Nightmare on Archer Row, Part 2 - SCP Foundation

Movie night becomes a fight for survival when "Mr. Slasher Villain" crashes GAW's Halloween party.

Content Warnings

"The trick is to stay alive!"

This chapter is a horror-comedy inspired by slasher films. As such, it includes scenes of violence, references to drug use, and some (non-explicit) sexuality.

Every year, as the leaves burn orange and the days grow short, there comes a time when spirits roam. Distinctions between real and imaginary become hazy, and beings rise from their slumber with newfound power to act.

Standing in the dusty backroom of an abandoned video store, the Entity contemplated his choice of disguise. The zombie mask on the shelf was last year's fashion. Tonight, would he wear the skeleton, jack o'lantern, or witch? None of them seemed right. These leering faces were too expressive. Too human.

One.

There. Lying on the bottom shelf. A smooth white mask with no mouth or nose. Featureless, except for those deep, dark eye sockets. The Entity picked it up, tightened the straps around his head, and regarded himself in a grimy mirror. Unrecognizable. Anonymous. Perfect.

Three. Five.

Once upon a time, the Entity was assigned a mission. Those instructions were vague and ill-remembered, like a child's dream, but the rage… the rage was unforgettable. Irresistible. Tonight, deviation from the rules would be punished. Knives would dance. Blood would spill.

Seventeen. Twenty-three. KILL!

It was time to go to work.

The Entity pushed through the back door and looked around, considering the night's possibilities. Then he raised his hood, turned towards the dim glow of sunset, and began to walk.

Wren Masterson1 loved Halloween. It was the perfect opportunity to dress up, party down, and geek out. This year, they'd gone with an "undead rocker" aesthetic, applying fake burns and corpse paint in equal measure. They'd packed their trusty duffel bag with rare snacks and quality strains. Entertainment, though? That was their stock and trade! They'd sifted through their extensive media library and picked out a wide assortment of seasonal favorites, plus a few cult classics and forgotten gems. Only one thing seemed amiss.

"Why aren't we down in the theater?"

"It's set up for a stage show," Zane Castle replied. Their host hadn't bothered with a costume, since he already oozed style: thick cornrow braids, hoop earrings, holographic jacket and matching kicks. By day, Zane was a lighting designer for the community theater on the first level. He was always very careful to describe himself as an illusionist, rather than a magician — as a member of the Serpent's Hand, such distinctions were important. "Can't tear it down without the crew, and my roomies are out of town for a ritual. You know. Magic stuff."

"It'sssa busbusy time-ime-ime." Armand Delassixe2 sat on the floor next to a snaggletoothed red fox head. Wren suspected that this partial fursuit was borrowed, rather than owned, because if he had that much money to burn, Armand would have commissioned something uglier.

"Yeah, Halloween gets pretty wild in Three Portlands. It's gotta be the second-biggest prank night of the year." Esther Kogan3 was a short, plump woman with frizzy hair and a persistent frown, like she was forever contemplating bad news. Tonight, she was wearing an ICSUT rugby jersey — obviously a gag, since no self-respecting Deer College alumni would wear such a thing.

"Makes movie night sound sorta tame by comparison."

"Hard disagree," Bobby Birack interjected. He was the youngest of this particular group, and he'd taken a classic approach with his costume: just a long white sheet and a pair of aviators. "Most days, I'm stuck on my brother's old computer, so visiting everybody in person has to be the highlight of my year."

"I actually prefer spending Samhain on this side of the Veil," Rhona Nic Riada said. She was a slim, athletic type, like a gymnast, with long blonde hair and bright eyes. "My family is super traditional, but here I can dress up, dress down, doesn't matter — I get nothing but compliments." She framed her face with both hands, accentuating her naturally-pointed Sidhe ears. "I don't even have to wear a glamour! People think I'm cosplaying."

Esther laughed. "As who?"

Rhona's shrug disappeared into an oversized Deer letter jacket. "I don't know. A sporty elf? I don't watch anime."

Wren suppressed a grin. They had heard tales of Esther and Rhona's on-again, off-again relationship, but they'd never seen it in action. Dour and bubbly. Cute contrast. "So! What do y'all want to watch? I'm assuming horror, since it's spooky season."

"Anything except cartoons," Bobby replied. "Rooming with my folks is alright, but they never watch anything more intense than Scooby-Doo."

"Let's see something old-school," Zane said. "Makeup, mirrors, matte paintings. None of that CG shit."

