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Any child who has the displeasure of being born and raised in Woodsboro will know three things:
- Come home when the street lights turn on
- Always bring a bagged lunch to school, because the cafeteria food is a week long toilet stay waiting to happen
- Woodsboro is cursed
Sam remembers the stories that were swapped around the campfire alongside marshmallows and Gram crackers. How years and years before, in a timeline her eight year old mind couldn’t quite conceptualize, there was an infamous serial killer. He was dubbed with the title of Ghostface , since the very few who had miraculously survived his knife couldn’t recall any discernible features, only that he wore a black robe and a Plague doctor mask painted over in a ghostly white.
Sam remembers how her eyes became dry as she stared wide and unblinkingly at the teen counselor who was telling them these tall tales, half a s’more forgotten in her hand as she raptly listened.
“Some believed it was multiple people, whilst others believed it to be a demon sent above to do the devil's bidding and collect it’s due.” Drawled Kirby, Cabin Five’s head counselor who, by the looks of her narrowed eyes and smirk, was taking too much pleasure from the horrified looks of the campers, “Now, this was in the year 1692, where a woman could sneeze weird and she’d be accused of witchcraft.” Kirby had rolled her eyes before continuing, “So of course, they decided witchcraft was to blame for everything. The town rounded up various women, and all pointed a collective finger at one Maureen Prescott. They didn’t even have a trial for her, so adamant that she was the culprit that they felt any time dilly dallying with a trial was time that could be used to slay more people.”
Sam remembered the feeling of melted chocolate running down the curves of her palms, around her wrists, but her eyes didn’t even so much as flicker in its direction, unable to leave Kirby as she began to talk with her hands, gesturing this way and that as she continued.
“She was tied up, was to be burned at the stake—“
“How could a person be burned at a piece of meat?” A bewildered young camper piped up, eyes squinting behind his glasses as he cocked his head to the side.
“Stake, as in wooden post, not as in Outback’s specialty dish.” Kirby had answered with amused exasperation.
“Then what happened?” Sam had asked.
Kirby grinned, eyes staring directly into Sam’s very own and holding the contact as she continued. “She placed a curse on the town. Those who come in can’t go out, everyone here is stuck here — even in death, for their body will be buried within Woodsboro soil. “With her dying breaths she swore that for wrongfully killing her the town will be plagued with ghostface slayings and possessions every ten years until her name is cleared and those who did this to her pay. One life for each minute it takes for her to die, which ended up being a brutal six minutes.”
“Well that’s not true!” Protested a squeaky voice, one Sam knew belonged to Richard Kirsch Bailey. “My Dad’s the sheriff, he said this is just a bogus old wives tale and all the killers are nuthin’ but lame copycats.” There’s a smugness in his tone that has Sam itching to throw her s’more into his face, but she resigns, taking a rather violent chomp out of it instead.
“That’s what they want you to believe, kid.” Kirby had sighed, tapping a finger to her temple. “But those of us with sharp minds, we know the truth.”
Kirby turned and sent a wink in Sam’s direction. Sam had beamed a smile, all chocolate smudges and gram cracker crumbs, something that only widened as she heard Richie guffaw and squeak out further protests.
The tale had burrowed into her brain like a worm into soil, becoming a part of her the same way her brown eyes were. The phonetics that made up the amusement and terror in Kirby’s recanting fused into her brain, stamping out staff and notes and time signatures for her own Homeric heart to play in tune.
Her favorite audience was made up of her baby sister Tara and her friends whom she’d babysit ; the twins Chad and Mindy, and little Wes. Mindy would always listen with big eyes and rapt attention, listening to Sam’s hundredth recanting of the tale as though it were the first, always requesting it at slumber parties and birthdays. Tara would curl into Chad’s side, and Chad would raise his arm to cover her eyes with his palm and hoped she wouldn’t point out the accumulated sweat, despite the fact that everything was told auditorily. Wes never lasted long, as he was using his emergency phone to call his mom to come pick him up before she could even get to the part about Maureen Prescott.
No matter how many times she told it, each finale consisted of Tara bolting from where she sat, whether it be a sleeping bag or a couch or a blanket fort, and hurtling herself towards Sam’s chest, Sam catching her with more and more ease over the years.
“I don’t like this story!” Tara had lisped when she first heard it at seven years old, just a year younger than Sam when she had first heard it. “They sound scary! I don’t like witches, not since that mean green one tried to hurt Dorothy and Toto!”
Sam smiled as she wrapped her arms around her, a hand coming to cradle the back of Tara’s head.
“Don’t worry Tare,” Sam bent down, whispering into Tara’s hair, “I won’t ever let any green witches or scary ghosts ever touch you.”
“You promise?” Tara had asked, lifting her face away from Sam’s shoulder and gazing up at her with wide, teary eyes.
“I promise.” Sam assured, kissing Tara’s nose before peppering kisses to each of her freckles, delighted in the happy squeal it had elicited from Tara.
“You gotta pinky promise.” Tara had scowled, the look adorable and the furthest thing from intimidating as she had held out her pinky.
“Pinky promise.” Sam declared as she hooked Tara’s pinky with her own, drawing them to her lips to place a kiss against them before she blew a raspberry on their skin.
“Ew! Sammy!!” Tara laughed, wiping her hand off on Sam’s shirt, pushing herself off of Sam’s lap as she ran to go rejoin her friends.
I won’t let anywhere ever touch you , Sam had thought as she watched Tara play with Wes, Chad and Mindy with a fondness to her gaze. As long as I’m breathing, you’ll be okay. I promise, Tara .
Sam had once read, with eyes dreary and tired as she attempted to avoid sleeps unwelcome company, that:
When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not .
Sam knew it was meant to be a comfort, but its words had stung like nettles, lodging in the flesh of her heart.
But it’s not seemed to stick its tongue at her, its presence incredulous amongst the text.
Well what good is it to know the whole world isn’t on fire, when mine always will be? She had thought.
The whole world might not be on fire, but the fallen debris from her own blocked her path to it, trapping her in smoke and flame and taunting her with smoke detectors whose cries of alarm to warn her no longer meant anything.
