The first few weeks of school passed with little to speak of—and to Christina, no news was good news. Her schedule for her final year of high school consisted of biology, homeroom, Algebra II, government, Spanish, second lunch, Advanced English, drama, and then study hall. Christina shared the latter two classes with Judy. Her best friend was still her regular ride to and from school, and she saw John after football practice. She kept her head down, did her work, and minded her own business.
Then again, it was difficult to mind her own business when she still shared study hall with Billy Loomis, when he more often than not dared to sit across from her and Judy at one of the long library tables, saying nothing, but still asserting his looming presence. His cologne was uncomfortably familiar to her now.
Christina wondered if he could smell it on her. Or if Judy could, for that matter. If anyone could tell that she was not the same girl she was when she arrived in Woodsboro half a year earlier. Indeed, she and John had done it three times now—she had beat Tatum Riley. Sweaty, sticky prolonged embraces, each time minutely better than the last. His large football-player hands had left invisible burns along her body, stinging sweetly whenever she thought of them. Were her marks perceptible to anyone else?
That weekend, Christina returned home to find it empty: her father was still at work, as usual, but her mother was also gone. A note left on the kitchen island read, in her mother's impeccable handwriting: Christina, went to the Costco in Santa Rosa. Will be gone for a while. Money on the coffee table for pizza. Be ready to help unload the car later! Love you!
Christina smiled to herself. She couldn't complain about a few hours alone. However, she was momentarily dispirited when, half-way up the stairs to her room, she stopped, feeling a familiar dampness begin to emerge from between her legs. She cursed under her breath and rushed to the bathroom, thankfully saving one of her favorite pairs of jeans from the blood that had blotted her underwear. She was usually better about tracking her cycle, but had slacked since moving to Woodsboro. Her diary had taken more of her attention when it came to the documentation of noteworthy events.
Over the next hour, Christina marked the date on her personal calendar, began a load of laundry, and took a long shower. Her hair wrapped in a towel, she dressed in a t-shirt and long pajama pants, picked up the phone, and ordered a large Hawaiian pizza with extra pineapple, her monthly friend having triggered her sweet tooth. She ate three slices of pizza when it arrived thirty minutes later and settled contently into a marathon of Twin Peaks reruns, not even realizing she was dozing off until the shrill ring of the phone was waking her up some time later.
She sat up abruptly. It was nearly dark now, and she could see on the stove clock from the blur of her sleep-disoriented eyes that it was past seven. The phone persisted from its place in the corner of the kitchen counter.
"Mom? Dad?" Christina inquired to the otherwise empty house. Realizing she was still very much alone, she rubbed her eyes and stumbled to the counter to answer the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, Christina."
It was a man's voice, low and unfamiliar to her.
"Um, hi. May I ask who's calling?"
"You can ask, sure. It doesn't mean I'll answer."
Christina stood up straight then, suddenly feeling wide awake.
"Who is this?"
"A friend of a friend."
"Well, there's only a few people in Woodsboro that I would truly consider friends."
"Is that true?"
"Yes, and none of them would appreciate you messing around with me like this. Goodnight."
She hung up, huffing in annoyance, but had only just began to walk away when the phone rang again. She pressed the answer button and immediately hung up, not even putting it to her ear.
Five minutes later, another call.
"Hello?" Christina answered, gripping the phone with moistening palms. The possibility that it could have been one of her parents had swayed her.
"Don't hang up on me again, Christina," the voice came from the other end, firm but not angry. "It's rude."
As he spoke, Christina took a deep breath and steadied herself, attempting to pick apart any idiosyncrasy in the mysterious caller's intonation, pitch, or pronunciation, grasping for any little thing that could point to a familiar source. She decided to keep him talking.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You're right, I shouldn't hang up on someone with such a…sexy voice."
A small, breathy chuckle emanated from the other end; Christina could have gagged.
"I don't think John would appreciate you saying that."
