Chapter 5 Locked In

The initial, guttural scream from Dewey, coupled with the horrific image of Tatum's lifeless body jammed in the doggy door, tore through the house like a physical shockwave. The cacophony of music, laughter, and chatter instantly died, replaced by a deafening silence. Then, a collective, terrified gasp, followed by a torrent of raw, panicked screams. The party, a desperate attempt at normalcy, shattered into a million fragments of pure terror.

Teenagers, their faces contorted with disbelief and abject fear, stampeded for the exits. The front door became a bottleneck of flailing limbs and desperate cries, a frantic surge of bodies trying to escape the house that had suddenly transformed into a hunting ground. Some stumbled, others shoved, a primal instinct for self-preservation overriding all semblance of civility.

Sidney, gripped by a paralyzing horror, felt Billy's hand tighten around hers. He pulled her through the surging crowd, pushing past frantic bodies, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and urgency. "Sidney! We have to go!"

But Sidney's eyes were fixed on the back of the house, on the doorway leading to the garage where Dewey's anguished wails still echoed, a sound of unimaginable grief and rage. Her best friend. Tatum. Gone. Just like her mother. The sickening déjà vu threatened to suffocate her. The killer was here. Inside. Among them.

Dewey, meanwhile, was a broken man, yet his police instincts, dulled by grief, still flickered. He knelt by Tatum, his hands hovering over her broken body, tears streaming down his face. "No... no, Tatum..." he sobled, his voice thick with agony. But then, a flash of the badge, the uniform. He snapped his head up, his eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, scanning the dimly lit garage. The killer was still here. He had to be.

"GET OUT! EVERYONE, GET OUT!" Dewey roared, his voice hoarse, attempting to rise, but the shock held him rooted. "The killer's still in the house! Get out now!"

His warning, however, was lost in the chaos. Most of the partygoers were already out the front door, a terrified human tide spilling onto Stu's lawn and scattering into the night. Only a handful remained, either frozen in terror or too disoriented to find their way out: Sidney and Billy, Randy, Stu, Stu's cousin, and a few others huddled together like terrified sheep.

Randy, his face pale, his eyes wide with a morbid validation, grabbed Stu by the arm. "It's the third act, Stu! This is where the body count gets serious! And the killer always saves a few for a grand finale!" He looked around, a panicked realization dawning on him. "And the killer's never truly gone until the very last scene! He's still here!"

Stu, looking utterly shell-shocked, could only stare at him, his face ghostly white. "Randy, shut up!"

Meanwhile, outside, Gale Weathers, sensing the shift in the night's horrifying narrative, barked orders at Kenny. "Kenny! Get in position! They're scattering! This is it! This is the live action, Kenny! Don't miss a thing!" She pushed past the fleeing teenagers, her microphone extended, her eyes alight with a terrifying professional zeal. She wanted to be the first to capture the raw horror, the first to break the story of a real-life slasher unfolding before her very eyes.

Kenny, however, looked distinctly uncomfortable. His hands trembled as he tried to stabilize the camera. "Gale, this is... this is messed up. I think we should call for backup. More police."

"This is backup, Kenny!" Gale retorted, her eyes fixed on the house, where the screams were still echoing. "This is a breaking news story! This is history! Now, get me a clear shot of the house!"

As the last of the terrified guests fled, a chilling silence once again descended upon Stu's house. The only sounds were Dewey's ragged breaths, the distant wail of sirens, and the muffled thump of the music still playing somewhere within the house, a macabre lullaby for the dead.

Sidney and Billy found themselves in the kitchen, a stark, brightly lit room that suddenly felt like a stage. Sidney pulled away from Billy, her eyes narrowed. The call from the killer, Billy's sudden appearance right after, the police questioning. The doubt, which had been a tiny seed, was now a blossoming, thorny bush in her mind.

"Billy," she whispered, her voice laced with a raw tremor, "where were you really?"

Billy looked at her, hurt and frustration clouding his features. "Sidney, I told you! I came straight here! I heard you scream and I ran in!"