The odd thing was, Sam had been born in a burning house, and for years remained blissfully ignorant of the fact. The kind of ignorance that only welcomes in children and cradles them against its chest. She’d just always assumed that the doorknobs were meant to be hot, that the air was supposed to be thick and heavy, that the smell of something burning was meant to linger like a favored perfume.
She’d just always assumed, because she was shielded from the sight of flames and smoke by the shape of her father, who’d take her out for ice cream after getting an A on her science project. She was shielded by the shape of her mother, who, though couldn’t block the flames as well as their father (or who could, and just simply didn’t) she still distracted her from the hot touch of the doors and knobs with the gentle touch of her own. Whose perfume filled her nose so that the smoke couldn’t.
Sam had been born in a burning house, and for years remained blissfully ignorant of the fact.
That’s the thing with fires. Each one starts out as just a little ember. And sometimes, they happen right under your nose and you’re none the wiser. That is until those embers catch and accumulate. You were unaware of its presence until it grew in height and girth and suddenly you can no longer recall any touch that didn’t scald, any breath that didn’t hurt.
It’d been months since their father had left, since their mother stopped packing them lunches and sending them off to school with a kiss to the temple for good luck. Since Sam had to set her alarm extra early so that she could get Tara dressed and ready in time. Since Sam had to start packing their lunches and send Tara off on the school bus with a kiss to her temple for good luck.
Months since Sam had learned she’d been born in a burning house.
It’s there, in that worn chair as she reads, that Sam decides that just because her world is on fire, doesn’t mean that Tara’s has to be too. Just because the flames were in close proximity doesn’t mean they have to lap at Tara’s skin the way they did hers. Sam promised herself that she would shield her baby sister from the flames at her skin, refused to allow her skin to burn and blister and callus. Promised herself that she’d gulp in all of the smoke so that it didn’t dare taint Tara’s already weakened lungs.
And if Tara ever did notice the smoke, then Sam prayed that the gray would shield her eyes from noticing the reds and oranges of decay and despair.
Their father had been able to escape the smoke and flame, and left his children behind in order to do so.
But as Sam recalls everything that happened the night he left, recalls the way that even in childhood her mother had been kind, but had never gone that out of her way to do so the way she did with Tara, that Sam wonders,
Was I the ember? Or the gasoline?
For the months and months that followed, Sam takes over her mothers position, filling in shoes far too big for her to walk in without stumbling every other step.
But even though she stumbles, she never allows herself to fall. For she has Tara to think about, to look after.
She packs lunches and kisses Tara’s temple for good luck, she learns how to work the stove and oven so that they can eat something other than microwaved TV dinners. She has Tara sit on the back of her bike as she pedals to each soccer game Tara has, somehow always managing to get her there on time. She tucks Tara in at bedtime with a story, never one off the shelf where she had first read of burning houses, never one from her internal itinerary about curses and plagues and killers and instead reads Tara tales of talking stuffed animals and caps for sale.
It’s after she finished reading her bedtime story, that through a yawn Tara would ask when their Daddy would be coming back, and when their Mami would finally come out of her room.
Soon , Sam would answer, the lie almost strangling her tongue as she spoke it. But its hold became weaker and weaker the more and more Sam answered Tara’s yawned question with it.
Sam’s own question of ember or gasoline continued to eat away at her, but she prays that even if she might learn the answer to it someday, Tara never will.
Months and months turned into years and years .
Sam had turned twenty a while ago, on a day she couldn’t remember, and Tara had just turned fifteen a few months ago on December fourteenth.
Sam had managed to get herself emancipated when she was the age that Tara is now, and was able to win full custody of Tara just a little over a year after. It wasn’t that hard a feat when she was able to show up to court with more pay stubs than their mother and her breath didn’t hold the rank of alcohol that their mother’s had when she tried to plead her case.
She had managed to get a small two bedroom apartment, working three crappy jobs in order to do so, giving Tara the master bedroom and taking the smaller secondary one. The apartment was a tiny thing, and Mindy often joked whenever she and Chad came over that sardines in a can had more breathing room — but it kept them warm and sheltered. The doorknobs weren’t hot to the touch, the air finally palatable.
At least, for a long while they weren’t.
Over the past couple of years, the doorknobs seemed to grow as hot as Tara’s temper. Irritability seemed to coat every nerve in her being, and her biting words burned worse than any flame ever could.
Sam isn’t sure when she had turned from adored to loathed in Tara’s eyes. Wes had once joked that she was going through her terrible teens, and that it just means that she’s comfortable with Sam and views her as a parent.
His words soothed with the same fervor that they stung.
It all came to a tipping point one Friday in March. It was the beginning of spring break for Tara and her friends, and she had wanted to go to a party that Chad had invited her to.
“Absolutely not.” Sam said as she took off her jacket and kicked off her work boots.
“What?! Sam, it’s spring break—“ starts an exasperated Tara.
“Yeah, exactly ten years since the prior Woodsboro massacre.” Sam interrupted.
“Oh, don’t tell me you still believe all that junk?” Tara scoffed, “Sam, those are nothing but old fables that parents and camp counselors use in order to scare kids into behaving. Wes’s Mom Judy works for the police department, and even she said that it’s just copycats who take inspiration from the original murders. So does Ethan and Quinn’s Dad, and he’s the freakin’ sheriff.”
That’s what they want you to believe , Counselor Kirby’s voice rings in her subconscious, But those of us with sharp minds, we know the truth .
Sam had to bite down on her tongue to keep those echoes from becoming solid words.
“Tara, I said no. It’s too big a risk and—“
“The only risks are the ones that you made up in your head!” Tara cried. “The ones you’re so certain are true. It’s just an old wives tale, and even if it wasn’t, what? You’re gonna follow me like a shadow forever? Would you even have time to do so between your jobs of slinging burgers and mopping floors?”
“Tara that’s not fair—“ Sam started, and Tara had ignored the hurt that the waver in Sam’s words had caused.
“You know what I’m gonna do, Sam? I’m gonna graduate high school in a couple years and I’m gonna get the fuck out of Woodsboro when I do. And I’m gonna go to school in New York and I’m gonna live my life, okay? My life.”
Sam’s arms folded around herself, as though she were attempting to shield her vital organs from the harsh blows of Tara’s words.
