Chapter Text
You woke up to the phone ringing. You frowned and reached for the caller ID.
… Odd. The number was still blocked.
You sighed and let it go to voicemail.
“You sure you don’t want to pick that up?” Derek called from the kitchen as you stretched and groaned.
“Life’s too short to waste it picking up every phone call I get. If it’s important, then they’ll call me back or leave a message,” you sighed as he came into the bedroom with a hot cup of coffee, no milk, two sugars. You accepted the cup and paid him with a kiss. “In any case, good morning to you.”
“Ditto,” he said before going in for seconds.
“Anything I should be aware of happening today?” you asked.
“Uh, Dewey wants to get lunch after your therapy appointment,” he said.
“Is Gale gonna be there?” you asked, wondering how guarded you would have to be for lunch.
“I think he said she’s got work.” You nodded. Derek held your gaze with his. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Do you have a way back to a quasi-happy existence?” you asked.
“You know what, I think I might,” he smirked, before kissing his way down your body.
You laid back and closed your eyes, wishing that you could lose yourself in the pleasure he gave you.
But it was never enough.
The clock ticked away, with each tick representing another 3¢ down the drain. Still, you couldn’t help but stare at your therapist, refusing to be the one to break the silence. Dr. Loomis sighed.
“So, are we going to talk about it today?” your therapist asked.
“Talk about what?” you questioned vaguely.
She glared at you over her glasses. “It’s been a year since Tatum’s death. And we have spent the past year skating around it because-”
“We have a deal,” you reminded her. “You don’t talk about her or Ghostface and I don’t tell authorities you violated my right to privacy as your patient-”
“You do understand that you are effectively holding us both hostage,” she interrupted. “You can tell me to help you all you want, but if you refuse to open yourself up to change, there is nothing I can do to help you.”
“How have I not opened myself up to change?” you asked. “I am taking the meds, I am doing the breathing exercises, I am dating someone completely different-”
“Dating in extremes will not be productive to understanding how your previous relationships failed,” Dr. Loomis stated.
“… You think Derek’s a rebound,” you said.
She exhaled heavily. “I think you’re still hurting. You’re trying so hard to move past it, but in the process, you didn’t actually let yourself mourn what you lost-”
“If I stopped to think about that, I’d kill myself,” you stated.
Shit.
Weren’t supposed to say that part out loud.
You glanced at your therapist, trying to gauge her reaction; mouth in a thin line, but her eyes seemed unsurprised to some degree. You slowly gathered your belongings. “I don’t think this is working out. I’ll be looking for alternative care.”
“If you feel that’s best for you,” she said evenly.
Whelp, she was definitely calling mental health services on you.
You left the appointment feeling worse than you had upon arriving. But then, what else was new?
At least you felt something.
You sat in your car after the appointment.
Had you jumped into a relationship with Derek too fast?
No. No way.
Lots of people date soon after a breakup.
Besides, you and Ghostface hadn’t been dating. You’d been dating Jed but that had been a lie.
You didn’t even know his real name, it’s entirely possible - likely even - that he’d lied about everything else.
Your watch alarm went off and you snapped back to yourself.
Right.
Time for the other meeting of the day.
“Things are going well. My therapist says I’m making good progress,” you lied while across the table from Dewey Riley.
“That’s great!” he smiled.
“Yeah, and uh, I'm seeing someone. Derek, he was one of Steve’s fraternity brothers. He's a nice guy, no apparent psychotic tendencies,” you assured him.
“I’m glad. I just worry about you, that’s all,” he said. Your stomach churned uncomfortably.
“How are you doing, how’s physical therapy?” you asked, hoping to turn the conversation away from you.
“Still the same,” he shrugged. “My arm will never be what it was, but it seems wrong to focus on that when…” he trailed off.
“You don’t have to justify yourself, Dewey,” you said gently. “You almost died, and you lost so much, you have every right to still be struggling.” Dewey was now working as a security guard at the University of Florida; despite the Ghostface’s attack leaving him with a severed nerve and a weak arm, he could still help de-escalate situations on campus and investigate disturbances. “How’s Gale?” you asked.
“She’s good. Keeps meaning to invite you over sometime for dinner when she’s not busy,” he said.
“She’s a journalist, she’ll always be busy,” you joked. Still, you hadn’t expected Gale Weathers to stick by Dewey through his physical therapy and couldn’t help but respect her for it. The only problem was that she knew you were more involved with the Ghostface than you admitted, meaning she would still try to catch you in a lie every time you talked. Your only defenses were her lack of solid evidence and Dewey’s defense of you every time he caught her in the act, though the latter also made your stomach turn with guilt.
Dewey looked at you sadly. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine, Dewey,” you lied again.
Maybe if you said it one more time, you’d both believe it.