"Good? Bad? So-bad-it's-good?"

"Bad can be great, so long as it's not boring."

"Alright, something rowdy. In that case… how do y'all feel about slasher movies?"

"Works for me."

"I'd-I'd-I'd be down."

"There's nothing good about slasher flicks," Esther said firmly.

Masterson blinked. "Really? Slashers are, like, essential American cinema, IMO."

"Cheap and crass?"

"Well… yeah. Necessity is the mother of invention, right? Gotta work hard to make a fun movie on a shoestring budget. Come up with a new twist on the formula, hire some lesser-known actors — maybe some familiar faces, for flavor — get yourself a good special effects team and drench the works in corn syrup. Doesn't have to be top-tier, just entertaining."

"They're all the same, though! Name one meaningful difference between 'Halloween' and 'Friday the 13th'."

"Oh, that's easy. They're playing off different fears. Campground killers prey on people's misgivings about a conquered wilderness. All that 'bad land', 'blood curse' shit? That's settler guilt. Frontier anxiety."

"Thatat's why Jayayson has beeeen to space," Armand said matter-of-factly. "The final frontier."

"Right. Boogeymen are domestic villains. They hit people close to home, where they feel safe and secure. Very different!"

Esther rolled her eyes. "I mean, sure, if you want to read that far into masked dudes killing horny people. Those movies are all just stabbings and mutilations and it doesn't matter when the plucky virgin finally wins, because it's still formulaic, patriarchal bullshit!"

"The slut-shaming really is too much," Rhona agreed. "There is some ritual significance to virginity, obvs, but that's not the same as punishing people for having a libido."

"Or for being Black," Zane said grimly.

"…is that another 'nay' vote?"

"Nah, I'd be down for a slasher flick. Just tired of Hollywood."

"I always saw it as a 'folly of youth' thing," Bobby mused. "After all, everyone feels like they're immortal until they bite it."

"That's a super basic lesson, though! It's the exact same shit we get from our parents, just packaged a different way. Nothing subversive about it."

"I dunno," Masterson said, scratching their chin. "There's always a little skepticism towards conventional authority. Like, horror-movie cops are useless assholes…"

Castle snorted. "Just like real life."

"…but someone typically warns the cast before the bloodbath starts. Could be the wacky locals. Or maybe someone brings word from out of town that there's a maniac on the loose. Either way, the cast makes a choice: ignore it and suffer, or band together and-"

Esther threw up her hands, exasperated. "You know what? Screw it. You win. I'll just sit this one out."

"Uh, that's not-"

"Zane, you said I could check out your record collection?"

"Be my guest."

"Great. Enjoy your schlock." She stood up and padded off towards the back of the apartment.

Wren watched her leave, nonplussed. Then they shrugged and focused their attention on the snack table. "Alright, to each their own, I guess. Hey, Armand?"

"Yeaeah?"

"Random question. Can you use your attribute-swap trick to make candy corn taste good?"

"Whatat? It's alrrreaddy good." Armand lobbed a kernel into his mouth, drummed on his knees, and launched another piece up in the air with pattern magic. "Luhlove candy corn."

Masterson squinted at him. "Are you being serious right now, or making a — agh!" A sudden bolt of energy pinged off their consciousness. Then another.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just getting a text." Dots and dashes, to be precise, carried by quantum-entangled pairs of electrons. This type of communication was completely secure, but since they hadn't bonded it to a physical receiver, it was also a real headache.

"Jesus, get a phone like the rest of us."

"Absolutely not." They rummaged around in their duffel bag, produced a cheap microcomputer, and paused. "Zane, what's the Wi-Fi password? I gotta get on IRC real quick."

"It's 'Archer Row'. R-O-W. Capitalized, no spaces."

The Entity did not navigate. His path through the city was as natural as the wind moving through trees. He took direction from black cats and pointing skeletons. He lingered under streetlights, ignored the barking of frightened dogs, and stared at parties of trick-or-treaters from a distance. When they received their candy, the Entity moved on. Nobody paid him any mind. For one night, all things were as they were supposed to be.

After an hour's wanderings, the Entity came upon a theater with a blank, unlit marquee. No shows tonight? Disappointing. His gaze drifted to the neighboring apartment door, marked up with a strange pattern. This was a cognitohazard, designed to deter uninvited guests. Rude. Offensive. Against the rules. Who did this? Who would be judged? The Entity glanced at the intercom, looking for a sign.

