𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕖𝕟

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

You repeated this mantra under your breath as you took off in a dead sprint through the corridors of empty classrooms, footsteps pounding against the linoleum as you zigzagged senselessly left and right. You could only pray that you didn't accidentally veer down a dead-end hallway. With every step you took, you knew Ghostface was gaining on you, knife unsheathed and making mad swipes in the air just inches away from meeting your skin.

Thankfully, the further you ran from the auditorium, the more familiar your surroundings became. You recognized the door of the film theory room in a quick blur as you dashed by, which meant that the school theater was coming up just ahead.

I can make it, I can make it.

The killer was breathing heavily just inches behind you, voice warped and crackling under the thin white plastic mask. You swore that costume looked cheaper every time you saw it. But he had obviously been anticipating a chase and you wouldn't be able to outrun him so easily. Little did you actually know that he was corralling you right where he wanted.

You nearly cried out in relief as the wooden double doors of the school theater came into view from around the corner, quickening your pace just barely so that you could reach out and yank on the long bronze handle. It clicked open — thankyouthankyouthankyou — and you slid inside just as the steel blade stabbed into the spot on the door right above your head.

You squealed in terror but didn't let your fear stop you from trying to escape. You had enough experience to know exactly what would happen if your brain decided to shut down and abandon all rational thought in a high-pressure scenario like this. Spoiler alert: It wouldn't be pretty.

As soon as you pulled the door shut behind you — there was no stationary lock — you scampered down the rows and rows of plush red velvet seats toward the stage. 

Stages meant backstages. Backstages meant doors. Doors meant exits. Exits meant freedom.

You didn't even bother to question how or why all of the stage lights were on as you desperately crawled up onto the raised wooden platform without looking behind you, too afraid of finding out just how close the killer was to grabbing you by the ankle and yanking you down into the orchestra pit.

So much for being a final girl, you thought to yourself before limping toward the visibly blinking red EXIT sign hanging above a black door half-painted in shadows. The sign could just as well have said WELCOME TO HELL and you would probably still have run through it blindly in an attempt to escape the guy chasing you.

Just as you were about to dip backstage, a soft whirring sound made itself known above your head, growing louder and louder by the second, and you jumped back just in time to avoid being crushed by a falling stage prop. It was a tall, sturdy, plaster coliseum wall and it sealed off the exit completely with a loud boom that made the stage under your feet rumble on impact.

You gasped for breath and tried to peer out into the crowd but the stage lights blinded you, making everything in the audience appear as still and black as the night. "Fuck," you panted for the umpteenth time, wheeling around and scurrying over to the left side of the stage. Just as your hopes began to rise, they plummeted along with the second prop-scene that fell with a cloud of sandy dust against the floor.

"No, no, no," you licked your lips and gripped your forehead nervously. You couldn't let him box you in like this or it was game over.

"You're quick, I'll give you that."

You spun around and took a timid step back as Ghostface crept up the short set of steps onto the stage. Even in person, the voice sounded wrong. Off. Fake. Still, your blood started pumping loudly in your chest. Your fight or flight sensors didn't care about critiquing your killer's presentation when everything in your body was warning you about the knife glistening in the hot yellow lights just a few feet away.