“It’s gonna be the hell away from you,” Tara continued, and Sam’s arms tightened around her torso, “You’re so adamant that Woodsboro is cursed. But the only curse I see? Is you .”
With that, Tara had brushed past Sam and into her bedroom. Sam jumped when the door slammed shut behind Tara. She stood still for a moment, arms still around her torso, like she was trying to hold her innards in place so that they didn’t fall out the gaping wounds that Tara had inflicted upon her flesh.
Sam can’t blame Tara, not entirely. She can understand where Tara is coming from, but it hurts that the same grace isn’t paralleled and extended to herself.
Sam collapses onto the couch, the trek to her bedroom feeling as intimidating as an ascent of Mt. Everest. She picks up the remote, flicking on the television in the hopes that the noise of garble and great deals will drown out that of the guilt inside her head. She tosses the remote back onto the coffee table, glancing at her phone to check the time. It was only a little past six, and her next job didn’t start until ten.
So she closed her eyes, allowed herself the rest she felt undeserving of.
Just for a few minutes , Sam thought to herself as she settled deeper into the pillow, I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes .
A few minutes melted into a few hours, if the nine o’clock news droning on the television and the dark sky out the windows were anything to go by.
Sam rubs at her eyes and clicks on her phone, wincing as the light of it hit her. She sighs with relief as she sees that she still had a good thirty minutes before her shift.
The relief, as always, was short lived. It drew its first breath and then exhaled its last as Sam noticed the segment that played on their rickety television.
WOODSBORO CURSE STRIKES AGAIN! Read the ticker at the bottom of the screen. Sam’s mouth goes dry as the salt and pepper haired news anchor informs the camera that two bodies, identified as teens that Sam recognized from Tara’s class, were found with a series of stab wounds. Sam’s heart, which cowered deep in her chest, cowered lower until it shivered in the pit of her stomach as he states that the knife that had created the wounds was identified as a Buck 120, the same as the prior Ghostfaces of years prior.
Thank God I told Tara she couldn’t go to that party tonight , Sam thinks to herself.
She looks towards the closed bedroom door, sighing before pushing herself to her feet. She walks to Tara’s bedroom, convincing herself her false bravado wasn’t false as she raps at her door with a single knuckle. Sam swallows down the urge to tell her I told you so , instead clearing her throat before saying;
“Tara? I know you’re upset with me, and I’m sorry, but I just saw on the news that two kids, from your class, were found stabbed to death. It’s gotta be connected. I still need to go to work, but just, keep all the doors and windows locked, alright? And I’ll pick up pizza on the way home.”
When Sam’s met with nothing but silence, she musters a playful voice to try and entice something out of Tara, “I’ll even get that cheesy bread you like.”
The singsong words aren’t enough to elicit any sort of reaction, and Sam frowns, lines forming across her forehead as her brows furrow.
“Tara?” She asks, tapping her knuckle against the wood once more, “Tare?”
After more silence, Sam turns the doorknob and walks in. She’s met with nothing but darkness, and as she flips on the light switch what’s illuminated in light is more terrifying than anything that might’ve been hiding in the dark.
Tara’s room is empty.
Tara is gone .
“Shit,” Sam swears to herself as she rushes to the front door, and finds both Tara’s jacket and shoes gone. “Shit, shit, shit!”
A different newscaster rambles on about the same topic in the background as Sam opens Instagram. She clicks on Tara’s profile, muttering swears beneath her breath when she sees that her story hasn’t been updated and there’s no new post that might allude to where the party is. She taps on Chad’s profile only to be met with the same situation.
Her heart crosses its fingers from its hiding place in her belly as she clicks on Mindy’s profile, and then flutters as she sees that new reels had been added to her story.
Sam taps on it immediately, and then furiously taps past the prior day's posts until she finds one that had been uploaded just thirty minutes ago. She’s standing there with some girl, Anika, if Sam’s recalling correctly, both holding red solo cups as Anika kisses her cheek. Sam’s eyes scan the background, sees various party-going teenagers in the frame and tries to find anything discernible.
She has to squint, but she can make out the picture that’s hanging on the wall behind them in the background. Recognizes two year old Chad and Mindy giving drooling, toothy grins at the camera.
The party was at Chad and Mindy’s house.
Sam quickly slipped on her work boots and jacket, swiping her keys from the coat rack and running to the beat up old Honda that Tara had affectionately named Bertie.
Sam doesn’t bother with the seatbelt as she starts the ignition. Knowing the address like she did the back of her hand, she tosses her phone onto the passenger's seat and accelerates out of the parking lot with her foot never leaving the gas.
The fifteen minute drive feels like it takes days, like every mile stretches itself further and further just to spite her, and what should take a couple minutes to complete instead takes hours. She can feel the pulse of blaring speakers before she even pulls into the cul-de-sac.
Bertie is put into park all of two seconds before Sam’s making a mad dash out her doors and to the front entrance of the Meeks-Martin household.
The sight of beige walls and the sound of trashy pop music slam into Sam’s senses like a football player tackling a dummy. Her head begins to throb in beat, and she doesn’t give herself the grace of massaging her temples as she trudges forward.
Her eyes scan through the sea of drunken teenagers who danced sloppily in the living room, moving on when seeing that Tara was not among them.
Sam swings open the doors to various bathrooms and bedrooms, and in her search for Tara accidentally walks in on some teens doing things she’ll need bleach in order to unsee.
Her hands fist at her hair after she opened what felt to be the tenth door that minute, until the notion of checking the basement finally dawns on her.
Couldn’t have thought of that two canoodling couples ago? Sam bitterly thinks as she footslogs down stairs and halls until she’s finally standing on the basement floor.
She walks until she’s in the lounge area of the basement, and her eyes nearly pop out of her skull when she sees Tara and Chad curled up together on the couch, lips moving lazily against each other.
“Nah-uh, nope, not happening.” Sam states bluntly, stomping forward and tugging Tara away from Chad by her sleeve (fighting every instinct to do so by her ear)
“Hey, wha— Sam!” Tara squawks. “Sam, whoa, what the hell are you doing here?!”
“What the hell am I doing?!” Sam stops, turning to face Tara, though doesn’t let go of her sleeve. “What the hell are you doing?! I told you you couldn’t come to this party and you deliberately disobeyed me!”
