Chapter 2 The Aftermath and the Rules

The dawn broke over Woodsboro like a smear of bruised purple and grey, casting long, distorted shadows across the usually idyllic suburban landscape. The air, still crisp with the bite of autumn, now carried an oppressive weight, a chilling silence that felt heavier than any fog. The previous night's frantic sirens and flashing lights had subsided, leaving behind only the stark yellow crime scene tape that now crisscrossed the Becker residence, an ugly scar on the face of the neighborhood.

The cheerful Halloween decorations, still packed away in boxes in most garages, seemed to mock the grim reality that had descended.

For Sidney Prescott, the news hit like a physical blow. The phone call came from Tatum, her voice a thin, reedy wail on the other end of the line. "Sidney... it's Casey. She's... she's dead. Murdered." The words, though expected after the hushed rumors that had spread faster than wildfire through the quiet streets, still struck her with a profound, sickening force. Casey Becker, vibrant, popular, alive just yesterday, was gone. Brutally taken.

Sidney stood by her window, looking out at the world that suddenly felt alien and menacing. The trees that lined her street, once comforting sentinels, now seemed to whisper secrets she didn't want to hear. She pulled her worn flannel shirt tighter around herself, as if trying to ward off the encroaching chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Her breath hitched. A year. It had only been a year since her own mother, Maureen Prescott, had been murdered. The wound, barely beginning to scab over, had just been ripped open again, raw and bleeding. This felt too similar, too close to home. The irrational fear that had begun to recede was now surging back, stronger and more terrifying than ever.

Across town, at the Woodsboro High School, the morning was anything but normal. The usual Friday chatter and laughter were replaced by hushed whispers, solemn faces, and the occasional choked sob. Principal Himbry, a man usually booming with school spirit, addressed the student body over the intercom, his voice strained and uncharacteristically somber. He announced the cancellation of classes for the day, urging students to go home, to be with their families, to grieve. But the students lingered, drawn together by a collective unease, a need to process the unthinkable.

Sidney found Tatum in the crowded hallway, her usually bright eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Tatum, always the resilient one, the one who could find humor in any situation, looked utterly shattered. "I can't believe it, Sid," Tatum choked out, pulling Sidney into a tight embrace. "Casey... it's just so messed up. Who would do something like this?"

Sidney could only shake her head, the question echoing in her own mind. Who indeed? And why Casey? Was it random? Or was there something more sinister at play? The thought, fleeting but chilling, resurfaced: Was this connected to her mother's death? No, she pushed it away. That was a year ago. Cotton Weary was in jail. This had to be different.

As the morning wore on, small groups formed, huddled together, dissecting every grim detail of the murder that had seeped out from the police. Word had spread like wildfire about how Casey's body had been found, gruesomely displayed in her own backyard. It was a detail that added an extra layer of horror, a theatricality that felt deeply unsettling.

"Did you hear about Steve?" Randy Meeks, a film nerd with an encyclopedic knowledge of horror movies and a perpetual glint of mischievous intelligence in his eyes, approached Sidney and Tatum, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "They found him too. In the backyard. Also killed."

Tatum gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my God. Steve too? Poor Casey."

Randy nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Yeah. It's like... it's like a horror movie, isn't it? The beginning. The cold open." He looked around at the grim faces, a strange mix of morbid fascination and genuine fear in his eyes. "First rule of surviving a horror movie: never answer the phone."

Sidney stared at him, a shiver running down her spine. "Randy, this isn't a movie. This is real life."

"Exactly!" Randy exclaimed, his voice gaining a frantic energy. "And real life is imitating art. Think about it. Pretty blonde girl, home alone, answers the phone, plays a game, boyfriend gets killed, then she gets killed. It's classic slasher stuff. 'Stab', you know? Or 'Terror Time'. The formula is always the same."

He started pacing, gesturing animatedly. "Secondly, never say 'I'll be right back!' You never come back. Thirdly, never go outside to investigate a strange noise. Fourthly, never have sex!" Randy paused dramatically. "Because those are the rules. And Casey, God rest her soul, broke a couple of them."

Tatum frowned, her grief temporarily overshadowed by irritation. "Randy, what are you talking about? Are you seriously applying horror movie rules to a real murder? That's messed up."

"It's not messed up, Tatum, it's factual!" Randy insisted, his eyes blazing with a strange intensity. "Every single character in a horror movie who gets killed, they break the rules. They're stupid! And that's why they die! If you want to survive, you gotta know the rules, you gotta play by them."

Sidney listened, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. Randy's words, as bizarre as they sounded, tapped into a deep, primal fear. What if he was right? What if someone was playing a game? A terrifying, deadly game. The thought was chilling, almost as chilling as the memory of her own mother's violent death. The killer, Cotton Weary, had been found and put away. But this new killer... who were they? And what were their rules?

Later that morning, the police presence in Woodsboro intensified. Sheriff Burke and his deputies were everywhere, canvassing homes, questioning residents. The entire town felt under siege, a palpable sense of fear settling over every street, every house. No one felt safe.

Sidney's father, Neil Prescott, usually a rock of calm and composure, was visibly shaken. He hovered around Sidney, his eyes clouded with worry, asking if she was okay, if she needed anything. He tried to shield her, but Sidney knew he couldn't shield her from the memories, from the fear that this could happen again, to anyone.

