Chapter 4 Defiance and Death

Woodsboro, on any other Saturday night, would have been a tapestry of quiet family dinners, movie rentals, and the distant hum of high school parties. But this Saturday was different. The air was thick with a palpable tension, a strange blend of fear and a desperate, almost reckless, need to reclaim some semblance of normalcy. The streetlights cast long, skeletal shadows, and every gust of wind rustling through the autumn leaves seemed to carry a whispered warning. Despite the chilling fear that had gripped the town, a defiant energy pulsed through the veins of its teenagers.

Stu Macher's invitation had spread like wildfire. "Party at my place!" he'd bellowed into phones all over town. "No parents, just us. Safety in numbers, right?" It was a flimsy excuse for a gathering, a thinly veiled attempt to outrun the chilling reality of Casey and Steve's brutal murders. Yet, the desperate need for connection, for collective reassurance, was too strong to resist.

Sidney Prescott felt a knot of apprehension tighten in her stomach as she got ready. The memory of the killer's voice, his chilling allusions to her mother's death, still echoed in her ears. She felt raw, exposed, and deeply distrustful. But Tatum had practically begged her to come. "Please, Sid," Tatum had pleaded over the phone earlier. "I can't be alone. None of us can. We need you." So, with a heavy heart and a lingering sense of dread, Sidney pulled on a sweater and a pair of jeans, trying to convince herself that a house full of people was safer than being alone.

When Billy Loomis arrived to pick her up, the tension between them was palpable. Since the police had questioned him, a subtle barrier had sprung up. His usual effortless charm felt strained, his attempts at reassurance hollowed out by Sidney's burgeoning doubt.

"Are you sure you want to go?" Billy asked, his hand resting lightly on her arm as they walked to his car. "We could just stay here. Watch a movie, talk."

Sidney looked at him, searching his eyes for something she couldn't quite name. His concern seemed genuine, but the flicker of suspicion in her mind refused to be extinguished. "No," she said, her voice firm. "Tatum needs me. We all need to be together."

Stu's sprawling house, nestled on a quiet street just outside the main residential area, was already pulsating with light and sound when they arrived. Loud music thumped from within, a defiant beat against the silence of the night. Dozens of cars lined the street, and laughter, albeit somewhat forced, spilled out from the open windows.

Inside, the living room was a chaotic hub of bodies, all crammed together, seeking warmth and protection in the crowd. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer, stale pizza, and nervous sweat. Teenagers milled about, some dancing awkwardly, others huddled in hushed conversations about the murders, their voices dropping to fearful whispers whenever someone mentioned the killer.

Tatum, her energy almost manic, greeted Sidney with a fierce hug. "You came! Thank God. I was starting to think everyone would chicken out." She looked around the crowded room, a strained smile on her face. "See? Safety in numbers."

Sidney tried to smile back, but her gaze swept over the faces, a strange mix of friends and acquaintances. Randy Meeks was already holding court in a corner, gesticulating wildly, a beer in one hand and a remote control in the other, as he fast-forwarded through scenes of a horror movie on the big screen TV. He had, naturally, brought his extensive collection of slasher films to the party.

"Alright, people! Gather 'round!" Randy shouted over the music, momentarily pausing the movie. "Rules of survival, revisited! First, we got a party. This is where everyone dies. Second, there's always a virgin, and they're usually the final girl. Sidney, that's you. No offense." He winked at Sidney, who just rolled her eyes, but a chill still ran through her. "Third, the killer is always someone you know. Never a stranger!"

A ripple of nervous laughter, quickly followed by uneasy murmurs, spread through the room. Randy's words, intended as darkly humorous commentary, felt too close to the bone.

"Randy, give it a rest," Stu grumbled, though he himself looked a little pale. "We're here to have fun, not get freaked out."

"But Stu, that's the point!" Randy insisted, his eyes bright with a disturbing enthusiasm. "The killer is at the party! He's among us!"

A collective gasp went through the room, quickly followed by a strained silence. People glanced around, suddenly seeing their friends in a new, suspicious light. Every familiar face now held a potential, terrifying secret.

The night wore on, a fragile shield against the encroaching darkness. Billy stayed close to Sidney, his hand often finding hers, his presence a comforting weight even as the shadow of distrust remained. He tried to engage her in light conversation, to distract her, but Sidney found her gaze constantly drifting, searching. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a phantom gaze on her back.

