Eᴠᴇɴ A Wᴏʀᴍ Wɪʟʟ Tᴜʀɴ || DBD GʜᴏsᴛFᴀᴄᴇ x GN!Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Tᴡᴏ

Final Girl - Graveyard Guy (f...
0:01 ❍─────── 3:47
       ⊲⊲  Ⅱ  ⊳⊳   

"do you like scary movies?"

"nope," you replied, popping the p, pinning the phone between your shoulder and ear.

"really?"

"really," you replied, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume to the scary movie you were watching.

the person on the other end of the phone made a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh. "i don't like liars."

"what do you mean?"

"i can see literally see the movie you're watching." you went silent, pressing the mute button on the remote. "are you scared now, doll?"

"listen," you started. "if you wanted popcorn you could've asked for some. i can leave it on the porch for you or something. stray cat style." slashers were never good reflections of real life, but one rule always held true—

"oh, you won't need to go that far." a floorboard creaked somewhere in your house. you didn't respond this time, tensing a subtly edging your hand into the gap between the armrest and the cushion. the characters in slashers never were able to defend themselves, always victims of the environment and their own incompetence as well as the murderer.

"are you scared?" you lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

"not particularly," that was only a partial lie. your heart was pounding, your eyes scanning the area. you were terrified, but some part of you was intrigued, even excited.

"why not?" he seemed to pout.

"well," you said, voice even and almost bored.

"well?" the voice prompted from the other end of the phone.

"there's two simple reasons i'm not scared." you glanced out the curtains idly, noting how the night sky seemed to turn the tips of trees blue.

"and those are?" the person was growing impatient on the other end, practically spitting his words through the receiver.

"one: i can see pretty well in the dark." you shifted then, drawing out your dominant hand from where it had been tucked under your arm. even if someone knew nothing about small towns, one thing should always be assumed.
"two: i have a gun."

the line went dead.

☏

danny felt stupid. he was stupid. he was supposed to avoid houses with firearms and yet, here he was, hiding in a closet from the person who was supposed to be his victim.

"hello," a voice cooed. he peeked through the crack in the door. you hadn't moved from your position on the recliner, legs flung over one armrest.
"aw, come out. i don't bite."

danny needed to end this encounter quick. this spiraled out of control quickly, completely different from where it was supposed to go, where he had planned it to go. and he had so lovingly planned this one.

he had followed you since before he even moved to roseville, back when he was still apartment hunting.
danny had spotted you one day, rushing from the local college and nearly slamming into the doors to the news station. he was fascinated— so he followed you, noting your every microexpression, your mannerisms— and so he decided that you were the next name on the list.

danny loved watching you after you made a joke; the small lilt, the self-satisfied curl of your lips, subtle as a dagger. it was the kind of smile someone at poker would make with a winning hand, and the second he saw the smile from where he perched in the kitchen he knew something was wrong. an ace up your sleeve, singlehandedly chasing the predator-prey dynamic he loved.

you were kind, the sort he thought would never strike back. but he should've known better. a cornered enemy is as cruel as a wounded animal, even the most docile pet will bite— even a worm will turn.

his phone beeped in his hand. he glanced at it, barely able to see the "call ended" through the mesh of his mask. danny's gaze snapped up to stare at you— he was barely able to see you in the dim lighting from the still-playing slasher movie on screen.

your head was turned away, towards the phone on the table beside you.
he had to move now.

quieter than the breeze that swept through the empty roseville streets, he slipped through the closet door.
he moved behind the kitchen island, watching where you were by the shadows you cast on the wall.

you stood up, the old leather chair groaning. "977 west mayberry street. there's someone in my house." a pause, and— "no, i'm not safe. but i have a gun." danny's eyes fell on the still open side door. he would have to take the loss— it was always better to bow out and return than to not return at all.

he stepped again.

the floor creaked. danny only registered the gunshot after the spray of glass poured down, glistening in the blue and green light like rain.

he bolted, sprinting through the narrow hallways of this old, wretched house and out the side door. he could already hear sirens in the distance and footsteps behind him.

he barely heard one, two, three— shots over his thundering pulse, hammering and trying to escape his skin.

the dawn was breaking now: shades of glittering red and gold painting the forest he escaped into, matching the trickle of blood on his arm.
danny hissed through gritted teeth, ignoring the pain until he was sure he had escaped.

he ditched the cloak and mask in a hollow beneath a fallen log, covered by old leaves. danny slunk through the fire door in his apartment complex, avoiding the early risers in the halls— the sweet yet frazzled ms vasquez, a local nurse at the NICU, and the stoic mr lemoine, who's job was unknown and (if the various items mr lesmoine brought in and out of his apartment was any indicator) interesting.
mr lesmoine was less of a danger than ms vasquez, but any unknowns were enough to make danny wary.

it was better to be cautious.
danny shut the door behind him with the same amount of force he always did, surreptitiously as to avoid breaking habit.

he looked at his arm. blood soaked through his shirt, turning the navy blue shirt a darker shade.

it was only a graze. he was lucky.
danny wouldn't rely on luck next time.