Everything around Sam evaporated into silence until all she could hear was her blood pounding in her ears. Though most of her jacket covered the back of the seat, next to her, in the reflection of the black metal of the chair, stood her father. He gazed down at her as though he stood just over her shoulder, arms crossed over his bloodied chest.

"Get up, Sam. Those motherfuckers just murdered your sister. Get up."

Tears trailed down her cheeks as she slowly turned her gaze to the stage, chin trembling with the fury that had started to build.

Billy pointed to the knife in her hand. "This is revenge, Sam. Use it. Make them pay for taking your sister from you."

A part of Sam faded away—the part that died when Ghostface ripped the knife from Tara's back. She fiddled with the hilt of the knife in her hand, already picturing just how she'd avenge her sister. She would make them pay.

"Get up, Sam."

She glanced back at the reflection in the back of the chair, but instead of her father, she saw herself standing above her. She wore her father's clothes, held his knife, and tears stained her blood-spattered cheeks. "Get up, Sam," she told herself. "Make them pay for Tara. Make them suffer."

All she could see was red, and within that, a lethal calm set in. Sam glanced at the knife in her hand, jaw clenched as her pulse raced, and stood.

Danny tried to pull her back, but she yanked out of his grasp, gaze set on the two Ghostface's on the stage. His hand yanked on her again, and this time, she stumbled to the side.

Then his gun went off, and the Ghostface to the left dropped.

Another shot, but this time a light on the ceiling sparked on impact.

Sam whirled to see a third Ghostface grappling with Danny for control of the gun. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," she growled.

Then a third shot echoed through the auditorium and Danny wavered a moment before he collapsed.

"Danny," Sam gasped, but he didn't move. She took a trembling breath, the leash on her building fury wavering. "Motherfucker, I am going to kill you."

She weighed the knife in her hand and stepped to charge the Ghostface when he looked up and raised the gun, barrel pointed between Sam's eyes.

Sam halted.

Then, the Gostface lifted a little white device to his mouth and said, "We told you we'd make you suffer, Samantha."

"Who the hell are you?" Sam stepped to the side so she could see all three Ghostfaces at once.

The Ghostface Danny had shot got to his feet, robes bloodless. Then, after glancing at Mindy and Sloane, slowly pulled the mask from his face.

An older woman with red hair plastered to the sides of her sweaty face, grinned, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Sam knew her. Knew that face—

"Mrs. Carmen?" Mindy said between ragged breaths. Her eyes were wide and she shook her head as though it weren't real.

Yes, that's who that was. Sam could see it now. The aura she oozed, one of hatred and mania—Sam hadn't recognized her as the same kind woman who lived just a few doors from them.

She closed her eyes.

She lived just a few doors from them. She'd been watching them since day one. Had known who they were and where they lived. "The attack outside the apartment building last night," Sam said, "that was you?"

Mrs. Carmen shook her head. "No. I had the pleasure of scaring the shit out of those two,"—she pointed at Mindy and the girl—"Chad and your sister today."

"You had left for the office to work on a project," Mindy said.

Mrs. Carmen rolled her eyes. "I had to have an alibi, of course. I was gone, so it couldn't have possibly been me to attack four innocent kids." She smirked, her brown eyes darkening. "Also, my name isn't Carmen."

She pulled the black robes off her, revealing a bullet proof vest with a bullet lodged in the upper right chest. The grin morphed into a scowl as she stared at Sam from the stage and pointed the bloody knife. "You are going to suffer." She laughed, but it was humorless and deranged. "Oh, killing your sister felt good. Felt like justice."

"I haven't done shit to you," Sam said.

"That's where you're wrong." She peered down at Tara's body and nudged it with a boot. Sam growled and lunged forward, but the hammer of the gun clicking behind her halted the next step. "You took everything from me," the woman continued. "You took my daughter, my son, and my husband from me. Everyone I love and care for. It's only fair I do the same for you."

Sam's eyes widened, the images of two Halloweens ago flashing in her mind: Tara plunging the knife into Ethan's mouth, the bullet through Quinn's head, and the dozens of stab wounds and final knife shoved into Detective Bailey's eyes socket.

She glanced up at the woman who sketched a bow. "Tracy Bailey," she said and then tsked. "I would say it's a pleasure, but it's not."

Sam shook her head. "I thought you were in prison?"

Tracy shrugged. "I got out." Another scowl twisted her face. "I was released a week after you murdered my family."

"They tried to kill me!" Sam exclaimed, pointing at herself. "They stalked me and my family like we were some prey to be hunted." That calm took over again—a fury so deep and fiery she fell into a trance-like state. Sam nearly grinned. "Turns out they fucked with the wrong family."