Deputy Dewey Riley, Tatum's older brother, made an appearance, looking exhausted and overwhelmed. He was attempting to maintain some semblance of order, checking IDs, and confiscating bottles of liquor, though his heart wasn't really in it. He was clearly worried about Tatum, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd for her. He pulled Sidney aside, his voice low.

"Sidney, are you okay?" he asked, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "This whole thing... it's a mess. I don't like all these kids gathered in one place."

"We're trying to be careful, Dewey," Sidney assured him, though she knew it was a hollow promise. "There's nowhere else to go. No school, nowhere safe."

Dewey sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. Just... be careful, okay? And keep an eye out. We don't know who this guy is." His gaze swept over the partygoers, a worried frown on his face. He seemed particularly focused on Billy for a moment before turning away.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the front door. Gale Weathers, impeccably dressed and radiating an almost predatory focus, was attempting to push her way inside, her cameraman, Kenny, diligently filming behind her.

"Just doing a quick check-in, Sheriff!" Gale called out to Dewey, her voice saccharine sweet, though her eyes were sharp, calculating. "Just want to get a feel for the mood among the young people."

Sidney felt a surge of cold fury. Gale Weathers was truly relentless. She saw the tragedy as a story to be exploited, not a human horror to be grieved. Sidney grabbed Billy's arm, pulling him further into the crowd, desperate to avoid confrontation.

"That woman is a ghoul," Sidney muttered, her jaw tight.

"Just ignore her, Sid," Billy said, putting his arm around her. "She's not worth it."

As the night deepened, the atmosphere grew heavier. The forced revelry began to crumble under the weight of fear. People started leaving, their drunken bravado replaced by a sober realization of the danger. The music still thumped, but it felt hollow, a desperate attempt to fill a void that only fear could now occupy.

Tatum, ever the gracious hostess, was beginning to feel the strain. The beer supply was dwindling, and the endless stream of nervous chatter was getting to her. "Ugh, we're out of beer," she announced to Stu, dramatically throwing her hands up. "Someone's gotta do a beer run."

"I'll go," Stu offered, but then hesitated. "No, wait. I'll get some from the garage. We've got a stash down there."

"Good idea," Tatum said, already heading towards the kitchen. "I'll help you carry it."

"No, you stay here," Stu insisted, pulling her back. "I got it."

"No, I'll go," Tatum asserted, a playful glint in her eye, perhaps trying to inject some levity back into the tense atmosphere. "You mingle. I'm the host, I should be doing hostessy things."

With a shrug, Stu relented. Tatum grabbed a set of keys and headed through the back door, which led to a short pathway to the detached garage. The garage was dark, its interior a shadowy cavern of forgotten tools and dusty storage boxes. Tatum fumbled for the light switch, a slight unease prickling at the back of her neck. The party noise, though still audible, was muffled here, making the quiet of the garage feel vast and oppressive.

She found the cooler, a large Coleman container tucked away in a corner, filled with ice and bottles. As she bent down to retrieve a couple of six-packs, the garage door behind her slowly creaked shut. Tatum froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She spun around, her eyes wide, scanning the darkness.

"Stu? That's not funny." Her voice was shaky, laced with a nervous laugh. Silence. Only the faint sounds of the party from the main house.

Then, the phone in her pocket vibrated. A sudden, jarring ring in the oppressive silence. Tatum pulled it out, her hand trembling. It was the house phone, meaning someone from inside was calling. Maybe Stu had called her from the house?

"Hello?" she answered, trying to sound casual, but her voice quivered.

"Hello, Tatum," a deep, modulated voice purred.

Tatum's blood ran cold. The phone clattered against the concrete floor. It was him. The killer. He was in the house.

"What do you want?" she screamed, her voice echoing in the enclosed space.

"Just a little game, Tatum," the voice replied, its tone calm, utterly devoid of emotion. "You're trapped, sweetheart. And I'm coming to play."

Tatum didn't wait. She scrambled backward, her eyes darting frantically around the garage. She could hear the distinct sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching the garage door. She backed into a wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes landed on the small, square doggy door cut into the main garage door. It was small, but maybe... just maybe.

She dropped to her knees, frantically pushing her head and shoulders through the opening. The space was tight, painfully so. She struggled, grunting, pushing with all her might. Her upper body was through, but her hips, her legs, were caught. She was stuck.

Then, a cold blade pressed against the small of her back.