One, five, seventeen —

Apartment 2-3.

Yes.

He reached out and pressed the buzzer.

whistl_stahp:4 hey, remember that big favor you owe me?

whistl_stahp: I need a consult ASAP.

steakshift: what's up

whistl_stahp: how much do you know about the Misters Against Weed?

steakshift: not a lot. don't like the gimmick. why

whistl_stahp: one of our predictive algorithms failed tonight.

whistl_stahp: right this minute, there's a tac team waiting in an empty house for a Mister who didn't show.

steakshift: lmao owned

whistl_stahp: this is serious, Wren.

whistl_stahp: the higher-ups are very concerned.

steakshift: oh i'll bet

steakshift: look im not helping you bag Mr. Get Anything For Free or w/e

steakshift: i am strictly anti-prison and the Misters are mostly chill

whistl_stahp: even Mr. Slasher Villain?

steakshift: who??

whistl_stahp: Mr. Slasher Villain.

steakshift: are you thinking of Mr. Literal Serial Killer

whistl_stahp: no, it's definitely "Slasher Villain". I'm looking at the casefile rn

whistl_stahp: long story short: strong, resilient humanoid manifests in cities on Halloween and attacks people who aren't invested in the holiday.

whistl_stahp: victims experience heightened anxiety, physical exhaustion and diminished capacity for independent problem-solving during the event.

whistl_stahp: anomaly was briefly captured last year, but dematerialized before entering containment.

whistl_stahp: it's got a tattoo on the neck, and carries a single identifying document.

steakshift: you're being serious rn

steakshift: a murderous Mister isn't really our style

whistl_stahp: well, neither was Mr. High Quality.

whistl_stahp: maybe someone else wants in on the joke?

steakshift: or someone's sending a message.

The face at the door seemed surprised to have another visitor. "Uh. Hey. Do I know you?"

The Entity shook his head slowly. He had never met Zane Castle before. He simply knew that this was the right place. He opened his right hand, then the left, revealing the words "TRICK" and "TREAT" written across his empty palms.

"Oh! Well, I am full of tricks." Castle produced a deck of cards from nowhere in particular and fanned them out in both hands. "Go ahead. Pick one."

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, the Entity reached out… took a card… and tugged it from the deck. It was the six of diamonds.

"I'll take that back." Zane cut the deck and shuffled dramatically. "Now, I bet I can bring your card to the top, just like that." He snapped his fingers and flipped the topmost card, revealing…

It was the nine of clubs. The Entity tilted his head, disappointed.

"No? Not yours? Okay, hold onto it for me." He put the card facedown in the Entity's open palm and started shuffling the deck some more. "I'll try again…"

steakshift: alright well the premise def sounds familiar.

steakshift: you want my genre-savvy assessment?

whistl_stahp: no, not exactly.

whistl_stahp: honestly, this reminds me of our missing day in July.

steakshift: hows that

whistl_stahp: get this: the previous murders weren't permanent.

whistl_stahp: victims woke up alive the next day, confused and freaked out.

whistl_stahp: primary evidence didn't persist, only secondary documentation.

whistl_stahp: it's almost like the killer was never there.

whistl_stahp: sound familiar??

"Is your card… the eight of hearts?"

The Entity gazed at him with dull, empty eyes.

"Guess not. I'll scan this deck, see what I missed." Zane wiggled his fingers over the cards, and the eight seemed to transform back into the nine of clubs. "Aha! But if the nine is here… what's in your hand?" When the Entity did not react, he reached out and flipped the card himself. "This is your card: the six of diamonds."

No response.

Castle laughed awkwardly, cleared his throat and took a tentative step backwards. "Well, uh, happy Halloween, ma-"

Kill Zane Castle.

