𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕤𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟

A single fist thunders against the flaking blue paint of a front door. The flimsy wood warps and bends under the pressure and the noise echoes through to the entryway on the other side, but there's no sign that anyone was home to hear it.

It was a fine day in Woodsboro. But the sun never shone down on the Riley house. Not anymore. Not since Halloween of 1996.

Randy huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand while the other rested flush against the doorframe, ready to start knocking again at any moment. There were newspaper bundles scattered across the porch that dated back weeks at a time. At one point the paperboy must've given up because there were trails of them scattered across the lawn. Randy counted a dozen or so leading up to the door where he was standing now.

"I know you're in there. We need to talk!" he barked, voice breaking out of frustration and something else he refused to put a name to.

Eight weeks. That's how long you had been missing. But if you asked Randy, he would have guessed that months, maybe even years had passed since he woke up in that stiff hospital bed demanding to know where you were and if you were even safe.

He remembered it like it was yesterday. His poor nurse turned on the TV with trembling hands and the first thing he saw was Mickey Altieri's body being wheeled out of the campus auditorium under a thin white sheet.

It hadn't felt as real as he'd hoped. Too many horror movies had desensitized him to watching things through a screen. So for weeks afterward, it just felt like he was living an elaborate lie where everyone pretended that you were dead just because you weren't there to deny it.

"Dewey Riley, I swear to God!"

The sound of bottles clinking together made Randy's head snap up and his eyes roll. This wasn't the first time he'd shown up at Dewey's house uninvited and he doubted it would be the last. He made it a habit to make an appearance every week, just to make sure that the poor sucker was taking care of himself.

First Tatum, then you. The former sheriff of Woodsboro lost everyone he had ever sworn to protect and Randy couldn't even pretend that their pain was even slightly comparable.

He was about to start screaming again, but then there came an audible click and the door unlatched in front of him. As it swung inward, Randy stumbled on the doorstep and drew his head up to make eye contact with his old friend who was standing on the other side of the dark doorway.

Five o'clock shadow five times over cast a thin veil over Dewey's already sickly pale skin. He eyed Randy unassumingly, blinking back at the bright sun that shone through the threshold. He looked like he'd just stumbled out of his most recent bender. And considering his new drinking habits, Randy wouldn't put that possibility past him.

Without waiting for an invitation, he shoved his way inside, ignoring the mumbled protests from his friend. "Christ, man, you smell like death."

"Fuck you, Meeks."

Their shoulders collided and Randy awkwardly brushed off the sleeve of his green bomber jacket, pretending that he didn't see the crusted stains that were littered across his friend's lounge shirt from days of constant wear. "Someone's gotta," he added reluctantly.

His poor attempt at a joke didn't bode over well and Randy awkwardly ran a hand down the back of his neck as he sauntered into the dark living room. The shades were drawn like they always were and green glass bottles littered both the carpet and coffee table—like the sad aftermath of a pity party for one.

Randy was acutely aware that the door had shut behind him and that Dewey was still glaring at him from behind when he kicked an empty pizza box with the toe of his shoe. "I don't get how you can live like this, dude."