. She was like a caged animal awaiting its slaughter.
She looked down at the phone in her hand.
Would it do her any good to call the police? It would take them at least fifteen minutes to drive all the way out to her house.
Could she elude this psychopath for fifteen minutes? She didn't want to find out.
Her only option was to get to the road and just run and she would eventually find her parents on their way back home. And to get to the road, she had to make her way down the patio, past Steve, past the glass doors and get to the side of the house.
Fuck, she thought desperately.
She took a deep breath, and began inching her way down the side of the house. She clambered up onto the back porch and made her way towards the patio, ducking down to avoid being seen by the killer.
There were three curtain-less windows ahead. The lights in the house suddenly clicked on.
He was looking for her.
She crouched down underneath the first window, and stuck her head barely above the sill, peering into the house. Where the hell was he? And then, she caught a quick glance of someone in black, a shadowy phantom, moving like a silent hunter stalking their prey through the living room, and she ducked back down in a split second. Her heart pounding loudly, one hand with a white-knuckled grip on the phone and the other on the butcher knife, Casey crawled down the side of the house, poking her head up to look through the next window.
The killer was in the hallway now, moving towards the kitchen...his black cloak glided effortlessly from room to room like a ghost, illuminated by the glow of the flames...searching...she could hear his heavy breathing through the phone still in her hand.
Casey ducked back down as she saw him make his way into the kitchen. If she could buy herself some more time and run for the road…surely, her parents were on their way home by now. All she would have to do is run down the road and flag them down. If she could just get around to the front yard without him seeing her. She deliberated for a second, and then realized she had two choices: make as little noise as possible, and crawl underneath the windows, or just book it.
Casey curled her fingers tightly around the knife handle, her chest heaving…her heart racing... trying to stay as low as possible.
She didn't have much time. She had to act fast. She made the choice and crawled as fast and as quietly as she could on her hands and knees towards the patio doors and stopped at the third window looking into the living room…
She had to make sure he was still in the kitchen looking for her.
Casey slowly rose to her feet, looking into the window.
The window was completely blacked out.
She stood up and realized what it was. It was black fabric.
It was a cloak.
A black cloak.
The killer was staring right back at her through the window.
His face was covered by a ghostly white mask...the dark eyeholes stared into Casey's soul...The killer suddenly sprang forward, smashing through the window, grabbing Casey by her wrist in a talon-like grip, pulling her towards him. She screamed hysterically as the killer lunged at her again in a wild paroxysm, his head smashing through the remainder of the glass in the window and his strong hands grabbing her by the throat. The knife fell from her hands as she writhed in the ghost's grasp.
All Casey had was the cordless phone still clutched in her free hand.
She lashed out, clobbering him in his mask with the phone, and he growled in anger, staggering back into the smoke-filled interior of the house.
Casey forgot all about the knife still lying on the concrete. There was only one thing she could think of and that was getting away. Out to the road and to her parents.
She began to run.
Casey stumbled across the patio, cringing at the sight of her boyfriends corpse…still tied to the chair…his organs spilled onto his lap...She sailed around the corner of the house, sprinting across the yard.
Her eyes lit up as she saw her parents Chevy Camaro coming down the country road.
Casey cried out joyously, overcome with relief but it didn't last long.
As Casey passed by one of the several large, fully glass windows in the living room, the masked killer came smashing through from the inside, tackling her to the ground. Casey screamed and fell onto the grass, the killer coming down on top of her. She kicked, knocking the killer backwards, and she scrambled to her feet.
Casey ran towards the front of the house, watching as her parent's car pulled into the driveway. She extended her hand, reaching for them, trying to call out but right as she reached the corner of the house, a gloved hand clamped down on her mouth and yanked her backwards with immense force, and out of sight. She had time to glance over her shoulder and see the killer's demented eyes glaring down at her through the eyeholes in the ghost mask.
There was a flash of silver, and Casey didn't even feel it at first.
The knife plunged into the side of her chest.
Incredulous, Casey looked down at the wound as her chest began to blossom bright red. She fell onto the grass on her back, coughing, choking on her own blood bubbling up in her throat, the pain overwhelming her. She clutched her hand to the wound…feeling warm blood flowing between her fingers.
The masked figure came down on top of her, straddling her midsection and pinning her down, the knife poised to stab her again. Casey mustered up every ounce of strength she had left, and knocked the knife out of his hand with her fist. She swung her other fist at him, scratching and clawing at his mask, hitting at him with the phone in all but a futile effort. He was too strong.
His hands grabbed her by the throat and squeezed tightly.
Casey gagged for air, clawing at the gloved hands that were choking the life out of her and crushing her larynx.
Her parents climbed out of the Camaro just a few yards away, oblivious to the horror. Casey heard the car door slamming and it sent a jolt of energy through her. She managed to wriggle one of her legs free from underneath him, and just as her eyes were beginning to roll into the back of her head from the lack of oxygen, she lifted up her knee, slamming it into her attacker's groin.
The killer let out a pained groan, and staggered over to the side, growling in anger and clutching himself...Casey was free, and she didn't have much time. Wincing at the pain that paralyzed the entire left side of her body, Casey gave a grunt as she flipped herself over onto her belly and started to pull herself up into a crawling position. She managed to lift her head up and she watched as her parents walked from the car towards the house, chatting idly...their chatter blurred in and out of hearing...in between Casey's own ragged breathing and the throbbing in her head and chest from being strangled, she could hear them talking about the fish at dinner, and about the tulips in the small flower bed in the garden. She weakly crawled across the grass towards them, trying to lift herself up enough to walk, but the pain was too much to bear.