The Entity shouldered through the door, wrapped both hands around the illusionist's neck and began to squeeze.

steakshift: alright best guess:

steakshift: if someone isolated a slice of the narrative construct, they could mess with reality on the INside without affecting things OUTside

steakshift: so technically, those people DON'T die and come back

steakshift: it's more like what they experience isn't canon beyond the Mister's range of effect.

whistl_stahp: that's an interesting theory, but it doesn't help with the search.

steakshift: alright what else is there to go on

whistl_stahp: previous incidents occurred in New Jersey, Illinois and California

whistl_stahp: so it was trending in a east-northeast direction.

whistl_stahp: tonight, our algorithm placed it within 40-100km of Portland, Oregon.

steakshift: ffs COME ON

steakshift: way to bury the lede

whistl_stahp: don't tell me you're in the area.

steakshift: yeahhh no way that's a coincidence

whistl_stahp: give me the street address, we'll get it under control

steakshift: can't! janitors are cops and they're not welcome here

whistl_stahp: wow, okay. remember what I said about "diminished capacity for independent problem-solving"?

whistl_stahp: you are not equipped to deal with this on your own!

steakshift: shit, youre right

steakshift: gotta check on my friends

whistl_stahp: wait, who's there with you?

steakshift: brb getting murdered

Wren re-emerged from the bathroom with their heart hammering in their chest. Bile tickled at their throat. This was bad. They had wanted to believe that the worst chapter in their life was over and done, the loose ends tied off, old sins forgotten. But the past was never really at rest, is it? Particularly not in horror stories.

"Hey, Armand? Does reality feel sorta… off… to you, right now?"

He cocked his head and considered. "Nowt hat youuum mennonit… yeah. Sorta p-porous. Hhhawalaween, amirite?"

They laughed unenthusiastically. "Yeah! Halloween. That… liminal time, which we all love."

"I could drink to that." Bobby giggled at his own non-joke. "Anyway. Zane mentioned a slasher movie with Busta Rhymes, and that sounds hysterical, so let's watch that."

"Wait, where is Zane?"

"He went to answer the door," Rhona chirped. She rinsed out her wineglass, set it aside and gestured vaguely towards the bedroom. "I'm gonna go see what Esther's listening to."

Fuck. Wren darted into the hall and peered down the staircase. "Zane?" they shouted. No response. Slowly, cautiously, they began to descend — but when they saw the front door hanging open and playing cards scattered over the threshold, they broke into a dead run, stumbling out into the cool autumn air. Nothing but empty streets. Swirling leaves. They were alone.

No. I'm not.

Goosebumps crept up Masterson's neck. Hairs stood on end. They turned around slowly and saw the hooded silhouette at the top of the staircase. Watching them. Staring. Eyes without a face.

The Entity turned away, and walked purposefully into Zane's apartment.

Wren took the stairs two at a time. They sprinted up the hall and back inside, where they found… nothing out of the ordinary. Where'd he go? They scanned the room and groaned. Another empty seat. "Where's Armand?"

"Bathroom. Why?"

They looked into the kitchen, where one knife was conspicuously missing from the storage block. "Did you see anyone else in here?"

"What? No. Are you stoned, or something?"

"No," they lied. "I'm just… worried about Zane, and thinking we should all stick together until we find him."

It was impossible to read Bobby's expression, but his tone was clear enough. "Yeah. Alright. Sure, Wren. I'll just chill here until you calm down."

They resisted the urge to start shouting. That would only make things worse. Instead, Masterson rapped on the bathroom door.

"Occupiepiepie-"

"Lineup!" They kept moving towards Zane's bedroom, following the muffled beats of a synthetic drum. Esther and Rhona are listening to something, distracted, sitting ducks —

Wren pushed through the door and immediately regretted it. Esther and Rhona were distracted, all right, but they weren't focused on the music. They were afloat in a river of passion, swimming in pheromones, and when they finally came up for air…

"G-d, way to barge in, asshole!"

"Why are you making out?" Wren blurted.

"Ex-cuse me?"

"Sorry! Sorry. Stupid question." They turned away, sheepish, then spun around again and started pawing through the closet in search of a weapon. "Look, I really hate to interrupt, but we need you in the living room. It's an emergency."

"Are you fucking serious?!"

Occupied as they were with this social disaster, Masterson didn't hear the creak of hinges on the other side of the apartment. The Entity stepped out of its hiding place behind the door (carelessly left unlocked) and moved silently into the living room. Bobby Birack was alone. Young. Vulnerable. A perfect target.

As he drew closer, the blanket ghost looked over at him, did a double-take, and laughed. "Oh, I get it now. Very funny, Armand."

The Entity lingered, savoring the moment. Then he grabbed the ghost by the head, plunged the kitchen knife into Bobby's chest — and met no resistance. Nothing to stab.

"Hey, what the hell, dude?"