A shot echoed through the auditorium, the acoustics of the layout carrying the sound all around them. In that split second, Sam grasped her right thigh, groaning as the flesh and muscle of her hamstring shredded under the bullet's path. She sank to a knee, breaths coming quicker as the pain grew and spread like the blood under her palm.

She glanced over her shoulder and glared at the Ghostface, arm still raised from the shot.

Through the white device in his hand, Ghostface laughed. "I could kill you right now, Samantha."

Sam grimaced, and to keep from losing her balance, she used the tip of the knife as an anchor point in the floor and leaned a hand on the end of the hilt. "Then why don't you just kill me and get this over with?" she spat.

Ghostface waved the gun in the air and knelt a few feet in front of her. "Because you don't get to die so quickly. There are people here whom you have to suffer for, and I have yet to have my fun."

Sam closed her eyes, willing her heartrate to slow. If she didn't do something soon, she'd bleed out. She exhaled. "If you want me to suffer, then make me suffer. Please just let my friends go. They've suffered enough."

The Ghostface with the gun tsked, moving the gun back and forth with each tsk. "No, no, no, Samantha. That's not this works. We know how to make you suffer. You can handle the physical pain." He motioned to the few visible scars scattered along Sam's skin not hidden by her olive tank top.

Sam's stomach dropped. He'd warned her—no, had threatened her. I don't have to hurt you to make you suffer. She glanced at Tara's motionless body. They'd already killed her sister. Now they only had—No, God, no. She whipped her gaze up to Mindy and the girl clutching her. They were both bleeding, and Mindy had a knife protruding from her shoulder blade. She seemed to be pleading quietly with her. Sam looked at her lips and at the name Mindy whispered. Sloane?

Oh, God. The girl from the formal.

And—the formal. Images flashed through Sam's head. Tara wearing a jacket far too big as Chad carried her—

Sam cursed. Where was Chad? He was nowhere to be seen. She prayed he wasn't bleeding out in the shadows somewhere.

Tracy flipped the knife in her hand and stalked toward Sloane and Mindy, a wicked gleam in her eyes. A muffled groan escaped Mindy's lips as she tried to move away, but Sloane was there, pushing Mindy behind her. She faced Tracy in the middle of the stage while Mindy shook her head, fingers grasping at Sloane's jeans.

Tracy Bailey lunged, the blade barely missing Sloane's already blood-soaked torso. As the girl dodged, she used her left hand to uppercut Tracy, the smack of skin against skin like an explosion through the auditorium.

Tracy stumbled back, lip bloody. She scowled. "You're going to die a whole lot slower now."

Sam grimaced when her hamstrings spasmed and more blood leaked down her jeans.

Despite the knife protruding from her shoulder, Mindy stood in front of Sloane, exposing herself to Tracy's wrath. "You will not take someone else from me while I'm still breathing."

Tracy smirked. "I'm happy to make sure you're not when I slit her throat."

"Fuck you," Mindy spat.

"Fuck you," Tracy retorted.

Cold metal burned Sam's back. "Move," the Ghostface behind her said. "Any sudden movements and I'll shoot you before you can even think about putting that knife through my mask."

Sam pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly when the blood rushed from her head. Though she didn't release the knife, she kept her hands raised. "I thought you wanted me to suffer before I died?"

"I'll still settle for a dead Samantha Carpenter if that's what it comes to."

As the Ghostface shoved her toward the stage and toward Tracy and the other masked Ghostface, Sam's thoughts were a storm inside her mind. She had to get control of that gun. Or at least make sure none of the Ghostfaces could use it.

The bullet lodged in her leg burned, and she nearly collapsed to a knee. Sam clenched her jaw and muscled through the pain.

As she climbed the stage stairs, she glanced at Mindy who gave a subtle shake of her head.

Then she forced herself to glance at Tara's bloodied form sprawled over the wooden slats. She stared as if she had the power to make her little sister's back move or even twitch. Just some sign that all hope wasn't lost. Breathe, she silently begged. Please breathe.

But Tara's back didn't lift even an inch.

Sam's hands began to shake again as that calm fury spread. They would all die. They would die here, and this night would be the end of it all. After tonight, there would be no more hunts, no more death, and no more vengeance. Their deaths would never be enough, but she'd take watching them die over seeing them rot in jail.

Tara was dead. Her little sister was dead, and Sam wouldn't let any of them out of this auditorium alive.

Ghostface jabbed the barrel of the gun into Sam's back and shoved her between Mindy and Tracy. She stumbled, barely catching herself from sliding to her knees.

Mindy reached out a hand, but Tracy waved her knife. "Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast."

"Bitch," Sloane hissed from behind Mindy. Her hands were placed precariously around the blade sticking out of Mindy's flesh.

