A/N: Yes, another allusion to the Scream style. Any slasher really. We need to reference a prior tragedy and in this case, its the death of Tori's mother.
Side note: doing some deep research for an upcoming story. The narrative itself is rather simple but I wanted a very specific time and place so I need to do my homework.
Sinjin and Berf were working in Media Room #3. As the brains behind the Hollywood Arts yearbook (which has always been a video) they were editing some scant clips of students milling about in and out of the school. These would serve as filler in-between talking heads of teachers and students discussing the previous year and wondering what the future holds for the graduating class.
Back in 1989, when Hollywood Arts was established, the "yearbook" was a videotape. But by 2001, the format was abandoned for the DVD. It was something that set the institution apart from other high schools. Plus, since many alumni go onto to work in show business; it fit the aesthetic well.
"Hey, next year when we're seniors; who's gonna work on this?" asked Berf.
Sinjin gave it a thought.
"I dunno. We've done the yearbook since we came to Hollywood Arts."
"Exactly," Berf said. "So, if it's us again, we'd better make sure not to forget to insert ourselves."
The wild-haired boy with glasses took out his little PDA.
"I'll make a note," he said.
Berf yawned and stood up.
"I'm going to get some coffee."
"Since when do you drink coffee?" asked Sinjin.
"Hey, dude. A man can grow."
Sinjin shook his head and put down his minicomputer.
"Wait, where are you getting coffee?" he asked.
Berk leaned his head out the door and nobody was coming down the hallway.
"Teacher's lounge," he whispered.
"What? No way, man."
"Why not?" asked Berf. "We're not allowed?"
"That and I heard the teacher's coffee sucks."
"Well, I'm all out of energy drinks and Cat took the last of my candy. I need a boost."
The skinny boy shrugged as his buddy left the room.
Sinjin went to save the section they had just finished when the phone rang.
The caller ID said the number was unknown.
"Nice try telemarketer," he smirked.
The cell continued to ring.
"Although," he thought. "It could be the CIA. Maybe I should answer."
Sinjin picked up the phone and pushed green.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Sinjin."
"Oh, you disguised your voice," he nodded. "I knew it!"
There was a short pause.
"What?"
"Classic secret government stuff," Sinjin replied. "What do you use...?"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU FUCKING SCARECROW!"
The boy was taken aback.
"You think that's appropriate for a CIA agent?"
"I'm not the goddamn CIA, dead boy."
"Then who are you?" he asked.
"The last person to see you alive if you don't do what I say!"
Sinjin sprang up to his feet, clenching the phone to his head.
"Do I have your attention now?"
"Yes," he gulped.
"Good. So, Sinjin. I've seen you out there, lugging that camera around. You're a shutterbug, aren't you?"
"A-A-A-l-little," he stammered.
"How about we work out a deal? You put your footage-all of it-into a bag and leave it outside this room."
Sinjin jumped and scanned the room in circled like a robot.
"Where are you?" he asked, scared.
"Not far," the voice chuckled. "I'm actually right behind you."
He turned around and a coat rack fell down, knocking him to the floor.
The cackling of the mysterious caller could be heard through the phone.
"HO HO HA HA HA HA HA...You really are gullible, aren't you?"
Sinjin got back up to his feet and put the phone down, turning on speaker. He then grabbed the blue duffel and started shoving videotapes and discs into it.
"Tick-tock. Tick-tock. I'm waiting."
"I'm hurrying," he huffed. "Just stay cool, man."
He then zipped up the bag and slowly opened the wooden door leading to the adjacent corridor. Sinjin looked left and right and left again.
Nobody around.
Sinjin lowered the bag, holding his breath the whole time.
"Is this all?" the stranger asked.
"Y-Yes, sss-sir!"
"Now why am I having a hard time believing you?"
"I promise I..."
The boy gasped and he looked back at his digital video camera. There was still a memory card inside.
"W-W-W-Wait!"
Sinjin grabbed the bag and scrambled for the table where the camera sat.
"Don't hang up! Don't hang up! I forgot one, I can still get it!"
He picked up the mini video cam and was having a hard time opening the tiny door that contained the card.
"Come on, come on..."
"You lied to me, Sinjin."
"No, I didn't! I swear!"
"All I asked was your worthless footage and you couldn't get that right. I'm afraid the deal is off."
His eyes widened when the call ended.
Sinjin made a run for the door but when he stepped one foot out of the room, Ghostface shoved his knife into Sinjin's shoulder. The tall teen cried out in pain. The masked killer then pushed Sinjin inside and slammed the door behind them.
Berf covertly left the teacher's lounge with the lukewarm mud left behind from earlier today.
He took a sip and made a face.
"Ugh, Sinjin was right. This is awful."
The boy was impeded by the closed door.
"What the...?"
He looked down and tried the knob and swung the door open.
"Sinjin, where are you?"
Berf noticed the spots of blood leading around the desk.
"Another nosebleed, dude?"
He followed the trail and dropped his coffee at his friend covered in his own blood. His eyes looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
"SIN! OH MY GOD!"
The curly-haired boy couldn't speak. He just shakily pointed at Berf.
"Huh?"
Before he could turn, a gloved hand grabbed his forehead and a knife slit his throat.
"What did they say?" asked Woods.
"There's some inconsistencies," answered Konrad.
"Like...?" asked David Vega.
"The samples of your daughter's handwriting from her schoolwork actually line up with the penmanship we see in the diary."
"Outrageous!"
"I wasn't done...sir," Konrad nervously said. "But the job application and postcard you presented us...not a match."
He spread the writing samples across the table and Woods and David leaned over them.