"You were right there, Billy!" she accused, her voice rising. "When he called! You showed up just as I screamed! Just as the police arrived!"

"Coincidence, Sid! A horrible coincidence!" Billy insisted, taking a step towards her. "Why would I do this? You're my girlfriend!"

Before Sidney could respond, a sudden, sharp clang echoed from the living room. It was followed by a series of smaller clatters, like something being knocked over. Her blood ran cold. He was still here. They were trapped.

"Someone's still in the house!" Randy's voice cut through the air, shrill with panic, from the hallway. "And he's not one of us!"

Suddenly, the lights flickered, then died. The entire house was plunged into oppressive, inky blackness. A collective gasp, then a chorus of terrified shrieks, erupted from the scattered survivors. The blaring music from the living room also cut out, leaving a terrifying, absolute silence, broken only by ragged breaths and pounding hearts.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Stu's voice, laced with frantic fear, came from somewhere in the darkness. "The killer cut the power!"

Sidney stumbled backward, hitting the kitchen counter. The sudden plunge into darkness intensified her terror. She couldn't see, couldn't tell where anyone was, or where he was. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

Outside, Gale Weathers shrieked. "Kenny! What's happening? Did we lose power?" She turned, her eyes straining in the sudden gloom. "Kenny? Can you see anything?"

Kenny, fumbling with his camera, his face a mask of profound fear, didn't answer. He had been standing near the news van, trying to get a better angle on the house, when the lights went out. He heard a faint click, then the rustle of leaves, surprisingly close.

"Gale?" Kenny whispered, his voice trembling. "I think... I think someone's out here."

Gale, caught up in the unfolding drama, was distracted, trying to adjust her microphone. "Kenny, just keep filming! We need the footage!"

A shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows beneath a large oak tree. It moved with chilling fluidity, a dark form against the faint light from distant streetlamps. Ghostface. He approached Kenny silently, his knife glinting dully in the near darkness.

Kenny gasped, a strangled sound of dawning horror, as he finally saw the figure. He tried to raise the camera, to capture this terrifying image, to shout a warning. But it was too late. The knife plunged into him, swift and brutal, a sickening thud echoing in the night. Kenny convulsed, dropping the camera, which hit the ground with a soft thud, still recording. He slumped, his life draining away onto the damp grass, his eyes wide and unseeing, reflecting the distant stars.

Gale, still preoccupied, didn't realize what had happened until she heard the thud, and then the chilling silence where Kenny's nervous breaths should have been. "Kenny? Kenny!" she called out, a sudden prickle of fear creeping into her voice. She spun around, her eyes straining, then she saw it – the dark figure standing over Kenny's crumpled form. And then, the gleam of the knife.

"Oh my God," Gale breathed, a rare, genuine fear seizing her. This wasn't just a story anymore. This was personal. She was next. She turned and ran, adrenaline coursing through her veins, fleeing into the darkness, leaving behind her dead cameraman and the now-silent, dead camera.

Inside the house, the darkness was absolute, disorienting. Sidney's heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat in her ears. She could hear frantic whispers, ragged breaths, the occasional bump as someone stumbled in the dark.

"Sidney? Billy? Where are you guys?" Randy's voice, thin with fear, echoed from somewhere near the living room.

"Kitchen!" Sidney called out, her voice shaky.

"Stay together!" Dewey's voice, surprisingly strong despite his recent grief, bellowed from the back of the house. "Everyone, try to group up! Find a light source!"

A momentary flicker of hope. Dewey was in charge. He could protect them.

But then, a different sound. A low, mocking chuckle. It came from somewhere close, too close. Sidney spun around blindly, her hands outstretched, searching for a weapon, anything.

She heard a small gasp from near the hallway, then the distinct sound of a body hitting the floor.

"Who was that?" Stu's voice, panicked, cried out.

"I think... I think it was Gale's cousin," Randy stammered, his voice filled with dread.