As the day progressed, the local news vans started to arrive, their satellite dishes pointing skyward like hungry metal birds. Among them was the ambitious and tenacious news reporter, Gale Weathers, from Global News. Sidney had a particular aversion to Gale Weathers, who had capitalized on her mother's murder a year ago, writing a tell-all book titled "The Woodsboro Murders" and painting Sidney's deceased mother in a less than flattering light. Gale saw herself as a truth-seeker, but Sidney saw her as a vulture, picking at the bones of her family's tragedy for profit.

Gale, with her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing, was already setting up interviews outside the high school, eager to capture the raw emotions of the students. She approached Randy, her microphone outstretched, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "So, you're saying you believe this killer is following a pattern, like in a horror film?"

Randy, momentarily flustered by the sudden attention, straightened his shirt. "Well, yeah! It's obvious! It's a game. And if you know the rules, you can beat the game. The question is, who's the mastermind? Who's the one playing the game?"

Gale nodded, her expression unreadable. She seemed to thrive on the chaos, on the sensationalism of the unfolding tragedy. Her crew filmed the solemn faces of the students, the yellow tape at the Becker house, creating a narrative that would soon be broadcast across the state, making Woodsboro synonymous with terror.

Sidney watched Gale from a distance, her jaw tight. She despised the way Gale exploited people's pain, the way she inserted herself into tragedies, twisting them for ratings. It made her stomach churn. The memories of her mother's death, the trial, Gale's intrusive questions, it all came rushing back with renewed force. This new murder was not just a tragedy for Casey and Steve's families; it was a horrifying echo, a stark reminder of the fragile line between safety and terror in Woodsboro.

Later that afternoon, after a restless lunch that no one really ate, Sidney found herself walking home with Tatum and Billy Loomis, her boyfriend. Billy, usually so easygoing and charming, seemed troubled, his brow furrowed with concern. He kept a protective arm around Sidney, his presence a small comfort against the growing unease.

"It's just... it's unbelievable," Billy murmured, shaking his head. "Poor Casey. Poor Steve. This is gonna change everything for Woodsboro."

"It already has," Sidney replied, her voice flat. She looked up at the sky, a vast, indifferent canvas. Her gaze swept over the familiar houses, now feeling alien, each one a potential target, each neighbor a potential suspect, or victim. The thought was chilling.

As they approached Sidney's house, they saw Sheriff Burke's patrol car parked outside. Sidney's heart pounded. He was here to talk to her. About Casey. Or maybe... about her mother.

Sheriff Burke, a kind man who had known Sidney since she was a child, met them at the door. His face was grim, his eyes tired. "Sidney, can I have a word with you? Alone?"

Billy squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I'll wait outside, Sid."

Inside, the sheriff sat opposite Sidney in the living room, his gaze direct and empathetic. "Sidney, I know this is incredibly difficult for you, given... what happened last year." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We're investigating every angle. We need to be sure this isn't connected to your mother's case."

Sidney's breath hitched. "You think it is?"

"We don't know," Burke said honestly. "But it's a possibility we can't ignore. The brutality, the... theatricality of it. It's unsettlingly similar."

Sidney felt a cold dread spread through her. "Cotton Weary is in prison. He's not getting out."

"We know that, Sidney," Burke assured her. "But there's always the chance of a copycat. Someone inspired by what happened, someone who wants to finish what they think was started."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Casey's parents told us she received a phone call before... before it happened. The killer apparently played a game with her. Horror movie trivia."

Sidney's eyes widened. "Randy was just talking about that. He said it was like a horror movie."

Burke nodded slowly. "Indeed. It suggests a killer who is obsessed with these films, or perhaps using them as a template. Do you... do you know anyone who might fit that description? Anyone obsessed with horror movies, perhaps a little... disturbed?"

Sidney's mind immediately went to Randy. But Randy was her friend. Quirky, yes, but disturbed? No. Then she thought of Stu Macher, Tatum's ex-boyfriend, a volatile presence with a dark sense of humor. Or even Billy, whose intensity could sometimes be unsettling, though she quickly dismissed the thought. Billy would never.

"No," Sidney said, shaking her head, trying to clear her thoughts. "I can't think of anyone who would do this."

"Think hard, Sidney," Burke urged, his gaze piercing. "This isn't just about Casey anymore. This is about everyone in Woodsboro. And for you, especially. We don't want history to repeat itself."

The words hung heavy in the air, a terrifying premonition. History repeating itself. The very thought made Sidney's blood run cold. She remembered the endless police questions after her mother's death, the way people looked at her, the whispers. She had just started to feel normal again. Now, the normalcy was shattered, replaced by an even deeper, more pervasive fear. This time, it wasn't just her family's tragedy; it was the entire town's. And the killer, unlike Cotton Weary who had been apprehended, was still out there, lurking in the shadows, perhaps even watching.

As Sheriff Burke left, promising to keep her informed, Sidney stood alone in the living room, the weight of his words pressing down on her. The silence of the house was no longer comforting; it was filled with the echoes of Casey's screams, the whisper of the killer's voice, and the chilling realization that Woodsboro, once a haven of quiet suburban life, had become a hunting ground. The game had begun, and everyone in town was suddenly a potential player, whether they knew the rules or not. And Sidney, scarred by her past, found herself at the very heart of it, a target illuminated by the grim spotlight of tragic familiarity.

The next few days would be a blur of fear, suspicion, and a desperate search for answers. But for now, as night descended once more on Woodsboro, an unsettling calm settled over the town, a calm that felt more like the holding of a collective breath, waiting for the next horrifying act to unfold. The rules of survival, as Randy had so glibly laid them out, now seemed less like a game and more like a terrifying prophecy.