Chapter 1 The Call

The aroma of freshly popped popcorn, rich and buttery, clung to the air in Casey Becker's kitchen. It was an unofficial start to the weekend, a beacon of simple comfort after a grueling week of classes and after-school activities. The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of kernels exploding in the microwave and the distant, muffled sounds of autumn wind rustling through the leaves outside. Eighteen years old, with a vibrancy that even the approaching chill of October couldn't dim, Casey was a creature of habit.

Friday nights meant movie nights, and tonight, with her parents out at a local fundraiser, it was just her and a double feature of classic horror.

She hummed a tuneless melody, her fingers deftly scooping the fluffy white clusters into a large ceramic bowl adorned with cartoon ghosts – a seasonal touch her mom insisted upon. The red glow of the microwave display counted down the last few seconds: 0:05... 0:04... 0:03... Just as the timer beeped its final, triumphant note, the landline phone on the kitchen counter shrieked to life.

"Hello?" Casey answered, balancing the warm bowl against her hip, a kernel of corn still clinging to her lip. She expected a familiar voice, perhaps her boyfriend, Steve Orth, calling to say he was on his way, or her best friend, Tatum Riley, asking for a last-minute movie recommendation.

"Hello?" A deep, modulated voice responded, cool and smooth, with an unnerving lack of inflection. It wasn't Steve. It wasn't Tatum. It wasn't anyone she recognized. "Who is this?"

Casey frowned, a slight prickle of unease rippling through her. "Who is this? Who are you trying to reach?"

A soft chuckle, dry as autumn leaves, drifted through the receiver. "Well, what number am I calling?"

"What number are you calling?" Casey retorted, her voice tinged with irritation, her brow furrowed. "You dialed it."

"Yeah," the voice drawled, a hint of something sly creeping into its tone. "But I wanna know who I'm looking at."

Casey's hand instinctively tightened around the phone. The casual invasion of privacy, the strange turn of phrase, sent a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of the popcorn. "That's not funny," she said, trying to sound firm, but her voice wavered slightly. "Look, I think you have the wrong number."

"Do I?" The voice now had a playful edge, a cat-and-mouse quality that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. "What's your name?"

"I don't have to tell you my name," Casey snapped, suddenly feeling vulnerable in the quiet house. She glanced around, as if expecting to see someone materialize from the shadows. The kitchen, usually so comforting, now felt vast and empty.

"Yes, you do," the voice insisted, its tone hardening almost imperceptibly. "I wanna know who I'm talking to."

Casey hesitated. This was getting weird. She thought about hanging up, but something held her back – a strange curiosity, a desire not to appear rattled. "Alright," she sighed, giving in to what felt like a harmless, if bizarre, prank. "Who is this?"

"Guess," the voice purred.

"No, I don't play guessing games," Casey said, her patience wearing thin.

"Don't you?" The voice suddenly dropped its playful pretense, becoming sharper, more menacing. "Then you're gonna die."

A cold wave washed over Casey. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't a prank. This wasn't a wrong number. This was... something else entirely. "Look, I'm hanging up," she whispered, her fingers fumbling for the disconnect button.

"No, you're not," the voice commanded, its authority chilling. "Because you wanna find out who this is. Don't you?"

A choked sound escaped Casey's throat. She wanted to deny it, to slam the phone down, but a morbid fascination, mingled with rising terror, held her captive. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk," the voice said, a hint of amusement returning. "So, you like scary movies, Casey?"

The question hit her like a physical blow. He knew her name. How did he know her name? Her eyes darted around the kitchen, then to the darkened living room beyond. The silence of the house pressed in on her, amplifying the sinister voice in her ear.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" he pressed, as if oblivious to the terror he was instilling.

Casey's mind raced, trying to process. This had to be a friend playing a joke. Steve, maybe? No, Steve wouldn't. Tatum? No way. "Halloween," she blurted out, the first title that came to mind, desperate to give him an answer, to placate him.

"Oh, the original, of course," the voice approved, a hint of a smile in his tone. "Drew Barrymore was great in that."

"No," Casey corrected, her voice shaky. "Drew Barrymore isn't in Halloween."

"Yes, she is," he countered, a new edge of taunting entering his voice. "She's the girl who dies at the beginning."