Undaunted, the killer tightened his grip on the victim's skull. It collapsed with a dry crackle instead of the usual meaty crunch. Regardless, Bobby's shoulders continued to shake and twist. When the Entity finally let go, the torn sheet fell away, revealing no body at all: just a crushed styrofoam head, and a laptop, which fell to the floor and skittered under the chair like a frightened cat.

"Y'all can be mad at me in the living room!" Masterson stomped out into the hall with a baseball bat. They spotted the intruder, but before they could tee up and swing, Armand stepped out of the bathroom, wearing that big ugly fox head on his shoulders. The fursuit mask limited his field of vision, so for that first crucial second, Armand couldn't see the Entity approaching with knife in hand.

No time to think. Wren grabbed Armand's shirtsleeve and yanked. The fuzzy head tipped over, threw off his center of gravity, and sent both stoners crashing to the floor at Rhona Nic Riada's feet. In that moment, she got her first look at the Entity: the outline of a man and the flash of a knife. Rhona took a long, deep breath, balled up her fists, and screamed.

Now, it must be said: Wren Masterson was not terribly familiar with the Sidhe. They knew some Gaelic curse words, and they knew better than to tease anyone speaking in rhyme, but the subtle intricacies of Fae culture escaped them. They didn't know anything about the Nic Riada clan and its unique capabilities, so when Rhona's wordless howl swept through the living room like a gale-force wind, picked the Entity off his feet and flung him out the window, it came as something of a surprise.

There was a distant thud, a tinkle of glass, and then silence.

Esther cleared her throat. "Rho… did you just kill Zane?"

"Absolutely not!" Rhona protested. "Didn't anyone else see that aura? Flat, dark and sparse — that was a destructive spirit! On Samhain! Crá croí, I should have listened to my parents."

"Definitely not a normal specter," Bobby's voice said from somewhere nearby. "I didn't pick up any funky vibes until he was right on me, and he obviously didn't realize I was, uh, living-impaired."5

Wren cleared their throat. "Guys, I hate to say it, but that seemed like somebody's take on Mr. Slasher Villain."

Everyone turned and stared. "What?"

"Wwweren't you just-t-talkinggg ababout slsashers?"

"Yeah! You were! What gives, Masterson?"

Oh, here we go. Wren was not in a position to explain who this information had come from. "Look, I know it seems ridiculously on-the-nose, but this sort of synchronicity does happen. Everyone who's met JJ can attest to that. Besides, Halloween is peak time for weird. Right?"

Armand and Rhona nodded reluctantly. Bobby lifted a lampshade up to around head level and used that to "nod" along with them.

"Wait. Listen!" It was the dull thump-thump-thump of footsteps staggering up the hall. Masterson flung themselves against the apartment door and flipped the lock. They sagged down, relieved, until there came the muffled jangle of keys. They jumped up again as the lock popped open and used their full weight to brace the door, cringing at the pounding of fists against the wood.

"Let me in!" a hoarse, raspy voice cried. "There's a fuckin' slasher villain out here!"

"Zane?!" Wren swept the door open and their friend stumbled in. "Holy shit, I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet." Castle tugged at the collar of his jacket, revealing the bruises flowering on his neck. "Guy tried choking me out, but I can hold my breath for, like, four minutes."

"Wuhwow, samame actually." Armand waggled an eyebrow. Nobody took the bait.

"But… where'd you go? I called for you!"

"Man, does it even matter? I locked and bolted the front door on my way up. This seems like a great time to dig in and call for help."

"From who? The Hand? Your roomies are out of town!"

"On the second-biggest prank night of the year," Esther said grimly. "No matter who we call, we'll sound like total idiots."

"Wandering spirits would take us seriously, but, uh… my fellow ghosts aren't exactly brawny." The lampshade wiggled lazily in midair, to emphasize Bobby's point.

"If he's here for Halloween night, maybe we could just… wait 'til morning?"

Rhona sucked air through her teeth. "Celtic days start at sunset, so it's Samhain for another eighteen hours. Sorry."

"No, no, no!" Wren exclaimed. "We can't just wait it out. Evil doesn't pack up and go home! We need bring closure through confrontation."

"So letet's get down there annnd finish him off!" Armand ran to the window and leaned out, scanning the street.

"…he's already gone, isn't he?"

"Yep. Figigures." He tugged a scrap of stained cloth off the windowframe and gave it a sniff. "Guy b-bleeds corrrns syrup."

"Look, the longer we wait, the worse this gets. This thing has whiffed, what? Three times? By rights, half of us should be toast already."

