Chapter 3 Under Siege

The pale light of morning, usually a promise of new beginnings, felt like a harsh, unwelcome glare on Woodsboro. The sun, a timid orb behind a veil of thin clouds, offered little warmth, and even less comfort. The town was no longer just quiet; it was hushed, stifled by a collective breath held tight. The yellow crime scene tape at the Becker residence, visible from several blocks away, fluttered mournfully in the crisp autumn breeze, a macabre banner marking the town's forced entry into a nightmare.

Sidney Prescott had barely slept. Every shadow seemed to stretch, every creak of the old house amplified into a sinister whisper. The image of Casey Becker, vibrant and alive just yesterday, now grotesquely displayed, refused to leave her mind. It was a stark, brutal echo of her own past, a year ago when her mother's life had been snatched away with equal, shocking violence. She clung to her father's presence, his quiet strength a fragile anchor in a world that felt like it was spinning out of control.

Woodsboro High School, a place usually bustling with adolescent energy, now resembled a somber monument. Principal Himbry's voice, which had boomed with cheerful announcements, now cracked over the intercom, announcing a mandatory half-day for all students, followed by indefinite closure until the "situation" was resolved. The students didn't cheer; they simply looked at each other with wide, frightened eyes. The vibrant hum of youthful life was replaced by hushed murmurs, the rustle of anxiety, and the occasional, heartbreaking sob from a friend of Casey or Steve.

Sidney walked through the hallways like a ghost, her senses dulled by grief and fear. She found Tatum leaning against a locker, her face pale, her usual spark dimmed. Stu Macher, Tatum's ex-boyfriend and one of the more boisterous personalities, stood beside her, attempting to offer comfort in his own awkward way.

"This is so messed up, Sid," Tatum whispered, her voice still raw. "I can't even think straight. Who would do this?"

"Someone truly sick," Sidney managed, her voice flat. She kept glancing at the doors, at the windows, feeling a strange, unsettling vulnerability even within the crowded school.

Randy Meeks, ever the self-appointed horror movie expert, sauntered over, his eyes flickering with a mixture of morbid curiosity and genuine concern. "It's the sequel, guys. The direct sequel. First, the mother gets killed, then the local town beauty queen and her jock boyfriend. It's escalating. The stakes are higher."

Stu rolled his eyes. "Randy, can you just, for five minutes, not talk about this like it's a movie? This is real life. People are dead."

"Exactly, Stu!" Randy insisted, gesticulating wildly. "And real life is imitating art! This killer is clearly a horror fan. He knows the tropes, he's playing by the rules. We're all in his movie now." He looked at Sidney, a serious glint in his eye. "Especially you, Sidney. The 'Final Girl' always has a tragic past. You fit the bill perfectly."

Sidney flinched, the words striking a raw nerve. Randy's casual analysis, while unsettling, resonated with a terrifying logic she didn't want to admit. The thought that she might be the "final girl" in a real-life slasher film sent a cold shiver down her spine. It was a role she never wanted to play.

The half-day ended abruptly, the students practically fleeing the school. The atmosphere in Woodsboro was thick with paranoia. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every unfamiliar car driving by seemed to slow down suspiciously. Parents called their children home, locking doors and windows, creating a fortress of fear.

With the town in a state of suspended animation, and no school to attend, the usual teenage restlessness had nowhere to go. Tatum, ever the social organizer, even in crisis, decided a gathering at her house was necessary. "We can't just sit around moping," she'd insisted to Sidney over the phone. "We need to be together. There's safety in numbers, right?"

So, by early afternoon, Tatum's house had become an impromptu sanctuary, a strange blend of teenage camaraderie and collective anxiety. Sidney, Billy, Stu, Randy, and a few other friends were sprawled across couches and beanbags in the living room, a half-eaten pizza box on the coffee table. The TV, usually blaring MTV or video games, was tuned to a local news channel, which ceaselessly repeated the grim details of the Becker murders. Gale Weathers' sharp voice cut through the air, her face plastered across the screen, reporting live from outside the Becker residence.

"Oh, look," Tatum scoffed, pointing at the TV. "It's the vulture queen herself. Still milking our tragedy."

Sidney felt a familiar surge of anger. Gale Weathers had profited from her mother's death, turning a family's personal hell into a bestseller. Her presence in Woodsboro again felt like a personal affront, a reminder of the raw wounds that refused to heal.