A sickening realization dawned on Casey. He wasn't talking about the movie Halloween. He was talking about her. Drew Barrymore, the actress, was in this movie that was about to unfold. He was playing a game, and she was the first victim. Her breath caught in her throat. "What do you want?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper now, her hand trembling so violently she almost dropped the receiver.

"We're gonna play a game, Casey," he said, his voice dropping to a low, chilling growl. "And if you lose, you die. And so does your boyfriend."

"Steve?" Casey gasped, her blood running cold. "What are you talking about? Steve's not here."

"Oh, yes, he is," the voice purred, and then, from somewhere outside the house, she heard a muffled, agonized groan. A sound that made her stomach clench with icy dread.

Casey stumbled backward, knocking the popcorn bowl off the counter. It hit the tiled floor with a dull thud, scattering buttery kernels everywhere. Her eyes were wide, darting towards the back door, then to the sliding glass door leading to the patio. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm, a drumbeat of pure terror.

"He's right outside," the voice confirmed, its tone laced with cruel satisfaction. "Tied to a chair. Want to see?"

Tears welled in Casey's eyes, hot and stinging. She didn't want to see, but a primal urge, stronger than fear, pulled her towards the patio door. Her hand, slick with sweat, gripped the cold metal handle. Slowly, agonizingly, she slid it open a crack, peering out into the inky blackness of the backyard. The security light was off, plunging everything into deep shadow.

Then she saw him.

A dark figure, slumped against the ancient oak tree that dominated their yard, its branches skeletal against the night sky. He was bound, gagged, his head bowed. Steve. It was Steve. A sob tore from Casey's throat, quickly muffled by her hand.

"That's him, isn't it?" the voice in her ear whispered, enjoying her horror. "Now, for the game. Basic horror movie trivia. You answer wrong, Steve gets a little closer to meeting his maker. You hang up, you go running for help, he's dead."

Casey's mind was a frantic whirlwind. There had to be a way out. Her parents would be home soon. But how soon? "What do you want to know?" she choked out, her voice ragged.

"Final question. If you get this wrong, your boyfriend dies," the killer announced, ignoring her plea. "Name the killer in Friday the 13th."

Casey's mind went blank. Friday the 13th... there were so many of them. Jason, right? But wasn't it... someone else in the first one? Panic seized her. "Jason!" she cried, desperate for it to be the right answer.

A long, drawn-out sigh came from the phone. "I'm afraid not, Casey. The correct answer is Pamela Voorhees. Jason's mother. And for that, Steve suffers."

From outside, a sharp, piercing scream tore through the night, abruptly cut short. Casey's own scream was trapped in her throat, a choked, guttural sound of pure agony and despair. The phone in her hand felt impossibly heavy, yet she couldn't drop it.

"He's gone, Casey," the voice said, cold and clinical, yet tinged with a predatory satisfaction. "Now, it's your turn."

Casey didn't wait for another word. She dropped the phone, letting it clatter against the tiled floor, the killer's voice still faintly audible, a chilling buzz. Her legs, stiff with terror, propelled her towards the back door. She fumbled with the deadbolt, her fingers clumsy, slick with sweat. Finally, with a desperate wrench, the lock clicked open. She burst out into the night, gasping, her bare feet hitting the cool, damp grass.

"Help! Someone! Please!" she shrieked, her voice thin against the vast silence of the neighborhood. She ran blindly, her eyes scanning the dark yard, the outline of the woods beyond. She had to get to the street, to a neighbor's house, anywhere but here.

But the night swallowed her cries. A sudden rustle in the bushes, then the distinct squeak of a shoe on wet leaves. He was close.

Casey scrambled, her lungs burning, towards the front of the house. Her mind raced, a jumbled mess of fear and instinct. Get to the car. Get to the phone. Get away. She pounded on the front door, knowing it was useless, her own house now a deathtrap.

"Casey!" A deep, raspy voice, closer than before, whispered her name.

She spun around, her eyes wide with terror. A tall, dark figure emerged from the shadows of the porch, silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlights. The Ghostface mask, a elongated, distorted scream frozen in plastic, seemed to stare directly into her soul. A long, glinting blade, impossibly sharp, caught the faint light.