“God, okay Mufasa.” Tara chuffs.
“Um, for the record, Tara texted me that you said yes.” Chad meekly pipes up, raising his hand. He swiftly lowers it back down at the pointed glares of both Sam and Tara. “But in hindsight I should’ve known better than to think that you’d actually say yes to this.”
“Yeah hell fucking no would I ever say yes to this,” Sam exasperates. “Besides, did you guys even see the damn news?”
“Yeah, like the news is something teenagers have on in the background to get drunk and party to.” Tara laughs, the sound mocking and disbelieving.
“Your classmates got stabbed.” Sam says without any further preamble, not having the energy to attempt to sugarcoat them so that the blows wouldn’t land so harshly. “Dead.”
“What?” Chad asks as he stands from the couch. “Did they say who it was?”
“Liv McKenzie and Amber Freeman.“ Sam informs, “Something you’d all know if you were—“
The power in the basement goes out, causing the three to collectively jump.
“What the hell?” Chad asks, nose scrunching, “That’s weird. I’m gonna go check the breaker.”
“Chad, no, this can’t be a coincidence.” Sam stops him with a hand tugging at the sleeve of his varsity jacket.
“Sam, you don’t think?” Tara asks, all traces of anger are sapped from her voice. Sam feels her small hand fist at the material of her jacket, and moves her arms to try and place both she and Chad behind her.
They each blanch at the collective screams that come from upstairs.
“Maybe they’re all just afraid of the dark?” Chad says, though his tone suggests that even he doesn’t believe his own hypothesis.
The lights momentarily flicker before giving out once more. More screams follow suit.
The staircase creaks and pounds beneath thundering footsteps, and Sam pushes Tara and Chad further behind her.
“Guys! Oh my God, you guys—“
Sam’s defensive stance falters somewhat as she recognizes the voice.
“Mindy?” She asks. Chad pulls out his phone, clicking on the flashlight.
“Ow!” Mindy yelps as she holds out her hand, shielding her eyes. “ Geez , watch where you’re pointing that thing, jerk!”
“Mindy what’s going on?” Sam asks, tone cutthroat.
“Well the power went out—“ Mindy pauses, “ As you know , and we figured maybe it was a generator thing? But then the lights flickered and we—we saw—“
“What?” Tara asks.
“It’s him.” Mindy gulps. “He’s here. Ghostface, the Woodsboro curse whatever it is you wanna call it — he’s real and he’s upstairs and he’s hacking the fuck out of people . I managed to get Anika out through the back door, and everyone’s fleeing like ants but I couldn’t leave without making sure you and Chad were okay.”
“We need to call the police.” Tara suggests. “Wes’s Mom or Ethan and Quinn’s Dad, they’d send help fast.”
Chad lowers his phone, flashlight still on, tapping at it before heaving out a frustrated sigh.
“I don’t have any signal.”
His admission causes Sam, Tara and Mindy to freeze before they each fervently dig into their pockets to pull out their own phones.
“Fuck, neither do I.” Sam grumbles.
“Me neither.”
“Ditto.”
Tara and Mindy say simultaneously.
“We need to get to our cars.” Sam says. “Drive down to the station. We can’t waste time trying to call someone from upstairs. It’s the next best option.”
“Sam’s right.” Tara says, the agreement taking Sam somewhat by surprise.
“Mindy and I will go first,” Chad says, and Sam begins to protest, but he stops her with a hand held out,
“I’m quarterback, remember? And Mindy’s done track for like a bazillion years. We’re the fastest. We have a better chance at fighting him off.”
“There’s no way in hell I’m gonna let you get—“
“Sam, he’s right and you know it.” Mindy says, syllables hardened over with a steely tone. “We gotta be logical here.”
“Shit, fucking son of a— okay, okay .” Sam relents with her fists pressing against her temples. “Let’s go.”
With collective gulps and shaky exhales, they head up towards the stairs. Chad first, with his flashlight at the lowest setting and pointed at the floor. Mindy follows right behind, hands clutching his varsity jacket, accidentally stepping against the backs of his heels as she trails behind him.
Sam walks behind Mindy, one arm keeping Tara shielded behind her whilst her other hand hovers above the pocket knife at her belt.
Every other step creaks beneath their feet. They’d always been tattletales, alerting Mrs. Meeks-Martin to the fact that they weren’t asleep in bed like they were supposed to. Sam remembers, on nights she’d sleep over alongside the kids because Tara, Mindy and Chad insisted she should, how they wouldn’t even be able to make it to the bottom of the steps when Mrs. Meeks-Martin would swing her head around the corner and yell in a tone far more amused than upset for them to go to bed.
Sam’s eyes stay on that spot of the door, where Mrs. Meeks-Martin would swing her head around. She wonders if that mask would swivel in her place, if an action that once elicited shrieks of laughter and delight would now invoke those of terror.
Sam prays that they never have to find out.
As they reach the top of the stairs, Chad pauses. His head swings this way and that on his straining neck, pointing the flashlight any place where the darkness and shadows could hide a threat.
“Coast seems to be clear.” He says. “Go, Go, Go!”
Chad bolts out the open basement door. Mindy follows close at his heels, and Sam pulls Tara in pursuit. It takes Sam and Tara longer to reach the front door, being a lot less familiar with the layout than those who were born and raised in the home left mighty room for error, and Sam and Tara found themselves tripping on couch legs and running into various pieces of furniture.
When Sam and Tara finally do make it out onto the porch, the screeching of tires and revving of an engine sounds out over the love songs of crickets and toads.
There’s solace to be found in the spinning tires of Chad’s shiny Toyota becoming smaller and smaller. Their car turns the corner, disappearing from view.
“Come on,” Sam exhales as she spots Bertie parked a little ways away along the curb. She doesn’t dare let go of Tara’s hand as she runs. Sam doesn’t accommodate for Tara’s legs being shorter than hers, and she looks like a child pulling a ragdoll as they run. But Sam can’t accommodate, can’t dare slow down, can’t be the reason that Ghostface has just enough to grab them, to hurt them, to kill—
Bertie honks to life as the pad of Sam’s thumb smashes the buttons on her keys. She continues to pull Tara until they make it to the rusted doors. She throws open the passenger door, guiding Tara into the backseat and manually locking her door before shutting it and opening the drivers side. She dives into the seat, torn leather never feeling so comfortable and secure as she plunges the keys into the ignition and turns.
