The Night They Became Ghosts

The air in the abandoned farmhouse smelled of rotting wood and stale cigarette smoke. Billy Loomis leaned against the cracked window frame, staring out at the field where the corn stalks had long since withered into jagged brown spears. His reflection in the grimy glass was gaunt, his eyes hollow with a focus that bordered on obsession. Behind him, Stu Macher paced, the floorboards groaning under his weight.

"You sure about this, Bill?" Stu asked, his voice too loud for the silence. He stopped pacing and drummed his fingers on the back of a moth-eaten couch. "I mean, once we start, there's no going back."

Billy didn't turn. "There was never any going back, Stu. Not from the moment she chose him over me."

"Maureen?" Stu's voice cracked with something between awe and fear. "That was, like, years ago. You sure you're not just... I don't know, still bitter?"

Billy spun around, his eyes catching the dim light from a single bare bulb. "Bitter? My father destroyed my family because of that whore. And Sidney? She's just like her mother. Acting all innocent, playing the victim. But I saw the way she looked at me. She knew."

Stu held up his hands, a nervous grin on his face. "Okay, okay. I'm with you. Hundred percent. But we need a plan. We can't just stab people and hope for the best."

Billy walked over to a dusty table covered in newspaper clippings and crime scene photos. He picked up a copy of the Woodsboro High yearbook, open to a page with Sidney's smiling face. "We need a motive. Something that makes sense to the cops. Something that points away from us."

"Like what?" Stu asked, leaning in.

"Her father. Neil Prescott. He had an affair with my mom? No, too complicated. We need a reason for the killings. Something about her mother's past. Everyone in this town knew Maureen Prescott was a slut. We just give them what they expect."

Stu nodded slowly. "So we frame someone. Who?"

Billy's lips curled into a thin smile. "Randy Meeks. He's a horror buff. No one would be surprised if he snapped. Or maybe... we make it look like a movie killer. Give them a game. Rules. Something that makes them think they can survive."

"Rules?" Stu shook his head. "I thought we were just gonna kill 'em."

"We are. But we make it fun. We call them, scare them, make them run. Then we catch them. It's perfect."

Stu's grin widened. "You're a genius, Bill. A sick, twisted genius."

They spent the next hour planning. Billy outlined the sequence: start with Casey Becker and her boyfriend to test the waters, then move to Sidney. They'd use a voice changer, a mask, and a cloak. The phone calls would be the hook, drawing the victims into a false sense of safety before the knife came.

"What about Tatum?" Stu asked, his excitement dimming slightly. "She's your sister. You okay with that?"

Billy's jaw tightened. "She's a sacrifice. We all have to make sacrifices for the plan to work. Besides, she's been distant lately. Probably suspects something. No loose ends."

Stu nodded, though a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He pushed it down. "And after? What then?"

"After?" Billy laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "After we're free. We'll be legends. The ones who got away with it. Until Sidney's final scream echoes through this town, and everyone knows it was her own damn fault."

The night of the first killing arrived with a chill wind and a sky heavy with clouds. Billy and Stu sat in Stu's car, parked a block away from Casey Becker's house. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the only sound was the hum of the engine and the steady drum of Billy's heartbeat.

"You ready?" Billy asked, pulling the Ghostface mask over his face. The plastic felt cold, almost alive against his skin.

Stu took a deep breath and did the same. "Born ready."

They slipped out of the car, moving like shadows through the backyard. The porch light was on, but the curtains were drawn. Billy could hear the faint sound of a television. He pulled out a cell phone—prepaid, untraceable—and dialed Casey's number.

"Hello?" Her voice was cheerful, unsuspecting.

Billy pressed the voice changer. "Hello, Casey. Do you like scary movies?"

The conversation that followed was a game of cat and mouse. Billy fed her lines, made her squirm. Stu stood by the back door, knife in hand, waiting for the signal. When Casey finally hung up, Billy nodded.

"Now."

Stu kicked the door open. The knife sank into flesh with a wet, tearing sound. Casey's scream was cut short as Billy clamped a hand over her mouth. They dragged her into the living room, where her boyfriend Steve lay bound on the couch, gagged with duct tape.

"You want to play a game?" Billy whispered, his voice a rasp through the mask.

The next hour was chaos. Blood splattered the walls, and the only sounds were the gurgles of dying teenagers. When it was over, Billy stood over Casey's body, her eyes wide and glassy. He felt nothing. No guilt, no exhilaration. Just a cold, empty satisfaction.

"Let's go," he said, wiping the blade on a towel. "We've got a long night ahead."