The second Ghostface walked around Tracy to stand across from Sam. He tilted his head.

Now they were all in a circle, and each Ghostface was armed. Though Sam had a knife in her hand, she could only do so much with a gun at her back and two other Ghostfaces.

They stared at one another for a few seconds before the second Ghostface pulled off his mask, revealing another woman with brown hair. Her face seemed familiar, but Sam couldn't quite tell why.

Sloane gasped, still holding Mindy upright. "Professor Chrisk?"

Pain etched itself in Mindy's features. "Tara said Ghostface stabbed you. You were dead."

Professor Chrisk exhaled through her nose. "Oh, honey, but I wasn't." She revealed a second knife from her robes and pressed the tip to a finger. The blade retracted, springing harmlessly in and out of the hilt. "It's easy to make it look like a stabbing when the people witnessing it are already expecting it to be real." She glared at Sam. "You, Samantha, murdered my son."

Sam shook her head, utterly confused. "Ethan?"

"Richie."

"Oh my God," Mindy whispered, "this franchise has lost its originality."

Sam gaped. "Richie was your—" She glanced at Tracy Bailey and then back at the professor. "Do you know that he stabbed me? Richie idolized my father and tried to kill me as part of his fucked-up horror movies. Tried to make me the villain."

"And what makes you the hero here, Sam?" Professor Chrisk said. "Hmm? It's all about perspective. To me, Richie was right to cast you as the villain in his movie. Five people have died and you personally killed three of them." She waved her knife. "None of this is unwarranted. You slit my son's throat and then stabbed my ex-husband forty-three times before shoving a knife through his eye socket." She shrugged. "This is revenge."

Mindy glanced at Sam and whispered, "Her name—it's an anagram."

At last, Sam put it together. "Professor Chrisk is—"

She tapped the end of the knife to her forehead and saluted. "Nora Kirsch."

Sam shook her head, mouth open as she tried to comprehend who the hell those two people were and what they had to do with this. Then, she turned around to face the third Ghostface and the barrel of Danny's gun.

He held the white device up to his mouth and the Ghostface voice whispered, "I've been waiting a long time for this, Samantha."

"I have no idea who you are," Sam said, gaze flitting between Tracy and Nora. "I've never even met you two."

"You never had the need to," Tracy said. "Your reputation precedes you as the psychotic daughter of Billy Loomis whose slut-bag of a mother slept around with half the town."

Sam sneered. "I'd hate to know how you felt about your own daughter, then because Quinn slept with half of New York."

Tracy growled and poked the bloodied knife at Sam's face. "Shut the hell up."

Sam cocked her head, a smirk picking at the corner of her lips. "It was quite impressive, actually. Her legs were open more than the Seven-Eleven down the block—"

Tracy slashed the knife across the inside of Sam's bicep, tearing through tender skin. Sam gasped but couldn't move back because the third Ghostface slammed the hilt of the gun between her shoulder blades.

"I'm going to fucking kill you for what you did to my daughter," Tracy hissed.

Sam glanced at the blood dripping onto her boot and then back at Tracy Bailey. "It was either her or me." She glared at Tracy. "But now that I think about it, she got what she fucking deserved." Quinn had gotten off easy with just a bullet to the head. Her father on the other hand...

Sam didn't regret what she'd done to Detective Bailey. Not in the slightest. Her fingers grasped the hilt of the knife a little tighter. In fact, she'd happily do the same for all three Ghostfaces now.

Tara was dead and they would pay.

Sam rolled her eyes and said over her shoulder, "Before I kill you all, why don't you join the party? What's your part in this and why do you want me dead?"

Ghostface cocked his head. "Oh, Samantha. We're the same, you and I."

"I doubt that."

He chuckled and the sound sent chills up her arms. "Did you really think you were the only one with fucked-up family history?" The Ghostface grasped his mask and lifted from his face.

Sam's knees went weak.

He was practically a carbon copy of his father. The hair, the face, the sociopathic gleam in his eyes—it was as if he'd been cut out of the 1996 newspaper clip headlining the first Woodsboro Massacre.

"Holy shit," Mindy breathed. "That's Stu Macher."

"Close, but no cigar." The boy sketched a bow. "Stan Macher. His bastard son."

Sam couldn't believe how similar they looked. She shook her head. "Stu's dead."

Stan cocked his head. "So is your dad, but yet you're here."

"Yeah, because my dad got someone pregnant by cheating on Sidney Prescott." Sam eyed the gun perched precariously between Stan's two fingers.

"Like I said, we're the same, you and I." Stan stared at Sam from beneath his brows and grinned. He even had Stu's maniacal smile.