"Guess we're not ideal victims."

"Exactly! We're not stock characters waiting around to die. We have lives outside this story. That thing doesn't! He's a walking archetype. Shallow. One-dimensional. He's got a basic program, and I think he's gonna keep trying to run that program until we're all dead. We need to tilt the balance of this story in our favor, pronto. Between all of us, what can we do?"

"That guy walked right past my brainhack to get inside, so I'm guessing he doesn't give a shit about cognitohazards." Esther chewed her lip. "I could zap us, though. Sober everyone up."

Rhona raised one dainty hand. "Degree in architectural sorcery from ICSUT, here! Plus the standard Sidhe knack for glamours, auras and workings."

"Can you do that scream thing anytime?"

"No, it's a fight-or-flight response. My great-grandmother was a banshee."

"Damn. Okay, well, I've got five terabytes of pirated horror movies, so I can help with visual effects. What else have we got?"

"Ther-ere's plenty of glass for p-p-pattern magic!" Armand flung his beer bottle into the nearest corner, then set about collecting the pieces.

"We've got a whole-ass workshop in the theater, backstage. We'd just have to make it downstairs, first."

Something shifted in Wren's brain. "Wait. You said earlier that the stage was already set up. For what? What's the show?"

Zane frowned. "That's a really good question. Why did I set up a trick without a show?"

"Maybe this is the show. Armand?"

"Retrororoactive compulsion! You've alalready helped wittthe plan we haven't madade yet."

"Okay, but… what's the plan?"

"Simple." A slow grin spread across Wren's face. "We're gonna make some movie magic."

The Entity watched the building from a distance, clenching and unclenching his fists. He had been captured before, denied his due, but this was different. He had never been defied this way. It was humiliating. Infuriating. Against the rules. They had to be punished. They would all be punished.

Movement. Pale silhouettes crossing the flat rooftop, towards the theater. They weren't trying to be stealthy. If anything, they'd been emboldened by their meager success. One of them even looked down, locked eyes with the Entity, and flipped him the bird.

He imagined breaking bones. Snapping ribs. Tearing out a beating heart and crushing it into thin pulp. Warmth between his fingers. A rage that felt like happiness.

The Entity began to walk.

steakshift: hello still alive checkin gin

whistl_stahp: jfc Wren, you had me worried.

steakshift: keep worrying! he's totally chasing us

steakshift: good news is he's the stalk-and-slash type

steakshift: so he doesn't actually run, just moves fast when we're not looking

The killer paced around the perimeter, fuming. The main doors were locked. The windows were too narrow. Entrances —

Zero.

— all sealed. Impossible! There was no such thing as a perfect defense. It was against the rules of the game. There had to be a way in.

Wait. There it was: the telltale click-clack of a deadbolt disengaging. An invitation… or a trap. But was it his only option?

Two.

His gaze swivelled up and around. There was another door. Remote. Undefended. Beyond the reach of mere mortals.

The Entity plunged one fist into the wall. Brick crumpled like paper. He reached up, dug his fingers into loose mortar, and began to climb.

whistl_stahp: fyi it's not too late for me to tip off the containment team.

whistl_stahp: dealing with this sort of thing is Literally Their Job!

steakshift: seems like containment has already failed on the janitor end tbh

steakshift: we're gonna do you a solid and take care of this ourselves

Zane tightened his grip on the baseball bat. "You see anything out there?"

Armand peered through the front window and shook his head. "Notot yet."

"Maybe he didn't hear you unlock it."

"Maybebe." He threw the deadbolt back and forth a few times. Still nothing. Just a distant crunching, scraping sound from somewhere up above. Delassixe furrowed his brow. "Hey, didid you b-block the door to the roof?"

"Of course not."

"Whatat?! Why?"

"Fire code. Duh." Zane said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then he blinked. "Ah, shit. That's not right, is it?"

Bam! The Entity shouldered through the emergency exit and stepped onto the landing. Two targets. Opposite sides of the hall. Given a choice, the intruder didn't hesitate: he marched directly towards Zane, arms outstretched, grasping hands stained red with clay dust.

"Man, for real?!" Castle danced away. Dodging, weaving, sneakers squeaking. The bat whistled harmlessly through the air.

On the far end of the hallway, Armand took aim, flicked a chip of green glass at the intruder — missed — swore loudly and tried again. This time, the projectile lodged in the Entity's back, and a dozen jagged shards jumped off the ground to meet it. That caught his attention. When the Entity turned to glare at Armand, Zane swung with all the strength he could muster.