They left the bodies arranged like props on a stage. Billy made sure to drop a few subtle clues—a horror movie VHS, a note with a cryptic line—before melting back into the night.

The next day, the town erupted in panic. The news covered the murders with a morbid fascination. Billy watched from his bedroom window as police cars swarmed the neighborhood. He caught a glimpse of Sidney Prescott, pale and shaken, being comforted by her boyfriend Billy—no, that was wrong. Billy smirked. He was the real Billy, and he was about to become something much more terrifying than a boyfriend.

Weeks passed. The killings continued, each one more brutal than the last. Billy and Stu perfected their act: Billy played the grieving boyfriend, Stu the loyal friend. They attended the funerals, wiped tears from their eyes, and listened to the whispered speculations. Randy was arrested briefly, then released. The cops were grasping at straws.

"They're idiots," Stu said one night, sprawled on Billy's bedroom floor. "We're right under their noses, and they can't see a thing."

"That's because they don't want to see," Billy replied, flipping through a notebook filled with names. "They want a monster from the outside. A drifter, a psychopath. Not the boy next door."

"So what's next?" Stu asked, sitting up. "The finale?"

Billy closed the notebook. "The party. At your house. We'll get them all in one place. Sidney, Gale Weathers, Dewey, Randy. And then we end it."

"And what about us?"

"We die. Or rather, we pretend to. I get 'killed' by the killer, and you get stabbed but survive. We're the heroes. The survivors. No one suspects a ghost."

Stu grinned. "I like it."

The night of the party arrived. The house was packed with teenagers, the music loud, the drinks flowing. Billy watched from the corner, his arm around Sidney, who still looked haunted. She clung to him, seeking comfort from the monster at her side.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No," she whispered. "I keep seeing their faces. Their... masks."

Billy kissed her forehead. "It's going to be over soon. I promise."

Little did she know how true that was.

As the party wound down, Billy excused himself to get more beer. He met Stu in the kitchen, where they exchanged a silent nod. Stu slipped out the back door, and Billy returned to mix the drugged punch. Within an hour, most of the guests were unconscious or too drunk to notice anything.

The real horror began at midnight. Stu, in the Ghostface costume, emerged from the shadows. He grabbed Tatum in the garage, slamming the garage door on her neck with a sickening crunch. Billy watched from the window, his expression unreadable. Tatum had been a loose end, and now she was gone.

Upstairs, Gale Weathers was investigating. Billy stalked her, playing the part of the concerned friend until the moment was right. He cornered her in the bedroom, the knife glinting under the lamp.

"You're the killer!" she gasped.

"Surprise," Billy said, and plunged the knife into her shoulder.

But Gale fought back, clawing and kicking. Billy underestimated her, and she managed to escape, bleeding, into the yard. He cursed under his breath and went after her, but she was gone. No matter. The plan still held.

Dewey arrived, and Stu took him down with a slash across the back. Randy stumbled into the living room, only to be knocked out by a flying TV set. The house was a slaughterhouse. Billy stood in the center, surrounded by bodies, waiting for Sidney.

She appeared, holding a gun, her eyes wild. "Drop the knife, Billy."

He smiled behind the mask. "Or what? You'll shoot me? Go ahead. But you'll never know the truth."

"The truth?" she spat. "That you're a sick bastard? I already know."

Billy slowly pulled off the mask. "You don't know anything. Your mother destroyed my family. She slept with my father, and my mother left because of it. And you? You pretended to love me while you were still in love with the memory of your mother's lover's son, no, that's not right. The point is, you're a liar, just like her."

Sidney's hands trembled. "You killed innocent people."

"Innocent? No one's innocent. Not even you."

Stu appeared behind Sidney, knife raised. But she sensed him and spun, firing the gun. The bullet caught Stu in the shoulder, sending him crashing into a coffee table. Billy lunged, but Sidney was faster. She fired again, hitting him in the chest.

Billy fell to his knees, blood soaking his shirt. He looked up at her, a strange peace in his eyes. "You... did it. You are the final girl."

And then he collapsed.

Sidney stood over him, the gun still smoking. The police arrived moments later, sirens wailing. She was taken away, wrapped in a blanket, her face blank.

But Billy wasn't dead. Not yet. In the ambulance, as the paramedics worked on him, he opened his eyes one last time. He saw the flashing lights, the frantic faces, and he smiled. He had lost, but he had also won. His story would live on. The murders would never be forgotten.

And somewhere, in a dark farmhouse on the outskirts of town, Stu Macher was already plotting their next move. After all, a ghost can always come back.

The end.