Bertie rumbles with life, before, as suddenly as Sam had turned the keys, the car is stalling.
“Shit,” Tara swears with wide, bulging eyes as Sam tries repeatedly to get the engine to start only to be met with the same result each time.
“Come on Bertie, please don’t fail me now old girl.” Sam tries to turn the keys in the ignition again, but the engine barely gives so much as a sputter.
“Let’s just lay low here, okay?” Sam finally relents, pulling the keys out the ignition. “Get as far beneath the seats as you can, I’ll slouch up here.” Sam commands, and Tara momentarily protests before she relents and does as Sam instructs, pressing herself against the floor between the seats.
“Chad and Mindy made it, they’ll be at the police station soon if someone isn’t already there by now. Let’s just lay low and hide until they come.” Sam adds after climbing over to the passengers seat and curling up in the space beneath the dash.
“Okay.” Tara mewls.
Silence befalls the car, and it reigns supreme for an amount of time that Sam can’t discern before she herself breaks it with something as fragile as a whisper;
“Tara — If I…. If I do die, I need you to know something.”
“Sam, stop. Don’t talk like that.” Tara’s words attempt to be biting, but are more so a watered down plea than anything else.
“No, just listen to me, okay?” Sam whispers sharply, and Tara presses her lips together into a thin line, falling silent as her heart lies in wait.
“Do you remember how Mami used to keep those boxes up in the attic?”
“Sam what does this have to do with anything—“
“Tara please,” Sam begs, and Tara’s lips press into that thin line once more. At her silence, Sam continues. “I was up there once, when I was thirteen, looking for Christmas presents. And I found these old diaries that she kept from high school, and I knew it was wrong but I read some anyway because Mami got pregnant with me in high school and I thought it could be cool to find out how she and Dad got together…how romantic it must have been.”
Sam draws in a breath. “So I read some. Only, it wasn’t romantic. Mami was dating Dad but she was in love with this other guy and he got her pregnant. Mami told Dad it was his and that’s why he proposed senior year.”
“Sam what are you talking about—“
“And I’m sitting there in this attic and I’m thirteen and I just found out my Dad isn’t my Dad so I - I go find Mami in her bedroom and I’m screaming at her. And - and shoving this diary in her face and I didn’t even realize that Dad was standing right behind me — he —“
Sam begins to choke on barely suppressed sobs as she continues, “He didn’t know. He found out right then from me. That’s the night he left, I’m the reason he left.”
“No, no Sam..” Tara says demurely as she shakes her head.
“I’m the reason Dad left, and Mami never forgave me. And she made me promise not to tell you cause you were so young and I — I was so afraid of losing you that I never told you the truth. I’m the reason Mami became cold, that she never left her room, that she started drinking—“
“Sam you’re not—“
“And I hated myself that I was the reason you lost not one but both of your parents and so I promised myself I’d be the best person I could be to take care of you. That you wouldn’t grow up in a burning house like I was. And I — I tried, I really tried, I’m sorry that I wasn’t enough.”
“Sam,” Tara attempts to garner attention, “You’re more than eno—“
“That’s not everything.” Sam whispers forlornly, and Tara’s eyes widen as she waits. “Those diaries told me who my real father was,” Sam inhales shakily, “It was Billy Loomis .”
Tara knew of Billy Loomis. It was impossible to live in Woodsboro and not know of him, for his name was as infamous as the town’s. He was a high school senior in Woodsboro who had fallen victim to the curse. At least, that’s what those who believed in the curse swore. The vast majority who believed the curse was simply just an old wives tale viewed him as nothing more than a crazed, evil kid who went mad and took inspiration from the false legends and true killings. Dubbed the final Ghostface of the 20th century, he had killed six people before being taken down by a series of bullets in ‘96 .
“Do you think that they’re after us?” Tara asks in a small voice, “That Ghostface. Do you think maybe they know that you’re—“
“I don’t know,” Sam cuts her off before sighing. “The killings never seemed to be connected before, besides the fact that everyone lived in Woodsboro. They all just seemed to be at random, but now I—“
Sam’s interrupted by the sound of glass shattering. Her arms immediately raise to shield her head for the impending befalling shards.
But they never come.
There’s a scream from the backseat, and Sam pushes herself up, the streetlights illuminating the back of the car.
“No!” Sam cries out as she sees the gloved hand of a Ghostface reaching through the broken window and grappling at Tara’s neck.
Sam braces herself on her palms, kicking her boot hard against his elbow. His arm drops, and Sam kicks him hard again before she opens the front passenger door and crawls out.
“Come on!” Sam shrieks to Tara, palms open for her to take. Sam eyes the Ghostface that stands on the opposite side of the car, and she grips Tara’s hands as soon as they find hers and pulls her over the center console and out the door.
She pushes at Tara’s shoulders, guiding her towards the street when two other Ghostfaces, each wearing a different variation of the uniform, step into the middle of the street, waggling their blades like the pendulum of a metronome as they slowly shake their heads in a taunting ‘ I wouldn’t do that if I were you. ’
“Backyard.” Tara whispers.
“What?”
“Backyard, they have that big backyard with that lake and forest. We used to all play hide and seek there, remember? Maybe we can lose them there.”
The idea of running through a pitch black forest isn’t the most enticing of ideas, but it’s the only one they have, and so Sam thread’s her fingers through Tara’s own as they run towards the backyard.
The door of the fenced gate nearly breaks off its hinges as Sam swings it open, gesturing for Tara to go first and then looking over her shoulder a moment before following. They run through the small decorative garden, petunias and daisies trampled under the effort of frantic feet before they reach the expansive landscape.
Taking Tara’s hand again, Sam leads them towards the outline of the forest. They’re almost there when a figure steps out from the shadows and brush.
Sam stops abruptly, causing Tara to collide with her back. Sam tugs at Tara’s hand to hold her there, shielding her body with her own as a looming figure in a ragged and tattered Ghostface costume starts to stalk towards them.
