City of the dead (Ghostface x reader)

𝟙𝟘𝟘𝕜 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝

So, Imma preface this by saying:

What the absolute fuck. Why the hell did this manage to get 100k reads? It's just my brain slowly rotting and devolving, what the hell?

But, seeing as this has managed to do so well, how about a bonus chapter?

And in some ironic twist, I am writing this at work. Again.

xxxx

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years since Woodsboro.

Fifteen years since the madness that ruined what should've been the best years of your life.

Some nights, when you woke up at god awful hours, you'd catch yourself mourning what was, and what could've been. But those nights were few and far between. Other than that, your life was pretty together.

You had a job. You had a small house. You had some friends. You had hobbies to lose yourself in for hours on end.

Your father had passed a few years ago from blood cancer. He was in the early stages, but he didn't feel like the fight was something he was willing to take on. So he had himself euthanized in a hospital. Of course you were sad, but it also meant that he wasn't in pain.

So now, there was only one thing left for the author to bring up. The seemingly only variable in your perfect life.

The letters.

Looking back, it felt so stupid to give a murderer your new address. But way back when, you thought that he might still be your friend. Yeah, you admitted it was a stupid thought. You were also confident that he'd never get out. All the evidence, the fact he pled guilty, everything.

Once you moved, your dad forwarded the letters. God knows what was inside the envelopes, and lord only knows that your father didn't want to see.

Whenever you received them, you just tore them up. If it was cold outside, you'd light a fire and watch the paper burn. Any words that the last living killer wanted you to see melted away into ash and dust on the floor of your fireplace.

But once your father passed, you couldn't seem to sell the old house. And that meant that no one was forwarding you the mail. And while it meant you had a temporary relief from the psycho's letters, it also led to a situation like this.

Where you had gotten a call from an old neighbor about how there was a felon on the front doorstep of the old house. And then they sent a photo of the felon in question.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years since you had seen that face.

Fifteen years since you were this worried you were going to die.

Fifteen years since you were this scared to even look at a phone.

Fifteen fucking years.

You caught yourself thinking back to the good days with Casey Becker, the times you and Randy went on long ass rants about horror movies, the dates you would thirdwheel and ruin Billy's attempts to flirt with Sid, the times Stu treated you like a god for being honest about Casey.

The good times.

And they were all you could think about as you flew around your house, grabbing shit you thought you may need for a long road trip.

Where were you going? Anywhere that isn't here.

It'd been fifteen years since you had to face Stuart Macher, and by god you were going to keep it that way.