When you got back home, you put on a random record and poured yourself a generous glass of wine. You had work in the morning, but the hangover was a problem for future you and present you needed this.
Derek was at his place tonight, meaning you had the big empty house to yourself.
Honestly, you probably should have moved but despite Jed / Ghostface no longer being in town, the housing market continued to suffer from his killings. It didn’t help that you were legally required to disclose the double homicide that had happened on your property. (God, even a year and a half after their deaths, Casey and Steve were fucking you over.)
You briefly attempted masturbating but quickly grew too angry and frustrated to continue.
You laid back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, occasionally lifting your head for a sip of wine.
The phone rang.
You frowned but leaned over to check the caller ID.
Jed Olsen
You froze.
You stared at the phone as though it were a shaking rattlesnake until it eventually stopped.
You took a deep, steadying breath, just like your therapist taught you.
RING!
The phone rang again, as loud and insistent as the first.
You considered your options.
Call the police?
They’d never make it in time.
Call Derek? Dewey? Gale? Lucy? Grace?
He definitely wouldn’t make it. All of them were on the other side of town.
Ignore it? Unplug the phone?
You knew from experience how he hates being ignored.
So, reluctantly, you picked up the phone with a shaking hand and asked: “Hello?”
At first, the line was silent.
You frowned. “Hello?” you repeated, leaning more into the phone.
And then you heard it.
Very faintly, there was a whispering on the other end. You couldn’t make out the words, but it disturbed you.
You hung up.
It wasn’t him. He wouldn’t have passed up on the opportunity to tease you.
Unless he really had moved on and left you behind.
You sighed angrily. It was so unfair how he had ripped through your life with the force of a hurricane and left you to pick up the debris.
Sometimes, you wished you could have been like that; that you could have left town and everyone else here with no fear of the consequences.
Let someone else pick up the pieces of your disaster.
… Whelp, that was definitely self-destructive talk. But hey, maybe talking about that at the next session would get Loomis to loosen up.
You felt minor pangs of hunger, so you went back to your old standby snack and brought out a pan of Jiffy Pop. You had just put it on the stove when you heard a noise outside. A rustling of your bushes. You immediately turned the back porch light on and surveyed what you can from the window. The bush next to the window rustled, and you were about to reach for the kitchen knife when out popped a crow.
“Oh great, you again,” you huffed. You couldn’t really tell the difference between the crows, but this one with the white horizontal stripe on its beak seemed to be your lead stalker. It cocked its head at you. “Well, what are you gonna tell me? Is Timmy stuck in the well?”
The crow cawed at you before flying off.
Good riddance.
You relaxed and went to get your wine glass from the living room when you stopped.
Your front door was wide open.
You hadn’t left it like that.
Had you?
You stumbled backward, not sure if you were reaching for the phone or the knife-
You were grabbed from behind, a cloth over your nose and mouth.
You still try screaming, elbowing, kicking, fighting to get this fucker off of you.
Still, you felt yourself losing the battle, not just with the assailant but with staying conscious.
Chloroform.
Motherfuck…
…
…
…
You jolted awake in the trunk of a car. Or at least, you’re pretty sure it was a trunk; it was dark and metal and you could hear and feel the movement of a vehicle.
Your arms and legs were chained. Not duct taped or tied, chained like you were headed straight to a dungeon. And not the sexy kind.
You struggled a bit, but it was clear that there was no getting out of the chains, not without breaking bones or dislocating something. Even if you managed to get out, you doubted this car had a release latch you could reach.
You tried to think about your options.
Run.
Fight.
Scream, beg, cry, bargain.
The car slowed, and you slid in the trunk from the change in acceleration.
They’d stopped.
You heard car doors slam, the sound of boots crunching in the brush. The footsteps stopped nearby and you could make out murmuring, though not the words themselves.
The trunk opened and you were blinded by light. You closed your eyes against the industrial-grade flashlight being shined on you, though it was so bright, you swore you could see the veins of your eyelids.
“You’re sure this is the one?” one voice said.
“Positive,” stated the one holding the flashlight, still shining it in your face.
“Well, I supposed there’s no accounting for taste,” the other shrugged.
The second man finally put the flashlight away and you opened your eyes, blinking to rid yourself of the black spots in your vision, desperate to identify your kidnappers.
They wore black hooded robes… but they weren’t like the shroud of the Ghostface. Their robes were more like those of Medieval monks. You heard a rattling and looked down to see a variety of items hanging from their waist chains: Hand woven wreaths, oak branches, a purple bottle of murky liquid, and a black wooden skull.
The two men hauled you out of the car, laying you on your side, still bound in the chains. You tried rolling or wiggling away, but one of the men kicked you in the diaphragm. You wheezed through your gag, hoping you wouldn’t hurl and choke on your own vomit.
“Careful. This one needs to be in one piece,” said the one who hadn’t kicked you.