“Street,” Sam whispers to Tara before turning them around, only to be met with two other Ghostfaces striding towards them.
Sam pulls Tara back, turning this way and that only to be met with anguish wherever she turns.
They were surrounded.
“What the fuck do you want?!” Sam screeches. Even though she’s met with no response, no mere acknowledgment to show they even understood her words, Sam continues, “You want me!? Huh, motherfuckers? Well you can have me, but just let my sister live! JUST LET MY SISTER LIVE! ”
The words tear her throat on the way up, and a mixture of copper and salt coats her tongue.
“There’s too many of them, what do we do? Sam, what do we do?!” Tara bleats.
“You run,” Sam croaks, “Run and flag down the first car you see, I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
“What?! Sam, no, I’m not leaving you.” Tara objects, clawing desperately at Sam’s arm as she grips onto her.
Sam’s gaze hardens a moment as she nods. Clutching Tara’s hand, she runs towards the direction of the street. Tara follows behind her, protests losing their pulse when seeing that Sam was running with her too.
Sam tugs at Tara’s arm, pulling Tara close enough to press a kiss against her temple.
“For good luck,” Sam says with a wry smile.
“What? Sam, what are you—”
Sam pushes Tara hard, sending her forwards towards the direction of hope and safety as she herself turns and charges at one of the Ghostface’s. She pulls her pocket knife off her belt, flips up the blade and manages to stab the Ghostface in his chest. Any sense of victory flees just as quickly as it had arrived as the Ghostface, now with the blade protruding from his chest, doesn’t so much as stagger backwards. His blade raises, and by her next blink it plunges into her just below her collarbone.
Sam manages to stay on her feet, but then there’s a blade that sinks into her waist, and with a scream her legs give out from underneath her and she collapses onto the grass.
“SAM!” Tara yowls like a mortally wounded animal as she shifts at her waist to face Sam.
She feels a sharp pain against the back of her shoulder as she does, and she falls to the ground a couple hundred feet from where Sam lays, watching in horror as the two Ghostface’s repeatedly plunge their blades into various areas of Sam’s abdomen.
“Sam—“ her sister's name is garbled by blood, reaching a hand out towards Sam.
A hand clasps around her shoulder, flipping her over on her back. Tara’s chest heaves as she stares up into hollowed black eyes. Tara lifts her hand, clasping her fingers around the elongated chin of the mask. With sluggish motions she manages to drag it off. Her thundering heart falters at what she sees.
“Wes?”
His face is pale, eyes as empty and hollow as his mask’s counterpart. There’s a web of sickly greens and purples that spreads across his face and forehead.
It may wear Wes’s face, but that wasn’t their Wes.
“Wes, please, it’s me.” Tara beseeches.
Wes’s expression remains as blank as an untouched piece of paper as he raises the dagger above his head. Sucking in a breath, Tara rolls to her left, just barely missing the blade as it plunges into the grass.
Now laying on her stomach, Tara’s able to see Sam. She’s quiescent, torpid as the gray of her tank-top and the green of the grass she lies on becomes a collective shade of red.
“Sam.” Tara attempts to crawl towards Sam, wincing as the ground beneath her goes from dry and prickling to wet and sticky. “Sammy.“
Her hand’s reaching for Sam once again, stretching the length between them.
“Sam—“
Tara thinks of all the things she wishes she had said to Sam, all the things that will now die and wither away with her tongue and the rest of her. It’s not your fault, you were the best sister in the world, you’re not the reason Dad left, or the reason Mami was so horrible, You’re not a curse, I’m sorry for how I treated you, I never want to be apart from you, I love you so much—
There's a sharp, blazing sensation in her back that makes her effort ephemeral, her vision becoming nothing but static and stars before it becomes nothing at all.
Tara speaks Sam’s name like a prayer before she joins her in unconsciousness.
***
Despite feeling like they’re made of lead and weighed down with brick and stone, Tara manages to blink her eyes open.
“Tara, hey,” Chad’s standing overtop her, brows pinched together in concern, something trying to imitate a smile moving across his lips. “Mindy and I were able to make it to the Sheriff’s Office, thank God we—“
“My…sister…” Tara breathes out, her breath fogging up her oxygen mask as she blinks away the bleariness. She swallows hard, tries to ignore the taste of copper and despair that coats her throat and taunts her tongue. “My sister..my....Sam… where’s Sam? ”
Her peripherals alert her to something moving, and she tilts her head to see a gurney wheeled up just a couple feet away and parallel to her own. As Tara wills her eyes to focus, she sees someone laying upon that gurney. The back of their head faces Tara, their hands resting atop their abdomen, and it takes a few blinks to start up the gears of recognition for the sight of that black jacket and charm bracelet to once again be familiar.
“Sam,” Tara breathes out. The ends of her lips pull towards the corners of her jaw in a smile as though they were connected to strings, puppeteered by the fingers of relief. “Oh Sam, thank god , you’re okay—“
The rest of Tara’s words never even make it to her tongue, collapsing and colliding in her throat, making her feel as if she’ll choke with every swallow she takes. A paramedic, one whom she’d assumed was monitoring her sister, instead pulls a white sheet over Sam’s form until it covers her entirely.
Realization, once a warm and friendly thing, now feels cold and surly, mocking in her presence, and Tara feels her heart be squeezed by its calloused fingers.
“ No ,” Tara whimpers out. Her tears begin to blur her vision, as though the accumulation of water and mucin and lipids were joining together to shield Tara from witnessing the painful sight.
Tara blinks them away nonetheless.
“No, no, Sam, no.” Tara cries. Ripping the oxygen mask off, Tara swings her legs over the end of the gurney, grateful they had it upright. She pushes herself off by her palms, landing on buckling knees as pain sings discourteously and off tune into the ears of her senses.
“Hey, whoa, Tara—“ Chad places awkward hands on Tara’s shoulders, attempting to steady her and guide her back to the gurney, to the safety of wheels and sterility. He takes one hand to try and shield her eyes with his palm, like he’d done back when they were children listening to fables that were truer than they thought,
“Get off me — get the fuck off me!” Tara growls. Raising her arms feels like she’s attempting to hold up the Empire State Building, but she manages to raise them, pushing Chad off and away from her. He stumbles back, a mixture of hurt and sympathy swimming in his eyes, forming creases around them.
