The red light above the camera blinked on.

  Across the studio, the audience applauded as the host leaned forward in his chair with the practiced ease of someone who had spent decades making celebrities feel comfortable while asking them uncomfortable questions.

  “Tonight,” he said with a smile that was half sympathy and half professional curiosity, “we’re joined by one of the newest faces in the Scream franchise.”

  The applause grew louder.

  Anna Camp smiled politely and gave a small wave to the crowd.

  Behind her, a massive screen displayed the familiar ghostly white mask that had haunted horror audiences for nearly thirty years.

  The host continued.

  “You’ve had quite the year,” he said. “Your role in Scream VII surprised a lot of fans—especially when it turned out you were Ghostface.”

  The audience reacted with delighted murmurs.

  Anna laughed.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That was a hard secret to keep.”

  “I can imagine,” the host replied. “The franchise is famous for misdirection, but hiding that twist during all those interviews must’ve been brutal.”

  Anna nodded.

  “It’s basically an acting exercise,” she said. “You’re doing press with people who are actively trying to guess if you’re the killer.”

  “And you have to lie.”

  “Professionally,” she said with a grin.

  The audience laughed.

  The host leaned back slightly, his expression shifting just enough to signal the conversation was about to move somewhere more serious.

  “Well… speaking of killers.”

  The laughter faded.

  “Three actors connected to the Scream franchise have now been murdered in the last forty-eight hours.”

  A murmur rippled through the audience.

  The screen behind them briefly flashed news footage—police lights outside a convention center, reporters speaking urgently into microphones.

  The host looked back at Anna.

  “Do you think this is a crazed fan… or just coincidence?”

  Anna’s smile didn’t disappear.

  But it changed.

  The practiced PR version of it settled into place.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  “I think,” she said carefully, “the most important thing right now is respecting the people we’ve lost.”

  The audience applauded again.

  The host nodded.

  “That’s fair.”

  Anna tilted her head slightly.

  “And honestly,” she added lightly, “this franchise has always played with the idea of fiction bleeding into reality.”

  The host smiled.

  “Well hopefully not this much.”

  The audience laughed again.

  The red camera light blinked off.

  Twenty minutes later Anna stepped out of the studio building into the cool Los Angeles night.

  A small cluster of reporters waited near the sidewalk.

  “Anna! Anna!”

  “Do you think the killer is targeting actors from the franchise?”

  “Do you feel safe continuing promotion for the film?”

  Anna raised a hand politely.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” she said. “No comment tonight.”

  She kept walking.

  Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she crossed toward the underground parking structure.

  The noise of the street faded behind her as she descended the ramp into the garage.

  The echoing quiet of the concrete structure swallowed the sounds of the city.

  Fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

  A few cars sat scattered across the otherwise empty rows.

  Anna reached into her purse for her keys.

  Her phone rang.

  Unknown number.

  She frowned slightly but answered.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  Then a voice spoke.

  Low.

  Raspy.

  Distorted.

  “What’s the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?”

  Anna stopped walking.

  For a moment she just stared at the concrete pillar beside her.

  “…you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She ended the call.

  The phone rang again instantly.

  She looked at the screen.

  Unknown number.

  Anna declined the call and slipped the phone into her purse.

  The ringing stopped.

  The garage fell silent again.

  Anna exhaled slowly.

  “Real funny,” she muttered.

  She reached her car and unlocked the door.

  A shadow moved across the concrete floor.

  Anna turned.

  A figure stepped out from behind a pillar.

  The mask was familiar.

  But wrong.

  The elongated white face looked almost melted, the mouth stretched downward in a warped expression that resembled the famous painting The Scream.

  The black hood draped over the figure’s shoulders like a curtain of shadow.

  Anna blinked once.

  “Seriously?”

  She set her purse on the hood of her car.

  “If you’re a fan, this is crossing a line.”

  The figure said nothing.

  It simply tilted its head slightly to one side.

  Anna watched it for a moment.

  Then her expression hardened.

  “Oh,” she said quietly.

  “You’re not joking.”

  The knife flashed in the killer’s hand.

  Anna moved first.

  Her keys swung upward in a sharp arc, striking the mask with a crack.

  The killer staggered back.

  Anna kicked forward, driving her heel into their stomach.

  ScreamFace stumbled into the side of a parked car.

  Anna grabbed the knife hand and slammed it against the metal door.

  The blade clattered to the concrete.

  She shoved the figure backward and stepped away, breathing hard.

  “You picked the wrong actress,” she said.

  ScreamFace straightened slowly.

  Calm.

  Patient.

  Then a second knife appeared in their hand.

  Anna’s confidence flickered.

  “Oh,” she said softly.

  “That’s cheating.”

  The killer lunged.

  Anna tried to run.

  She made it three steps before the knife plunged into her side.

  The breath exploded from her lungs.

  She staggered against the car door.

  Another stab.

  Anna slid down to the ground.

  Blood spread across the concrete beneath her.

  She looked up at the mask looming over her.

  Her voice came out weak but bitter.

  “Everyone hates me as Ghostface…”

  She coughed.

  “I shouldn’t even count.”

  The killer tilted their head.

  The knife plunged down again.

  Anna screamed.

  The sound echoed through the empty garage.

  High.

  Sharp.

  Perfect.

  ScreamFace paused.

  Almost… appreciative.

  Then spoke softly.

  “Pitch perfect.”

  The knife slipped free.

  Anna Camp’s body went still.

  ScreamFace wiped the blade clean against the sleeve of her jacket.

  Then turned and walked calmly toward the exit ramp.

  Moments later a car pulled into the garage.

  The driver saw the body.

  And screamed.

  By midnight every news channel in the country carried the same headline.

  ANNA CAMP FOUND DEAD IN HOLLYWOOD PARKING GARAGE

  Four actors connected to the Scream franchise were now dead.

  And somewhere in Los Angeles—

  ScreamFace was already planning the next scene.