Tatum shrieked, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated terror. She thrashed, desperate, adrenaline surging through her veins. She could feel the sharp edge of the knife, lightly dragging against her spine.

"Going somewhere, Tatum?" the killer's voice whispered, right behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her neck.

She screamed again, tears streaming down her face, pushing harder, scraping her skin against the rough wood of the doggy door frame. She twisted, turned, kicked, but the killer held her firmly in place, pressing down, trapping her. The pressure was immense, crushing. She could feel her bones grinding, a sickening pop. Her vision swam. The world began to spin in a dizzying spiral of pain and fear. The last thing she heard was the killer's soft, chilling chuckle, and then, a final, agonizing crack. Her body went limp, half in, half out, a broken, grotesque doll caught in the doorway of her own doom.

Inside the house, the party's energy had dwindled to a low, anxious murmur. Sidney sat on the couch, fidgeting, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. Tatum had been gone too long.

"Has anyone seen Tatum?" she asked, her voice tight with concern.

Stu shrugged. "She went to get more beer from the garage. She'll be back."

But Sidney's intuition screamed otherwise. She glanced at Billy, who looked back at her with a reassuring smile, but his eyes seemed to hold a flicker of unease.

Then, a piercing scream cut through the music, sharp and distinct, from outside the house. It was a scream of pure, unadulterated terror, and it seemed to reverberate directly from the garage area.

Silence descended upon the party, abrupt and absolute. The music, still playing, suddenly felt like a mocking backdrop to the sudden, horrifying quiet. Everyone froze, their heads swiveling towards the back door.

"What was that?" someone whispered.

Before anyone could answer, Dewey Riley, who had been patrolling the perimeter of the house, burst through the front door, his face ashen, his eyes wide with a terrifying realization. "Tatum!" he screamed, his voice raw with anguish. "Oh my God, Tatum!"

He didn't need to explain. The terror in his eyes, the sheer, visceral pain in his voice, told them everything. He rushed towards the back of the house, towards the garage, stumbling in his haste.

Chaos erupted. People screamed, a cacophony of fear and disbelief. Bodies crashed into each other as everyone scrambled towards the exits, a frantic mass of limbs and panicked faces. The party had turned into a nightmare.

Sidney felt a cold dread wash over her, numbing her senses. Tatum. No. Not Tatum. Not her best friend. Billy grabbed her hand, pulling her along in the stampede of terrified teenagers. Randy, meanwhile, seemed to be in a daze, his eyes wide with a horrific confirmation of his own prophecies. "It's the second act!" he muttered, almost to himself. "The body count rises! The stakes get higher!"

Dewey, meanwhile, reached the garage door, his heart pounding with a desperate hope that this was all a mistake, a terrible prank. He yanked it open, his eyes widening in unspeakable horror.

Tatum. Halfway through the doggy door, her body twisted at an unnatural angle, her neck clearly broken, her eyes wide and unseeing. A dark pool of blood was spreading slowly on the concrete floor beneath her.

"No!" Dewey roared, a guttural sound of pure agony tearing from his throat. He stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees beside her, his hands hovering, afraid to touch her, afraid to believe what his eyes were seeing. "Tatum! My baby sister! No, no, no!"

His grief was a visceral, horrifying thing, shaking him to the core. He looked up, his eyes blazing with a mixture of profound sorrow and murderous rage. The killer was here. Among them. And he had just ripped his family apart.

Outside, the shrieks of fleeing teenagers pierced the night. Inside, the house became a scene of utter pandemonium. Teenagers scattered in every direction, some running for the doors, some trying to hide, all consumed by a primal terror. The music was still playing, a jarring, mocking soundtrack to the unfolding slaughter.

Gale Weathers, her news crew still set up across the street, heard the screams. Her head snapped up, her eyes glinting with a morbid professional instinct. "Kenny! Get the camera! Now! That's a scream. That's the scream!" she commanded, her voice cutting through the distant wails. She grabbed her microphone, her face a mask of determined urgency. This was it. The story had just exploded.

Sidney, pulled by Billy, looked back at the house, her breath caught in her throat. The windows were dark, gaping voids. The screams from inside continued, fading as they got further away, replaced by the pounding of her own heart. The killer was inside. He was still there. And Woodsboro, once a picture of suburban calm, had become a blood-soaked arena, a terrifying stage for a masked predator. The game had truly begun, and no one, not even the people she trusted most, was safe. The night was young, and the body count, she knew with a sickening certainty, was far from over.