She could barely breathe. The knife had punctured her lung and blood was gushing from the gash just under her collarbone; she felt the warmth of the liquid pouring between her fingers.
"Mom..." her voice barely rose to a strained whisper. She put a hand up to her throat, trying to make sound come out, but all that came out was a dry, rasping sound. Her trachea was virtually crushed.
Just as she managed to pull herself up onto the front porch, feeling the wood digging into the palms of her hands, she watched in disbelief as her parents disappeared inside the house; the front door shut tightly behind them.
She didn't see the killer rising up behind her.
She was suddenly slammed to the ground by the killer's boot pressing down hard on her back. She hit hard against the wooden porch, her breath escaping her. She couldn't get up or fight. She had gone limp.
The masked killer flipped Casey's barely alive body over on her back as she looked up at him helplessly. All she could do was watch. She could feel the blood soaking her, draining from her, along with her life...
It was all over now.
She gazed up at him, pleading with her eyes…unable to do anything but reach her trembling hand up with the little bit of strength she had left and yank on the blood-splattered, rubber ghost mask that covered his face. As she saw who was under the mask, she began to sob, and her vision slowly began to blur in various shades of red...and white…
Her life was slowly slipping away and her last vision was the look of utter loathing and hatred of that face, the face that she knew...she couldn't believe it.
"Why?" Casey managed to say, her eyes filling with more tears...she could only lie there and watch.
The killer lifted the knife into the air and brought it down.
Mr. and Mrs. Becker stepped through the front door and froze.
"What the hell?.." Mr. Becker muttered under his breath.
Both of their faces drained of color as they saw the shattered patio doors and the glass littering the floor...the patio chair lay overturned in the middle of the living room.
"Oh God..." she exclaimed.
"Casey?!" Mr. Becker called into the smoke-filled house.
There was no answer. Just an oppressive silence that hung in the air like deadweight.
"I'll look upstairs," Mr. Becker said and dashed up the staircase, calling his daughter's name frantically.
Mrs. Becker was galvanized into action when she sniffed the air, noticing the telltale odor of smoke and the shrill beeping of the alarm. She sprinted into the kitchen, coughing and fighting her way through the thick smoke.
The pan of Jiffy Pop that her daughter had been making was ablaze; tall orange flames lapped at the ceiling above the stove.
She snatched a dish towel off of the counter, threw it over the burning popcorn, picked up the pan by the wooden handle, and threw it into the sink.
She turned on the tap, and the flames were slowly extinguished by the running water.
"Casey?! Casey!" Mrs. Becker screamed hysterically.
She ran back down the hallway into the foyer, screaming for her daughter, colliding with her husband as he came barreling down the staircase.
"Oh god, she's not upstairs!" Mr. Becker cried.
"Where is she? Casey!" Mrs. Becker screamed again, the panic of the situation starting to overtake her.
"Call the police," her husband told her, and they both ran for the phone on the end table by the door.
Mrs. Becker picked up the phone and began to dial 911, when she stopped short.
She heard something...strange, garbled sounds coming from the other line.
Someone was using another phone in the house.
Someone was on the line. Mrs. Becker slowly put the phone to her ear, praying and hoping to hear the soft, sweet voice of her daughter.
"Casey, baby?" she said into the phone.
Her husband listened, horrified out of his mind, his eyes searching the house madly for Casey.
There was a dragging sound, and a horrible slicing sound on the other line, and a teenage girl's pained cries.
"Casey?! Casey, is that you? Casey?!" Mrs. Becker screamed into the phone.
Casey's whimpering came over the line, and Mrs. Becker's heart sank, instantly recognizing her daughter's pained voice.
Suddenly, a man's unintelligible voice came over the line...it was rough and harsh.. There was a loud THUD and another slicing sound...and then click...The line went dead.
Mrs. Becker's knees almost gave out beneath her as she heard the drone of the dial tone fill the room and she let the phone fall from her trembling hand and stared into her husband's eyes. Someone had her daughter. God, they had her...she thought. They both exchanged knowing glances. Her husband's grimace tightened and he tried to regain his composure, trying to stay sane for his wife.
But on the inside, he was scared shitless just as much as her and he knew something was horribly, horribly wrong.
"No...No, not my daughter...not my daughter..." Mrs. Becker whimpered, shaking her head, crying..
"Listen to me...Drive down to the Mackenzie's house and call the police. Ok?" Mr. Becker said, guiding his wife towards the door. She was barely able to stand up.
Mrs. Becker opened the door and stumbled weakly outside onto the porch with her husband, holding his hand tightly, making their way towards the car.
And then, they both stopped dead in their tracks at what they saw.
Their gaze was directed towards the huge oak tree in the front yard.
Something was hanging from one of the branches.
Mrs. Becker let out a gut-wrenching scream at the sight and fell to her knees.
Casey was strung up like a slab of meat in a slaughterhouse, a rope tied tightly around her neck. Her face was chalky white, her eyes had sunk back into her skull, and her stomach had been ripped open, a pile of steaming organs lay underneath her.
The cordless phone was still grasped tightly in her right hand.
Casey's father stared on in horror.
Mrs. Becker screamed again as the rope suspending her daughter in mid-air suddenly snapped, coinciding with the thunder rumbling softly in the sky, the oncoming storm mingling with the sound of a mother's anguished cries and lightning flashing.
The Woodsboro murders had begun.