SCREAM - THE GHOST OF LONDON

CHAPTER EIGHT

Charlie sat in the small interrogation room in silence, a fresh cup of coffee steaming in front of him. The room was stark, with bare walls and a single fluorescent light casting a harsh glow. He swallowed the lump in his throat, reached out, and grabbed the cup off the table. Lifting it to his lips, he took a sip and immediately gagged at the bitter taste. Grimacing, he placed it back down on the table, deciding it was better left untouched.

The door creaked open, drawing his attention. The two detectives entered, closing the door behind them with a soft click. They moved to the table and took seats across from Charlie, their expressions serious but not unkind.

"Charlie, I'm Detective Watson, and this is my partner, Detective Morris," the male detective said, offering a brief, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry we didn't introduce ourselves earlier. There's been so much going on."

Charlie smiled softly, appreciating the gesture. "It's okay."

Detective Morris opened a file in front of her, her eyes scanning the contents before looking up at Charlie. "Look, Charlie," she began, her tone gentle yet firm, "I know you've had a rough night and a rough few years, but we need your help in finding out who this is."

Charlie frowned, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "You won't find out until it's too late," he confessed, his voice tinged with a resigned fatalism. Morris's brow furrowed in concern. "Whoever this is, is smart. They've done their research on this, on me."

"Why you?" Detective Watson asked, leaning forward slightly.

Charlie shrugged, sitting back in his chair. "Ever seen Stab?"

They both shook their heads, looking puzzled.

"In 1996, Billy Loomis and his friend Stu Macher killed a bunch of teenagers wearing this stupid Ghostface mask," Charlie explained. "Then, every few years since, some people get the bright idea to dress up and kill their friends to try and get famous."

"So why you?" Morris pressed, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.

"If I recall correctly, Sidney Prescott and the cast of this Stab musical shit were killed off in New York City. My friend Kit was the only survivor," Charlie said, his voice heavy with emotion. "I guess with her out of the picture, they needed a new victim. My now-dead ex-best friend, Oliver, pitched this crazy idea to his friend Julian to put on the Ghostface mask, kill my mother, and set me up as the new hero while trying to kill me. Only, I killed Oliver. Then I moved to Chicago and was targeted again by this guy named Tyler, who I also killed. And now, here we are."

The detectives exchanged a glance, the gravity of Charlie's story sinking in. Watson leaned back, processing the information. "So, you think this is another copycat?"

Charlie nodded, his expression grim. "It's the only explanation that makes sense. They're following the same pattern, targeting me because of my connection to the past killings. They want to continue the legacy."

Morris sighed, closing the file. "We're going to do everything we can to protect you and stop this," she promised. "But we need your help to understand the pattern and predict their next move."

Charlie took a deep breath, steeling himself for the difficult task ahead. "I'll do whatever it takes," he said, his voice resolute. "I'm tired of running. It's time to end this once and for all."

"Well, Charlie, you're going to be helping us from a safe house we have set up for you," Detective Watson said, his tone both firm and reassuring.

"Where is it?" Charlie asked, a mix of curiosity and apprehension in his voice.

"Outside of London," Detective Watson explained. "It's secluded and private. Only authorized personnel will be there. We've taken every precaution to ensure your safety."