“Why? She’ll get put back together once it’s done-”
“It’s not your place to question the process,” the leader interrupted sharply.
The one who’d kicked you grunted but didn’t argue.
The leader leaned down and removed the gag from your mouth.
“Whatever the fuck Ghostface is paying you, I’ll double it. Triple it!” you begged. No way this was unrelated, this had to be his doing.
“You think we’re doing this for money?” the one who kicked you laughed.
“What, are you some knockoff Manson family looking to go on a killing spree?” you prodded. They didn’t respond to you, but the one who had kicked you extracted a knife, which he proceeded to sharpen as his partner opened a book. You tried to struggle away, only for the one with the knife to press you into the ground with his boot. “Tell me why I’m gonna fucking die!”
“Whether you die tonight depends on you,” the more senior one said, not looking up from his book. Finally, seemed to find the page he wanted as he bookmarked it before kneeling next to you. “Do you want to live?” he asked.
“Is that a trick question?” you asked.
“Oh, it’s funny,” the other laughed. “She’ll like that.”
The elder didn’t react, but he reached for something in his robe. You flinched, only for him to extract a key and unlock your bonds.
Before you had the chance to bolt, he dragged you to your feet and turned you to face the woods, barely visible in the light of the full moon, the brightest thing being a dense wall of Fog about a half mile away.
“The game is simple. You run. We chase. If you make it to the fog, you live. If not, you die.”
“Am I really supposed to believe that?” you spat.
The younger one groaned impatiently. “Let’s just kill her. Hang her out for the crows to feast-”
“No,” the Elder said sternly. “We have our orders. She has to choose.” He turned you back to face him, his partner, and their wretched knives. “So, what will it be? Shall we kill you now or will you run for your life?”
“… Why should I trust you won’t kill me?” you asked.
The Elder clenched a fist to his heart. “I swear to my goddess: if you reach the Fog, you will not be harmed by our hands or weapons.”
Something about his wording bothered you. Still, what choice did you have? You nodded curtly.
He shoved you forward. “10… 9…” he counted and you took that as your cue to run.
Turns out, running in the woods - when not on a well-cultivated nature path - was hard. There were all kinds of underbrush, mud, roots, and sticks. It didn’t help that you were running in canvas shoes, made for walks in the park and average errands, not running for your life.
But screw it, if there was a chance of you getting out of this forest, it meant running as fast as you could and ignoring all of the cuts and scrapes you were receiving along the way.
But it didn’t stop you from catching your ankle on a raised root and eating the dirt not five feet away from the fog. You tried crawling, but one of the cloaked men stepped on your hand.
“Too slow. But you wouldn’t have lasted long anyway if that’s the best you can run,” the younger man jeered, drawing his knife.
Fuck that.
You didn’t survive the past year of bullshit just to die like this.
The robed man raised his knife in both hands and plunged it down at the same time you managed to lift your left hand into the path of the descending knife.
It pierced your hand, the tip of the six-inch steel blade only two inches from your sternum.
The man pressed down more, but you braced your arms to prevent it from further descending.
Screaming like a banshee and summoning the last of your strength, you kicked him in the groin and pulled the knife from your hand, stabbing it into his thigh. He screamed at a pitch even higher than you. You withdrew the knife and raised it to finish the job but were stopped by the sound of something flying overhead (knives? Darts? Definitely not bullets, you would have heard the crack of a gunshot, felt it in your very bones). Instead, you threw yourself toward the Fog and crawled through the brush to avoid the projectiles, his knife still in your bleeding, shaking hands.
You didn’t look back until you’d crossed into the Fog and your heartbeat in your ears died down. You turned onto your back, wielding the knife in case any of them dared to pursue you past the point of no return.
But you didn’t need to. True to their word, the moment you were covered in the mist, the black cloaks stopped. They seemed to vanish from your view entirely. You could neither see nor hear them. You scanned the fog for any sign of them, but there was nothing.
Just dark forest for miles.
Except it wasn’t like the Everglades you were used to, or like any of the few genuine forests of Florida.
This was a dark, wooded forest. The kind you see in fairy tales.
Or nightmares.
You jumped at the sound of a crow.
Ugh, had they managed to follow you here?
You shook yourself off and started searching for the moon, hoping to navigate your way home based on it.
But there was no moon that you could see.
No north star to point your way home.
Wait, no.
There was a light.
It was distant and faint, but definitely there.
Fluorescent light from the looks of it.
Was that a campsite? A rest stop? Hard to say.
Surrounded by shadowy silhouettes that you could barely make out. People?
Hopefully not the same ones you’d just escaped from.
But you could feel the adrenaline wearing off. You were losing blood.
In any case, finding other people would be worth the risk.
Keeping pressure on your hand, you began to limp toward the light.