"She's just doing her job," Billy said, trying to sound reasonable, though his gaze was fixed on Sidney, gauging her reaction.

"Her job is to make money off dead people," Sidney retorted, her voice sharper than she intended. "And she doesn't care who she hurts doing it."

Randy, however, was intrigued. "She knows the story, though. She wrote the book. Maybe she'll figure it out."

"Or maybe," Stu interjected, "she'll just make it worse."

As the afternoon wore on, the forced normalcy began to fray. Jokes felt flat, laughter was strained. Every unexpected noise made them jump. The phone, which rang intermittently with calls from concerned parents or friends, became an object of dread. Each ring made their hearts pound, a silent question hanging in the air: What if it's him?

Later, Sidney decided to go home. She needed space, a moment to herself to process the suffocating fear. Billy offered to stay, but she gently declined, needing to be alone, ironically, to feel safe. Her father was working late, leaving her house empty.

The silence of her own home was a stark contrast to the buzzing tension at Tatum's. She walked through the familiar rooms, pulling down shades, locking doors that were already locked. The familiar objects, the photographs on the mantelpiece, the old piano, now seemed to observe her with a chilling stillness. She made herself a cup of tea, her hands trembling slightly as she poured the hot water.

Just as she sat down, the shrill ring of the telephone shattered the quiet.

Sidney froze, the teacup clattering against the saucer. Her breath hitched. Her eyes darted to the phone on the small table beside the couch. It rang again, a piercing, insistent sound. She stared at it, her heart hammering against her ribs, a primal fear seizing her. Was it Tatum? Her dad? Or... him?

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She knew, deep down, that she shouldn't answer. Randy's words echoed in her head: Never answer the phone. But another, more desperate part of her needed to know. Needed to face it.

Slowly, as if moving through thick water, she reached for the receiver. Her hand trembled so violently she almost dropped it. She pressed it to her ear, a faint tremor running through her body.

"Hello?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

A familiar, chillingly modulated voice, deep and smooth, filled her ear. "Hello, Sidney."

Sidney's blood ran cold. It was him. The same voice from Casey's ordeal, the one that had orchestrated death. Her grip tightened on the phone, her knuckles white. She couldn't speak, could only breathe, ragged and shallow.

"Remember me?" the voice purred, laced with a terrifying familiarity. "It's been a year, hasn't it? A long year for you, Sidney."

The mention of the year, the direct reference to her mother's murder, sent a wave of nausea through her. This wasn't just a random killer; this was personal. This monster knew her. Knew her pain.

"Who is this?" Sidney managed to choke out, her voice a fragile whisper.

"Someone who knows your secrets, Sidney," the voice taunted. "Someone who knows what happened to your mommy. Someone who knows the truth."

Sidney gasped, a cold dread washing over her. "You... you had nothing to do with that!" she spat, trying to sound defiant, but her voice cracked.

"Oh, I know everything, Sidney," the voice countered, a sadistic amusement coloring its tone. "And I know you know I know. Don't you?"

Tears welled in Sidney's eyes, hot and stinging. This was a nightmare. A living, breathing nightmare that had clawed its way out of her past. She backed away from the phone table, dragging the cord with her, as if putting distance between herself and the insidious voice could somehow diminish its power.

"I didn't kill my mother!" Sidney cried, raw anguish in her voice. "Cotton Weary did!"

The killer laughed, a dry, mocking sound that sent shivers down her spine. "Did he, Sidney? Are you sure? Because there's always two sides to every story, isn't there? And some stories... some stories are just beginning."

He continued, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper that felt like it was right next to her ear. "You think you're safe, don't you? Tucked away in your little house. But I'm watching you, Sidney. I see you."

Sidney's eyes darted wildly around the room, her heart hammering against her ribs. She felt utterly exposed, vulnerable. Was he outside? Inside? Was he watching her through the window?

"If you hang up, Sidney," the voice hissed, "I'm coming in. And I'm going to finish what I started."

She couldn't hang up. She was trapped, held hostage by the terrifying voice on the other end of the line. She pressed the phone to her ear, trembling, listening to the killer's slow, deliberate breathing. Every second stretched into an eternity.

Suddenly, a loud crash from outside shattered the terrifying silence. Sidney shrieked, dropping the phone. It clattered to the floor, the killer's voice still faintly audible, a chilling buzz. She scrambled backward, hitting the wall, her eyes fixed on the front door. Had he come in? Was he here?