Tara hobbles towards Sam’s gurney, every step feeling as though it might be her last — a feeling that’s suddenly become more comforting than it is terrifying. Her trembling hands clutch onto the blood stained sheet as soon as she reaches the side of the gurney, yanking it away until it no longer covered Sam and instead became a crumpled, wrinkled heap by her feet.
“Sam?” She asks, looking over Sam for any slight sign that might indicate an answer to the unspoken questions held within the sound of her name. She looks at Sam's face, tries to notice a twitch to her brows or perhaps a slight flare to her nostrils, but her expression lays still as death. Tara’s eyes fall to Sam’s chest next, staring desperately as though the simple act of doing so would be enough to cause it to rise and fall with breath and life.
It remains as still as Sam’s expression does.
Tara’s eyes fall to her hands next, then to her legs and her shoes — looking for some sort of sign of life, for some sort of sign that the paramedics and their sheets were wrong.
She doesn’t find any, so she starts back from Sam’s face and starts the process of looking all over again.
And again, and again, and again.
And she finds nothing, again, and again, and again.
Tara notices the oxygen mask that lay on her gurney, and her eyes widen as she pushes her way out towards it. Once she makes it to her own gurney, she grips it in her hand like it was something precious to behold, and then hobbles back towards Sam. She makes sure she doesn’t detach from the mask from the tank as she goes back to Sam’s side.
“Sammy, this is gonna make you better, yeah?” Tara’s voice holds the same tremor to it that her hands do as she carefully places the oxygen mask over Sam’s nose and mouth, holding it there. With her free hand she gently pushes Sam’s cheek, tilting her head until her nose pointed up towards the sky, therefore able to better hold the oxygen mask against her face.
“There, just breathe that in, okay Sammy?” Tara says, her free hand now coming up to stroke at Sam’s hair, ignoring the way the strands had hardened and stuck together with dried blood.
Déjà vu drapes around her shaking shoulders like a wet blanket as Tara’s reminded of all the nights Sam would do this for her as a child, nights of nebulizer treatments and tears and cuddles whenever her asthma got especially bad.
“Tara—“ Chad’s voice sounds out from somewhere behind Tara, but she doesn’t so much as glance to her periphery in an attempt to see him. Just keeps looking at Sam’s too-still face.
“Just breathe that in.” Tara repeats, ignoring Chad completely. There’s a paramedic that tries to walk towards Tara, but he’s stopped by another — a woman, who clasps a hand on his shoulder and murmurs something about “Giving the kid a few minutes to grieve.”
But what do I have to grieve? Tara thinks. Sammy’s gonna be okay .
She presses the oxygen mask tighter against Sam’s face.
“Sammy, you gotta wake up now.” Tara swallows thickly, her bottom lip trembling as she speaks. “You gotta open your eyes, okay? Just open your eyes.” Tara tries to hide the identity of pleading under the guise of simple instruction.
“I’m sorry for the bullshit I said to you tonight,” Tara sniffles, “And all the other bullshit I’ve said to you over the years. I was just — I was just angry, Sam. The years of seeing Dads take their daughters to Daddy Daughter dances in the gym, seeing Mom’s gush and take photos on homecoming night, I just — I was just so angry. And I took everything out on you because, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you were the closest person, or, maybe it’s because deep down I knew that no matter what I said, you wouldn’t give up on me or leave like Dad and Mami. And I was just so angry and hurt at every dance and homecoming night and everything in between that I never acknowledged that you missed work to take me to Daddy Daughter Dances, to take pictures on homecoming nights. God, remember Marla’s Dad’s face when they announced for the Dads to lead their daughters onto the dance floor and you took me by the hand? You lead me right up there with the rest of them, and you - you taught me how to slow dance. And God, we sucked,” Tara laughs wetly, “But you didn’t care. You dipped me and spun me and you — you laughed whenever I accidentally stepped on your toes. I’m so sorry I was so stupid as to blame you for being the one thing I needed.”
Tara wipes at the back of her sleeve with her nose. She doesn’t care, the amount of torn fabric and bloodstains make it unsalvageable anyways.
“Sammy you gotta wake up,” Tara’s voice cracks at the tail end of her plea, tears coating her eyes and falling down her cheeks. “They - they all think you’re gone — but that’s cause they don’t know how tough you are. You gotta wake up, okay? Cause I’m gonna graduate soon, and then we’re gonna beat this stupid God damn curse and get the fuck out of this shitty town. We’re gonna go to New York together , okay? You and me, it’s always gonna be you and me — doesn’t that sound good, Sammy? Doesn’t it make you wanna open your eyes? Cause we can’t do any of this if you don’t open your eyes.”
Tara waits for any sort of acknowledgment, her whole chin beginning to wobble when she’s met with none.
“Sammy please, I need you.” Tara whimpers, “Please, I’m sorry about what I said, I didn’t mean any of it. I love you, and I need you, so please — please wake up-“
Tara feels herself start to be pulled away, and immediately begins to thrash. She doesn’t care at the amount of pain the movement causes, the pain of not being right there beside Sam feels so much worse.
“I’m so sorry Tara,” Chad whispers against the shell of her ear.
“No, no!!” Tara cries. “She’s gonna wake up! She’s gonna wake up! Sam’s never left me before, she hasn’t, she won’t!”
Tara digs the heels of her Converse, now caked with mud and dried blood, into the ground as Chad continues to try and pull her back towards her own gurney.
“No, her chest is moving, see!” Tara cries. Chad’s eyes look towards Sam, heart breaking that much more when he’s met with nothing but stillness. “It’s gotta move, she’s gotta—“
“ I’m so sorry .” Chad repeats, voice cracking the same way Tara’s heart currently was. This time it’s choked out through a sob, one that’s almost completely deafened by the sounds of Tara’s own.
Chad’s back begins to press against the rails of the gurney, and he’s about to move Tara onto it when she slumps and becomes limp in his arms.
“Tara?” Chad panics.
“Her chest is moving,” Tara breathes out.
