Scream 3 [✓]

Epilogue

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For anyone who was brave enough to wander through the streets at this time of night, they might have seen a person shrouded in pitch black hanging from the second story window ledge of a standalone house.

For a few moment he just hung there, the bulk of his body weight relying on his upper body strength.

Then, with an incredible show of muscle control, he hung there with one hand while he brought the other reaching up and forward to push the window wide open, the toes of his black boots clinging to the lattice.

A crack of lightning lit up the sky as the person hauled himself up and through the window, succesfully entering the dark house.

The pouring rain outside had nearly washed out the crimson staining his robes as the figure pulled the disguise from his face, taking long strides toward one of the corners of the room, staining the carpet below with muddy footprints as he did.

As soon as the fire from the candles supplied the room with unstable light, the man walked back over to the wooden desk that was hugging one of the walls, placing the aged mask on it so carefully it was like the object was his most valuable belonging.

It was.

The ghost face appeared the scariest it had ever been with cracks around the edges betraying its usage, the once pearly white plastic now almost a pale shade of yellow under all the dirt.

The man reached for something in his tattered robes, pulling out a photo camera as he hummed and placed it beside the mask that obscured his face from the rest of the world.

His gaze traveled upwards as he leaned thoughtfully on the hard surface of his working place, the darkness making his pupils bigger that darted over the hundreds of news articles varying from ten years ago up til very recent ones.

They all read things like; 'Woodsboro killings' and 'Windsor Murders'.

Pulling off his stained gloves, he lifted the newest piece of information up between his fingers, pinning it to the only uncovered spot left on the wall in front of him.

'Film Director Roman Bridger found dead'

Taking one step back, he gazed over the remaining three walls that were all littered in the same thing.

Pictures.

Thousands of them, they all displayed the same three people and were all shot at different places and times.

One in particular captured his attention.

It was a really dark one since it had been taken from in the woods at around midnight.

On it, two young adult males were on the run and covered in blood from head to toe. They were the very same ones that made the blood in his veins feel like hot lava.

Billy Loomis and Stuart Macher.

He referred to them as 'posers', because that's what they were.

Whereas normally, he would be indifferent about someone viewing his work as important enough to imitate it, those two did nothing but insult him.

How dare they ruin his work? His name?

Their kills were sloppy, lacked grace and creativity, not to mention their little obsession was as childish as it was pitiful.

Which brought him to the last person that was presented on the countless photographs.

You.

(Y/N) (L/N). The one that got away.

There was the tiniest twinge of admiration in his cold heart for you that was quickly doused with one shake of the head.

His fingers raked through the locks of his dripping wet brown hair before they touched his jaw, his index finger resting against his lips.

You were just so clueless. Or stupid? There was a fine line seperating the two.

He had been stalking these kids since they started killing, their obsessive love over you was nothing but revolting in his eyes and now, they were lying to you about everything they'd done, covering up their evil deeds.

If only you knew.

He could understand their fondness of you to some extent; you were brave, daring and intelligent, not to mention you possessed a great fighting spirit.

Oh, how badly he wanted to be the one to snuff it out. At least he would give you a memorable death that you deserved.

Sigh.

His curiousity would get the better of him eventually. As a reporter, he was drawn to things out of the ordinary.

That was exactly what you were. Out of the ordinary.

The corner of his full, pink lips turned upwards into a smirk but it was gone as soon as it came. His looks could be classified as beautiful if not for the scary aura surrounding him.

Heavy worker boots stomped around the room until they reached a set of drawers that slid open with a squeak, in which a set of identical, gleaming daggers lay.

Taking three of them out, he lowered his eyes and studied the weapons for a moment, the orange flames licking the steel, before he quickly turned on his heels and flung the weapons at one of the walls with deadly accuracy, each blade piercing a different face.

He couldn't—  wouldn't have his work slandered by copycats.

They would find out the hard way.

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(A/N: If anyone is confused about who this is, the answer is in the A/N.)