An awful feeling began to bubble in the pit of her stomach. The name of the sole teenager who lived at her address on Whispering Lane could have easily been ascertained through a number of means—Woodsboro was a small town, after all. But to mention her boyfriend by name—whoever this creep was, they knew who she was. She turned away from the mouthpiece to gulp; she couldn't sound nervous.
"Are you friends with John?"
"Not exactly."
"Is this Steven Orth?"
"No, I'm not Steve. Tell you what: I'll give you two more chances to guess."
"Oh, really? You're gonna 'give' me another chance?" she challenged, the exasperation evident in her tone. "And what happens if I'm wrong both times?"
"You lose."
"What happens if I lose?"
"You'll find out soon enough," the voice said, snickering. "You should consider yourself very lucky though, Christina. I'm not after you. Not really. Unless you piss me off, of course. But I do have a question for you: do you like scary movies?"
"Do I like scary movies?" Christina considered the question out loud, a sense of recognition dawning on her. She had heard quite enough. "Goddammit—Randy is this you?"
"No, I'm not—"
"Goodnight, Randy." She ended the call with a triumphant click, satisfied that she was right. When the phone was ringing once again before she could put it down, she quickly decided she could no longer be cheeky. Randy was taking this too far. "Listen, Randy, this isn't fucking funny!"
"No, you listen, Christina," came the voice with a snarl. "If you fucking hang up on me again, your mommy and daddy are going to come home to find their baby girl covered in blood!"
That awfulness in her stomach festered, spread its ugly hands out and tugged at her insides. Her hands were so clammy now that she feared the phone might slip from her vice-tight grip.
"H-how did you know…?"
"Oh, I have my ways of knowing, Christina," he said, this time over-enunciating the syllables of her name. Chris-teen-uh. Drawing it out; exaggerating it. Mocking her. "But like I said, I'm not after you. For your sake, don't give me a reason. No, right now the only role you play in my little plan is…my guinea pig."
"Your guinea pig for what?"
"For…my new voice." She could hear that he was smiling wickedly, whoever he was. "You still have one more guess."
"Is…is this…?" Christina licked her lips. Every inch of her was quivering. Her eyes darted nervously to every window in sight. Every curtain was drawn, but somehow this person knew she was home alone—a petite teenage girl with no athletic inclinations to speak of, nor knowledge of self-defense beyond basic instinct. She found herself walking mechanically to the knife block and pulling out the biggest one. The answer was clear to her now, though—or at least she thought it was. She had been wrong twice before. There was only one person she had met in Woodsboro who had made her feel close to this amount of discomfort. "Is this Billy? Billy Loomis?"
A beat of silence passed, but when he responded, he sounded more amused than ever.
"No. I'm not Billy, either."
"Oh…" The hand holding her only means of defense was so tight and shaky, had she looked she could have seen the blue of her veins bulging from beneath her skin. "So…are you going to…hurt me now or something? Since I lost?"
"Hmm…no. You've been a good girl. It'd be a shame to waste such a pretty thing, especially since there's still plenty of time to have more fun with you later."
"Oh…um, thanks," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. "So, can I hang up now? M-may I?"
"Just one more thing, Christina," he said. "You didn't answer my question earlier. Do you like scary movies?"
"I guess."
"You guess?" the voice said, dissatisfied. "Oh come on now, you should be proud of your interests. There's no shame in being a horror fan."
"Yeah," Christina acquiesced, "I like scary movies."
"Which one's your favorite?"
"Um…probably Carrie. I w-watched it for the first time a little while ago and I really enjoyed it. Or maybe Rosemary's Baby."
"What about slashers?"
"Well, I really like Psycho too—that's technically a slasher, isn't it?"
"You've done your homework! Looks like it's saved your life. I'll let you go now, Christina, but I'll tell you this: it's good you like scary movies, because pretty soon, you're going to be living in one. All of Woodsboro will be."
"What does that—?"
But her answer came in the form of the line going dead. The mysterious caller had ended his terrible game.