Casey let out a strangled cry, backing away, tripping over her own feet. She fell hard onto the porch, scraping her knee on the rough concrete. Panic, cold and absolute, washed over her. There was nowhere to go.

The killer stalked towards her, slow and deliberate, each step echoing the relentless march of death. Casey scrambled backwards, desperate, clawing at the wooden planks of the porch, trying to push herself away.

"Please," she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "Don't. Please!"

The killer said nothing, merely tilted his head, the silent mask an unfeeling void. Then, with a sudden, horrifying burst of speed, he lunged.

Casey screamed, a primal, ear-splitting sound of pure terror and pain, as the blade plunged into her. Not once, but repeatedly, a sickening, methodical rhythm. Her body convulsed, a desperate dance with death. The cold October air was suddenly filled with the coppery tang of blood, mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass. Her vision blurred, the world tilting precariously. The last thing she saw was the blank, staring eyes of the Ghostface mask, a final, unblinking witness to her demise. Then, darkness claimed her.

A red Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway, its headlights cutting through the oppressive darkness of the Woodsboro night. Neil and Debbie Becker, returning from the local charity gala, chattered idly about the evening's rather dull speeches and Debbie's surprisingly successful bid on a silent auction item. Neil turned off the engine, plunging the immediate vicinity into quiet darkness, broken only by the chirping of crickets.

"Casey still up, do you think?" Debbie mused, reaching for her purse in the back seat. "I left her some cookies."

"Probably glued to some horror flick," Neil chuckled, stepping out of the car. He stretched, feeling the familiar aches of a long day. As he reached to open Debbie's door, something caught his eye, hanging from the sturdy branch of their ancient oak tree, usually reserved for a swing or, this time of year, perhaps some Halloween decorations.

It was too dark to make it out clearly at first. A scarecrow, perhaps? But it was too large, too human-shaped, swaying gently in the faint breeze. A peculiar unease settled in his stomach.

"What is that?" Debbie asked, following his gaze, her voice suddenly hushed.

They took a few steps closer, their hearts beginning to pound with a sickening realization. The outline became clearer, horribly so. A human figure, suspended, arms outstretched, like some macabre ornament. And then, as the faint light from the streetlamp caught it just right, they saw the glint of blonde hair, the familiar plaid shirt.

"Oh my god," Debbie whispered, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. A piercing, raw scream tore from her throat, shattering the quiet night. "Casey! Neil! Oh my God, it's Casey!"

Neil felt a cold dread seep into his bones, paralyzing him. His daughter. Hanging there. Lifeless. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. The world spun.

Debbie, however, was already running, a guttural wail escaping her lips, stumbling across the lawn towards the tree. "Casey! My baby! No! No, no, no!"

Neil snapped out of his stupor, his own scream of anguish joining hers. He fumbled for his cell phone, his fingers trembling too much to dial. He dropped it. Stumbled to pick it up, his eyes never leaving the grotesque tableau in their yard. He finally managed to dial 911, his voice a choked, hysterical whisper of desperation.

Within minutes, the once-peaceful street erupted. The wail of sirens pierced the night, growing louder and louder. Red and blue lights flashed, painting the quiet suburban homes in an eerie, pulsing glow. Neighbors, roused by the screams and the sudden arrival of emergency vehicles, began to peek out from behind curtains, their faces etched with curiosity, then dawning horror.

Police cars, an ambulance, and fire trucks descended upon the Becker residence. Uniformed officers, grim-faced, began to cordon off the area with yellow tape, turning the once-welcoming home into a crime scene. Paramedics rushed to Debbie, who had collapsed at the foot of the tree, sobbing uncontrollably, her husband trying to hold her, his own face ashen with shock and grief.

A single, horrified murmur spread through the gathering onlookers: a murder. In Woodsboro. A quiet town where nothing ever happened. Until now. The news would spread like wildfire through the small community, leaving behind a chilling question that echoed in the silent, horrified minds of everyone present: Who would do such a thing? And why?

The first tendrils of fear, cold and insidious, began to snake through Woodsboro. A predator was loose, hiding in plain sight. And the game, as far as anyone knew, had only just begun. The Halloween decorations, still awaiting their turn to adorn the friendly porches, now seemed like a grotesque premonition.