The front door burst open. Sidney screamed, a raw, terrified sound.

It was Billy.

He stood there, framed by the doorway, his face etched with concern, his eyes wide. He looked from Sidney, huddled against the wall, to the phone lying on the floor, still crackling with the faint sound of a dial tone.

"Sidney! What's wrong?" Billy rushed to her side, his arm going around her, pulling her close. "What happened?"

"He called," Sidney whispered, her voice barely a breath. "He... he was talking about my mom. He knows about everything!"

Billy's eyes darkened, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. He looked down at the phone. "Who called?"

Just then, the shrill wail of a police siren echoed outside. Seconds later, a police car screeched to a halt in front of the house. Sheriff Burke, his face grim, stepped out, followed by a deputy. They had probably been alerted by the dropped call, a silent alarm system for the police.

Sheriff Burke strode into the house, his gaze immediately falling on Sidney, then the discarded phone. "Sidney, are you alright? What happened?"

"He called," she repeated, still trembling. "The killer. He called me."

Burke's eyes narrowed. He looked at Billy, then back at the phone. "Did you touch the phone, son?" he asked Billy, his voice suddenly sharp.

Billy hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I just got here. I heard her scream and I came in."

Burke knelt, carefully picking up the receiver with a gloved hand. He listened for a moment, then grimaced. "He hung up." He then turned his attention to Billy. "Where were you, Billy?"

Billy sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was on my way here. I just wanted to check on Sidney. I called her from the gas station, but she didn't answer." He gestured vaguely outside. "I pulled up just as I heard her scream."

Sheriff Burke's gaze was piercing, scrutinizing Billy's every move, every word. The suspicion hung thick in the air, a palpable tension between the three of them. Sidney felt a knot of confusion and doubt tighten in her stomach. Billy had just arrived, hadn't he? She had heard the crash outside, then he burst in. But what if... what if he had somehow timed it? The thought was horrific, disloyal, but the seed of distrust had been planted.

"We'll need to confirm your alibi, Billy," Burke stated, his voice firm but not accusatory. "Standard procedure."

Billy nodded, a tight line to his mouth. "Of course, Sheriff." He looked at Sidney, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. "Sidney, you believe me, don't you?"

Sidney looked at him, her heart aching with a bewildering mix of fear, relief, and a horrifying, burgeoning doubt. She wanted to believe him. Desperately. But the past year had taught her that trust could be a dangerous illusion. "I... I don't know, Billy," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusation. Billy's face fell, a shadow passing over his features. The silence that followed was filled with the unspoken questions, the growing paranoia that was rapidly infecting Woodsboro. No one was safe, and now, it seemed, no one could be fully trusted.

As the police processed the scene, taking statements and looking for any clues, Sidney retreated into herself. The phone call had been a violation, a chilling reminder that the killer wasn't just an abstract threat; he was a knowing, personal terror. He knew about her mother. He knew about her past. And he was coming for her.

The incident at Sidney's house only amplified the town's fear. News of the second phone call, of Sidney Prescott being targeted, spread like wildfire, adding another layer of horror to the already gruesome events. The media frenzy escalated, with Gale Weathers now practically camping out in Woodsboro, sensing the developing story of a "final girl" and a potential copycat killer.

That evening, a sense of collective fear permeated every home in Woodsboro. Doors remained locked, lights stayed on, and every creak, every rustle of leaves outside, became a source of terror. The usual Friday night parties and Saturday afternoon gatherings were replaced by anxious family dinners, whispered conversations, and the constant hum of the news channels, dissecting every detail of the Woodsboro killings.

But for teenagers, fear often mingled with a desperate need for connection, a perverse desire to push back against the dread. The idea of a party, a defiant act against the looming threat, began to circulate. Stu Macher, with his typical bravado, suggested it. "We can't just hide under our beds!" he'd declared over the phone to Tatum. "We need to stick together. Have a party. A 'no parents allowed, safety in numbers' party!"

The idea, initially met with hesitation, slowly gained traction. A party. A collective show of defiance. A way to feel normal, even for just a few hours. It was a reckless idea, perhaps, but in the suffocating grip of fear, it offered a dangerous allure. The plans for the biggest, most ill-advised party Woodsboro had ever seen began to take shape, setting the stage for a night that no one would ever forget. The game was far from over. In fact, it was just getting started.