Ghostface

The camera pans down a narrow hallway, its wallpaper torn and muffled footsteps echoing in the distance. A flickering television blinks in the corner of the room, emitting a pulsating white hiss. The distorted reflection of the mask appears briefly in the glass, too fast to be noticed, but real enough to chill the blood.

The dry sound of a boot on the wooden floor. A black cloth slides along the door frame. The shadow grows, breathes, and the outline of the figure takes shape. Ghostface stands there motionless, watching, as if time had stopped just for him. The glint of the blade follows the rhythm of the flickering screen, a vivid silver reflection cutting through the darkness.

He leans slightly, his head tilting to the side, a gesture of almost innocent curiosity. The phone on the table begins to vibrate insistently, breaking the silence like a stifled cry. The cold light touches the white mask, and the emptiness of his eyes seems to smile.

With a slow movement, Ghostface raises his gloved hand, watches the phone ring once more… and then, as the last ring echoes through the room, the voice finally breaks through the air, low, drawn out, unmistakable:

“Do you like scary movies?”