Then, from the darkness, a phone began to ring. Not a cellular, but a landline, the shrill, mechanical sound cutting through the silence of the house. It was a taunt. A challenge.

Dewey, ever the protector, moved through the house, trying to find the source of the ringing, trying to find the killer. He fumbled for his service weapon, his hand shaking.

"Show yourself, you son of a bitch!" Dewey roared, his voice laced with rage and grief. He moved cautiously, his senses heightened, his gun held out in front of him. He knew this house. He knew where the phone was. He moved towards the living room, towards the killer.

Sidney, still in the kitchen, heard the soft tread of footsteps, not Dewey's, but lighter, more agile. They were close. Too close. She instinctively ducked behind the kitchen island, her eyes wide, straining to see in the inky blackness.

A shadow passed by the kitchen entrance, just for a fleeting second, outlined by the very faint ambient light from outside. It was a tall, dark figure. Ghostface.

He was right there.

Sidney held her breath, pressing herself against the cold cabinetry, trying to disappear. She heard the soft squeak of his shoes, the subtle rustle of his robes as he moved into the living room, heading towards the ringing phone, towards Dewey.

A moment later, a loud, startled yell from Dewey. Then, a sickening thud. The sound of a struggle. A grunt. And then, a gurgling gasp, abruptly cut short. The ringing phone continued for a few more insistent rings, then abruptly stopped.

Silence. A horrifying, agonizing silence.

Sidney's blood ran cold. Dewey. No. Please, no.

She risked a glance from behind the counter. Nothing. Just the profound darkness. Her heart was a frantic hummingbird in her chest. She had to know. She had to see.

Slowly, agonizingly, she crept towards the living room entrance. Her hands felt along the wall, guiding her through the oppressive black. As she reached the doorway, her foot brushed against something soft. Something wet.

She reached down, her hand trembling, and felt... clothes. A body. And then, her fingers touched something else. Wet, warm, and sticky. Blood.

A small, choked scream escaped her lips. She fumbled for the light switch on the wall, praying it would work, desperate for illumination. Miraculously, a faint, flickering light came on. Not the main lights, but a small emergency light in the hallway, casting long, dancing shadows.

In the dim, pulsating light, she saw him. Deputy Dewey Riley, slumped against the wall, a dark, spreading stain on his uniform. His eyes were open, staring blankly, glazed over. His mouth was slightly agape. A knife, long and gleaming, was protruding from his chest.

"Dewey!" Sidney shrieked, a raw, despairing cry. She fell to her knees beside him, tears blurring her vision, unable to comprehend the horror. He was gone. The last symbol of authority, of protection, had been brutally extinguished.

As she knelt there, sobbing uncontrollably, a figure emerged from the deeper shadows of the living room. Tall. Dark. The Ghostface mask, its features contorted into a silent scream, seemed to mock her grief. The knife was still in its hand, dripping.

Sidney screamed again, scrambling backwards, away from the monster.

Then, from the darkness behind the killer, another figure emerged. Silhouetted in the faint, flickering light from the hallway.

It was Billy.

He stood there, unmoving, his face obscured by the shadows, but his presence undeniable. He held something in his hand. The phone.

Sidney's breath hitched. Billy. He was there. He had the phone. He had appeared just as Dewey went down. The puzzle pieces, horrifying and undeniable, clicked into place.

"Billy," Sidney whispered, her voice barely a breath, filled with a crushing realization and ultimate betrayal. The doubt she had suppressed, the suspicion she had fought, now exploded into a terrifying certainty.

Billy slowly raised the phone to his ear, a faint, chilling smile playing on his lips in the dim light. "Surprise, Sidney," he said, his voice no longer modulated, but clear, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Welcome to the real third act."

The house was silent once more, save for Sidney's ragged breathing and the distant siren's wail. Her world, already shattered, collapsed completely. The killer was not an unknown monster; he was the person she loved. The game was far from over. It was just beginning, and she was trapped in it, with the one person she had trusted most.