“Tara, I’m sorry, but it’s not—“
“No, look! Look! ” Tara points a shaky finger at Sam, and Chad bites down hard on his cheeks to give him a lesser pain to distract from that he’d feel when he raises his head and sees that Tara’s claims are nothing more than delusions crafted by grief.
He blinks tears from his eyes and looks towards Sam. He stares for a moment, and is about to turn to Tara and tell her that Sam’s gone when he sees it too.
Her chest is moving.
“Hey, HEY! ” He shouts, grabbing the attention of nearby paramedics. He points a finger at Sam, waggling it for emphasis as he yells; “She’s breathing, she’s breathing!!!!”
The paramedics rush to Sam’s side. One places two gloved fingers on the pulse point of Sam’s neck, mirroring the action against his own.
“We’ve got a pulse!” He yells over his shoulder, chasing away the company of silence and dread. He starts to connect Sam to various wires and machinery whilst the other takes the discarded oxygen mask off of Sam’s chest, stretching the elastic band to fit it around her head, strapping it over her mouth.
Sam begins to cough and hack, and it’s quite possibly the most beautiful sound Tara’s ever heard. Now she understands how parents could feel so much joy in hearing their newborn wail and scream and sob,
It means they’re alive to do it .
She scrambles out of Chad’s arms, running back by Sam’s side. She gathers Sam’s hands in clumsy fashion, holding them tightly between her own.
“Sam?” She asks, breath hitching.
Sam coughs before she turns her head to the side, cracking her eyes open. They lift to find Tara’s face, and her smile is so wide it shifts the position of the oxygen mask.
“Tara,” she breathes out before coughing again.
Tara grins, hoping Sam isn’t scared by the blood that’s caked between the grooves of her teeth before she presses a kiss to the backs of their joined hands.
“I’m here Sammy, I’m right there here.” She reassures her.
“You…..okay…?” Sam manages to breathe out, and Tara fondly rolls her eyes.
“Only you would ask if I’m okay when you’re the one who was just standing on Death’s welcome mat.” She scoffs, and Sam weakly smirks.
“Crappy place,” she wheezes, and Tara’s brows furrow with confusion, “Door didn’t even have a wreath.”
Tara’s brows straighten back out as her eyes fondly roll once more.
“We need to get you both to the hospital.” Interrupts one paramedic whilst the other attempts to lead Tara back to her gurney.
“No!” She protests, pulling herself out of his grip. “I’m riding with Sam, and then they can treat me once we get to the ER. Together .”
The paramedic sighs in defeat as he nods his head and holds out a hand to help Tara into the back of the ambulance whilst a few others carefully lift Sam and position her gurney inside it.
In the distance Tara can hear wailing. It’s a pitiful, heartbreaking sound. The kind of wailing that makes you want to plunge your hand into your chest to tear out your own beating heart and give it up, for it's the kind of wailing that could only be done by someone whose chest was now nothing but an empty, bloody cavity.
“My boy! No, not my baby! Not my Wes!”
Tara’s eyes sting with tears as she recognizes the source of the wailing. Recognizes it as belonging to Officer Judy Hicks, Wes’s mother. By the carried sounds of her anguish, Tara is able to assume that the reason they were saved was because Wes was not.
There will be time to properly grieve, to mourn the loss of the sweet blonde haired man who always gave himself up in games of hide-and-seek so that Tara would win, who always complained that his Mom packed too much in his lunchbox and gave Tara his bags of chips and packages of Hostess snacks.
There will be time to properly grieve and mourn and recognize and remember him as the man he is, not the man he became in his last moments.
For that wasn’t him. Tara isn’t certain what that was, but it wasn’t Wes.
There will be time for that, but right now — all of her time and all of her focus has to be on her sister.
On her sister, whom she’d almost lost tonight like Miss Hicks had lost Wes.
Despite coming close enough to brush shoulders with the notion, Tara can’t conceptualize the idea that Sam had almost died. That, for a small while, Sam did die. That Tara almost shared in Miss Hicks’ reality.
In the car, Sam had mentioned something about a burning house. Tara knows that if she actually had lost Sam, if death had become the permanence that it was meant to be, that Tara would set fire to the entire world. Houses and houses would burn, would crumble the way the last pieces that made Tara whole did.
She and Death had brushed shoulders as they passed each other by, and in her tunnel vision and ignorance she didn’t see the way it had grabbed Sam’s wrist and attempted to pull her alongside it.
Never again, Tara swears it to herself. She won’t be so foolish, so cruel and ignorant, no one — no mighty beings or imprecations or mere nominal people would ever cause a rift to form between them again. Nothing will ever keep her from—
“Tare?”
Sam’s eyes are halfway open, creases forming around her brows as they furrow. Tara swallows hard, hoping the action takes her own anguish and sorrow with it.
“I’m here, I got you.” Tara murmurs as she once again takes Sam’s hand in her own.
“You kids’ll be alright.” A voice speaks with the same coarseness as gravel, and Tara lifts her head.
“Thank you, Sheriff Bailey.” Tara blinks, wondering when it was he had gotten there.
Sheriff Bailey says nothing further, simply bobs his head with downturned lips as he slams the backdoors of the ambulance shut. Her attention is back on Sam in a fraction of a second.
“We’re gonna get through this together, okay? No more shitty little sister, no more fighting — it’s you and me against the whole damn world. Don’t worry about anything, I’m gonna hold your hand the whole way through.”
True to her word, Tara’s hand doesn’t part from Sam’s. Their palms press so tightly against each other Tara almost wonders if they’ll fuse. Although as they’re led inside the hospital, their hands part from one another with a painful facility as the barrage of paramedics begin wheeling Sam off towards the surgical wing.
But not before Tara leans over and presses a kiss to her temple.
“For good luck,” she smiles, watching as Sam’s wheeled through the large doors of the surgical center.
Early that morning, Tara lays in a bed that she’s pushed to be beside Sam’s, craning her neck to watch the rise and fall of Sam’s chest, she’s lulled to sleep by the tune of reassurances Sam’s heart monitors serenade her with. Before the combination of exhaustion and painkillers effectively pull her into the land of slumber, she links her fingers with Sam’s own.
“It’s always gonna be you and me,” Tara tells her as her eyes close and her head begins to loll, “ Forever .”