No one moved.
The headline glowed on half a dozen phone screens across the rehearsal room.
ACTOR ETHAN EMBRY FOUND DEAD IN LOS ANGELES HOME
The words sat there like something poisonous.
Melissa lowered her phone slowly.
“That’s five.”
Jenna shook her head, like she could physically dislodge the reality of it.
“No.”
Her voice was quiet but firm.
“No, that’s not possible.”
Joel McHale let out a slow breath and leaned against the edge of the conference table.
“Well,” he muttered, “this officially qualifies as a nightmare.”
Trevor sat back in his chair and ran a hand over the back of his neck.
“So let me get this straight,” he said. “Actors connected to Ghostface are dropping one by one and we’re all just… sitting here reading scripts?”
No one answered him.
Across the room, Jasmin Savoy Brown stared at her phone, refreshing the news article again and again.
“It just says he was found dead,” she said quietly.
Mason frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Jasmin shook her head.
“That’s the whole article.”
“Cause of death?” Mason asked.
“Nothing.”
Trevor frowned.
“That’s a bit odd.”
Oliver hadn’t said anything.
He was staring at the headline the same way someone stares at a puzzle piece that almost fits.
Something about it felt wrong.
The other murders had been loud.
Messy.
Public.
The killer had practically staged them like scenes in a movie.
Matthew Lillard.
Jack Champion.
Dermot Mulroney.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Anna Camp.
Every one of them had been theatrical.
But Ethan Embry?
Oliver scrolled through the article again.
Too short.
Too vague.
Too quiet.
His phone buzzed.
Then Melissa’s did.
Then Jenna’s.
Then everyone’s.
The sound filled the room again like a swarm of angry insects.
Joel glanced down at his phone and groaned.
“Oh you have got to be kidding me.”
“What now?” Mason asked.
Joel turned the screen toward them.
A voicemail notification blinked on the display.
Unknown number.
Trevor leaned forward.
“Please tell me that’s not—”
Oliver already knew.
He reached across the table and picked up the phone.
“Don’t answer it,” Jenna said quickly.
“I’m not,” Oliver replied.
He tapped the voicemail instead.
The speaker crackled.
Then the voice came through.
Low.
Raspy.
Distorted.
Almost amused.
“Well…”
A few people instinctively stepped closer together.
“That was fast.”
The voice continued.
“I barely had time to enjoy the performance.”
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
The voice chuckled softly.
“But I suppose that’s what happens when you cast so many Ghostfaces.”
Jenna whispered—
“Oh my God.”
The voicemail continued.
“You’re doing very well, by the way.”
Oliver felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“You didn’t answer the phone.”
“Stayed together.”
“Followed the rules.”
The voice paused.
Then softened.
“But knowing the rules doesn’t mean you survive the movie.”
Trevor muttered something under his breath.
The voice continued.
“Five down.”
Silence.
“Which means…”
Another pause.
“…so many scenes left to shoot.”
Melissa grabbed the edge of the table.
The voice dropped to a whisper.
“I wonder which one of you will be the next star.”
The voicemail clicked off.
For a moment the room was completely silent.
Then Trevor said quietly—
“Well that’s deeply upsetting.”
Jasmin crossed her arms.
“How does he know we’re all together?”
No one had an answer.
Mason looked around the room.
“That means he’s watching us.”
Joel shook his head.
“Or listening.”
The thought settled heavily over the group.
Suddenly the room felt smaller.
Oliver looked around slowly.
Everyone here knew the franchise.
Everyone here knew the rules.
And suddenly—
Everyone here looked like a suspect.
Jenna spoke first.
“I hate this.”
Melissa nodded.
“Me too.”
Trevor glanced toward the door.
“So what’s the plan?”
The door opened before anyone could answer.
Two studio security guards stepped inside, followed by a nervous-looking producer.
The producer cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said carefully.
“Everyone listen up.”
The room turned toward him.
“Production on Scream 8 is suspended until further notice.”
No one looked surprised.
“The police want to speak with all of you,” he continued.
“Standard procedure.”
Joel raised an eyebrow.
“Standard procedure for what exactly?”
The producer hesitated.
Then said the words everyone had already been thinking.
“For a serial murder investigation.”
The room went quiet again.
Oliver leaned back in his chair.
His brain was still spinning through the pattern.
Ghostface actors.
Staged kills.
Theatrical scenes.
Something about Ethan Embry still didn’t fit.
Trevor glanced at him.
“You’re doing the face again.”
“What face?” Oliver asked.
“The thinking face.”
Marie leaned closer.
“You think something’s wrong with the pattern.”
Oliver didn’t answer immediately.
He stared down at his phone again.
Then said quietly—
“Yeah.”
Jenna looked at him.
“What?”
Oliver frowned.
“All the other murders were staged.”
He looked around the room.
“But Ethan’s wasn’t.”
Trevor shrugged.
“So?”
Oliver shook his head slowly.
“That’s the problem.”
Across the room, Neve Campbell stood quietly near the window.
She had been silent the entire time.
Watching.
Listening.
When she finally spoke, her voice was calm.
“Panicking won’t help.”
Everyone looked at her.
“The safest thing we can do right now,” she said gently, “is stay together.”
The room slowly nodded.
It sounded reasonable.
Logical.
Comforting.
Oliver stared at her for a moment.
Then looked around the room again.
Everyone was agreeing.
Everyone was relaxing slightly.
And suddenly he understood something that made his stomach drop.
If this was really following the rules of a Scream movie—
Then the killer didn’t want them separated.
The killer wanted them exactly where they were.
Together.
Inside the same story.