"So what are you saying?"

"My dad isn't dead. He never died."

"I fucking knew he wasn't dead," Mindy whispered.

"But he's paralyzed," Stan continued. "That TV crushed his C1 through C4 vertebrae, leaving him paralyzed from the neck down. He should have died that day. That would have been a better way to go."

Sam glanced at Tracy and Nora. "And how is any of this relevant?"

Stan tapped the end of the gun to his temple and chuckled. "My dad cheated on Tatem. Got some hot druggie pregnant. In fact, he thinks it might have happened the night before everything went down." He nodded when Sam made a face. "Oh, yes, he told me all about that girl. He was so proud of how he killed her. That's all he'd talk about when I would visit him in prison." Stan waved a hand. "That's beside the point. You asked how this is relevant." He exhaled. "Well, Samantha, my fucked-up life is how I came to be here. My mother continued to drink and do drugs throughout pregnancy, and after I was born, she only got worse. Nothing like having mommy issues, right?"

Sam sneered at him, adjusting her grip on the knife's hilt.

"When I was eighteen, my mother was arrested for possession and intent to deliver. I was glad to be rid of her. I rarely visited her, and I only did after she had sobered up." Stan pointed at Nora Kirsch. "She happened to be vising Tracy the same day I was visiting my mother. I overheard their conversation—or at least Nora's half of it." He bared his teeth in a grin. "All I heard was Billy Loomis' daughter and my attention was peaked." He shrugged, rolling his eyes at Sam. "All I heard for two decades was 'Billy this,' 'Billy that'."

Stan tapped the tip of the gun against his temple again, but this time it was harder. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "My father is a sociopath, my mother is an addict, and I am their fucked-up child neither one really wanted."

"So what?" Sam scoffed. "Parents suck. Join the club."

"No, that's the point!" Stan said, voice rising. He jabbed the end of the gun at Sam, the crazed look in his eyes becoming more prominent. "I am a freak. I am a sociopath just like my father, but you, Samantha," Stan cooed, "I want to know what makes you tick." He cocked his head. "You're Billy Loomis' daughter, but just how similar are you to dear old dad?"

Stan pulled a knife from inside his robes and dragged the tip along the surface of Sam's cheek. He leaned in, breath hot against her skin. "After slicing your calf in your apartment stairwell, I know you bleed red like I do, but I want to open you up and see what you look like inside." He cackled, the sound high-pitched. "Do you think you look like I do?"

Sam grimaced and tried to turn from him, but Stan just dug the blade deeper into the soft of her cheek, drawing blood. "Fuck you," she muttered.

Stan glanced at Tracy and nodded.

Before she could react, Tracy sliced along Sam's ribs, ripping through her tank top. Her flesh opened in wake of the blade and blood soaked the material down to the waistband of her jeans. Then Tracy wrapped and arm around Sam's neck, and the touch of cool, sharp metal against Sam's throat halted her.

She eyed Mindy who's whole body shook. She wouldn't last much longer.

Sam ignored that along with the burning of her side and instead focused on Stan who threw his Ghostface robes off.

He lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing a long scar down the center of his torso. He said, "I've already tried to see what makes me tick. I know what I look like inside, but I'm curious if we look like our parents inside and out."

Sam's throat bobbed against the knife's edge. "You're psychotic."

"No, I'm sociopathic. There's a difference."

She thought through how she'd escape Tracy's grasp and lunge for Danny's gun, hopefully catching Stan off guard. "Makes no difference to me," she said, "because all I see are three dead bodies."

Stan laughed. "Really? I was thinking the same thing." His gaze landed on Tara's body and he tsked. "Well, four bodies."

Nora Kirsch spoke up. "Enough already, Stan. You promised us revenge. Let us have it already."

"All in good time, Nora." Stan then looked at Sam again and that smile disappeared. "I said you'd suffer for what you've done." He jerked his chin at Tracy and Nora. "First, you'll watch your friends die, which will be vengeance for their families, and then I get you all to myself. Billy Loomis' daughter and Stu Macher's son. What a wonderfully deranged pair."

Stan was right. She was Billy Loomis' daughter.

Sam let all her sorrow and rage build until there was so much tension under her skin, she felt like her muscles might burst.

Perhaps it was time she became just that—a killer.

A wicked smile blossomed on her lips as she stared at Stan. She let that hideous part she'd inherited from her father—the part she'd locked away—come out to play.

In that moment, it wasn't Samantha Carpenter who rose to the surface, but Samantha Loomis. Her mind cried for blood, pain, and death, and she would answer.

Stan's gaze locked on Sam's and his eyes widened as if he could see the shift in her, but he couldn't get a word out before all hell broke loose.