"According to Geddy, the handwriting expert; these are written by someone in a very natural way. But these reports and essays from her classes; they have a similar pattern to the diary. On closer inspection, he said, these look like somebody trying to imitate these."
"Because if you wrote it yourself," Woods pondered. "You wouldn't think about it. You'd just write."
"So, this diary isn't Trina," David pressed.
"Geddy doubts it," Konrad iterated. "Just too many clues pointing to an author second-guessing themselves. Almost to the letter, the flow is lacking. Shorter excerpts are one thing. But to write several paragraphs; the style is all over the map. Also, the spelling is weird upon a closer look."
Konrad pointed to one passage and David read it.
"Trina always knew how to spell Wednesday," he said. Then he closed his eyes and chuckled. "Ever since we watched The Addams Family."
"But she proceeds to misspell words that elsewhere that she normally gets right."
David and Woods exchanged looks.
"Those diary entries are written by someone completely different," Gary finally chimed in. "That's strike two."
He then looked at the detectives.
"Guess my old partner's instincts hold water. Someone is trying to set him up. But he's hardly a criminal genius."
"But they're still unstable," Konrad added. "I mean why steal a corpse?"
David flinched at the mention of his daughter in that light.
"Leverage," Woods answered.
He looked up at Gary.
"Think about all those wackos sitting on death row for decades. Countless victims they never confess to or burial sites they refuse to disclose. It's a negotiation tactic sometimes. But sometimes, they just revel in torturing the victim's families just a while longer. They want to be a constant thought in their lives. A boogeyman."
"That's what you think this is?" asked Gary.
"Sadly, yes." He looked over at David. "Just sticking a knife in you is too easy. They want you to suffer. They want you to lose everything, including your mind, before they're done."
Cat had finally calmed down from her ordeal and was taking a nap in her bed.
Tori left the door half open in case she needed help.
She went down into the living room and laid down on the couch.
Cat's mom had rushed home when she heard the news but, in her haste, she didn't lock up the office. She swore that she would be right back and bringing some dinner if the girls are hungry.
Tori picked up the remote and looked up toward the steps. Not wanting to make much noise, she took out her phone.
The Latina flipped through recent Slap postings, people saying some nice things about Trina. Albeit the superficial sort of things most folks say when somebody dies.
After reading for a bit, Tori put down her phone and rolled onto her side. She clutched a pillow to her chest and started sobbing.
"I'm sorry, Trina" she said aloud. "I wasn't there!"
Tori stuck her face into the pillow to better muffle her cries for Cat's sake.
She wiped her nose when her cell rang.
The little red rectangle danced on the wooden coffee table from the vibration.
Tori bit her lip before picking it up.
The screen read "Sinjin."
She blinked in confusion before answering.
"Hello?"
"Hello...Tori."
The tan girl sprang up, body totally tensed.
"What's wrong, Tori?" the voice taunted. "I don't know if the cat got your tongue, but my knife almost got your Cat."
Tori pulled at her hair, gritting her teeth.
"What do you want from me?" she asked in a tone mixed with anger and sadness.
"I just like tormenting you," he chuckled. "And if you think you had enough, you ain't seen nothing yet."
The line went dead.
Tori clutched her chest. Her heart was beating so fast.
"What am I going to do?" she whimpered.
"Run."
The voice behind the couch lunged from above. Tori slid away from the knife, slamming into the coffee table right in the funny bone.
"SHIT!"
Tori fled to the stairs as Ghostface raced after her. She was running so fast up the steps that the breath to speak or even scream wouldn't come.
She bolted into Cat's room and locked the door.
The redhead was sitting up at the sound of the raucous.
"Tori, what's going on?"
The taller girl threw her arms around her friend.
"The killer's here," she managed to say. "He...almost...g-g-got m-m-meee."
Cat jumped out of the bed away from Tori.
"QUICK! THE DRESSER!"
Tori rushed to her friend's aid and helped her move the chest of drawers in front of the bedroom door as a barricade.
The wooden door was being pounded on so hard, that the splintering of the wood could be heard. One of the white panels broke away and the black clad arm with the shiny hunting knife protruded through it as far as the figure on the other side could reach.
Tori saw a baseball bat leaning against Cat's closet and picked it up.
She ran toward the door and brought the piece of wood down as hard as she could on the stranger's outstretched arm.
The killer grunted and dropped the knife.
The girls dove down to get it with an old shirt laying around. They were careful not to touch it with their bare hands, especially the handle.
When they both looked up, it was dead quiet behind the door and the killer was seemingly gone.
"Where'd he go?" asked Cat.
"I dunno," said Tori. "Let's go out the window."
Cat looked at the door. She didn't know if he was hiding there, waiting.
"OK Come on," the redhead said.
Tori wrapped the weapon in the shirt and with no pockets to suffice, she stuffed it in her shorts.
Cat opened the window and gestured for Tori to go first.
The Latina hesitated.
"Go ahead," she whispered.
Tori just shook her head.
"I... I can't."
"Why not?" asked Cat.
"You first," Tori insisted. "In case he comes back."
Cat shook her head and climbed through her window feet first. It was about an eight-foot drop but there were thick bushes on the ground to soften the landing.
The petite girl let go and sure enough, she landed safely. She looked up, waiting for Tori to follow. The brunette nodded and started her descent.
"DON'T MOVE!"
The redhead screamed and started to run when a large police officer impeded her path.
"HOLD ON! POLICE!"
"Where did you come from?" asked Tori when she reached ground level.
Upon her fall, the cargo slipped out of her shorts onto the grass. Of course, the shirt had unfurled, revealing the knife.
"Now I have a question for you," said the cop eyeing Tori. "Where did that come from?"