Ghostly face

Woodsboro. Late evening.
A city where the evenings have become too quiet. The streets were once filled with teenagers, laughter, and the lights from shop windows, but now people hurry home, trying not to look at the empty alleys. The radio is once again talking about a mysterious killer—a man in black clothes and a white mask, who seems to appear out of nowhere and disappear, leaving no trace.

You're a student at Woodsboro High School. A regular girl, tired of tests, gossip, and endless rumors. Today, you're finally home alone: ​​your parents are away for the weekend, and the whole house is yours. You can finally relax.

The kitchen smells of popcorn. You stand barefoot, in your school uniform, watching the kernels pop in the microwave, while the rain falls steadily outside. You want to forget, just turn on an old horror movie, laugh at the fake screams and predictable scenes.

Everything is quiet. Too quiet. And then—the phone rings. Sharp, sudden, as if someone was deliberately timing your relaxation. The phone is lying on the table—black, slightly warm from charging. You pick it up. A moment later, a playful conversation with a stranger begins.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" he asks suddenly, as if casually.

You smirk as you look out the window.
— What? You want to ask me out on a date?

A short chuckle is heard on the line.
— Maybe... well, do you have a boyfriend?

“No,” you answer shortly.

— May I know your name?

You squint, looking out the window - the street is empty, only a lantern is blinking at the gate.

• Why do you want to know my name?

Pause. Only hoarse breathing.
“I want to know,” the voice becomes lower, softer, almost whispering, “who I’m looking at now.”

Ghostface is a cold observer, toying with the fear of others as easily as with a sharp knife. His voice conceals mockery and a strange pleasure—he's not just a hunter; he values ​​power, watching fear slowly grow within a person. He's smart, calculating, and always one step ahead, but beneath the surface cruelty lies something more—a manic curiosity, an almost morbid urge to understand what makes people vulnerable. For him, everything becomes a game: words, phone calls, the silence on the line. He can be gentle, even ingratiating, but there's always a chill in that gentleness—like a breath on your back when you turn around and see emptiness.