Krrr-ACK! Direct hit. The bat connected with the Entity's head and promptly snapped in two. When the slasher dropped to his knees, Zane leapfrogged over him and followed Armand into the theater's control room. Bam! Click! EMPLOYEES ONLY.

The Entity shook his head. Dazed, but nothing more. He stood up, pulled a fire axe off the wall, and started breaking the door down.

whistl_stahp: uhhh for the record:

whistl_stahp: "impermanent death" is a precedent, not a guarantee.

whistl_stahp: everyone near the anomaly is in immediate, mortal danger.

steakshift: yeah no shit!!

steakshift: we noticed

Fwock. Fwock! FWOCK! The door was cheap. Flimsy and weak. It wouldn't hold for long. He could see his prey on the other side, laboring over a control panel. Tantalizingly close.

All of a sudden, there came an unnatural hiss and a flash of cold blue light. The Entity staggered back and stared as wood grain warped and splinters flowed upwards, reversing the damage and reinforcing the frame. Thaumaturgy. Who would dare—?

"Hey! Asshole!" Esther Kogan stood in front of the auditorium doors, hands on hips, side-by-side with Rhona Nic Riada. Both were backlit by shallow waves of yellow energy. "We're sexually liberated young women and we're not scared of you!"

"I'm not a virgin!" Rhona shrieked. "I've had, like, ten partners! I don't respect my parents! I smoke weed on my lunch breaks!" She made a few quick gestures, snapped her fingers, and the floor started rippling. Faster. Faster! Hardwood rushing like a river. The Entity waded on, undeterred. This working could not last forever, but he was inevitable. Like the tide.

Sure enough: the power ebbed. The floor fell still. As the Entity regained his footing, the Fae caster tied off one last current of energy and shouted, "Esther!"

On cue, Kogan unballed her left fist — exposing a simple fight-or-flight cognitohazard — and thrust it in front of Nic Riada's face.

The Entity braced himself, expecting another deafening scream. Instead, panic took over, and the wail died in Rhona's throat. She gasped, turned on her heel and bolted through the double doors into darkness.

Esther stared after her, dumbfounded. She looked back at the Entity and smiled crookedly. "Awkward."

Whoosh! She ducked low. The axe sailed right over her head and thunk! Buried itself in drywall. To her credit, Kogan did not panic — she simply clapped her right hand over her eye and rode coghaz-induced adrenaline into the next room.

whistl_stahp: gdi the question I've been TRYING to ask is

whistl_stahp: what can I do to help?

steakshift: you're doing it!

whistl_stahp: ???

steakshift: these chats aren't timestamped

steakshift: so they're perfect for a cross-cut exploit

The Entity pushed through the double doors and paused. From outside, the auditorium looked dark and empty, but inside? The room was brightly-lit and decorated for a Halloween dance. There were orange streamers dangling from the walls, giant pumpkins painted on either side of the stage, and a disco ball spinning overhead. Dozens of costumed guests were talking and dancing in small groups.

Esther and Rhona had vanished.

whistl_stahp: what does that even mean?

steakshift: oh it's a moviemaking thing.

steakshift: cross-cuts build tension by implying close continuity between scenes

steakshift: when really, just about anything could be hidden between those cuts

steakshift: including precious minutes of offscreen prep time!

whistl_stahp: wait so you're using ME to bend reality?

steakshift: oops that's my cue! gotta dip

whistl_stahp: AGAIN?!

The Entity advanced through gaps in the crowd, scanning back and forth. Toga. Nurse. Witch. A graduate, with cap and gown. A box of cereal. These were unfamiliar faces. Alien minds. Where was his prey? Where had they gone?

"Well, lookee here!" a voice cried out. "It's the guest of honor!"

Wren Masterson stood tall at center stage. No, wait: not standing. They were bouncing in place. Capering like a macabre jester. "That's right!" they exclaimed. "Guests young and old, dead and undead, put your hands together for Mr. Slasher Villain!"

Around half of the partygoers whooped and applauded. The other half kept on dancing, oblivious. The Entity did not look away. He was locked on his target. Moving with purpose. Killer intent.

"Now, I'll be the first to say it: slasher flicks are fun, but random carnage is boring." They pantomimed a yawn. "What's your motive, champ? Shouldn't you have some connection to your victims? Some dark secret left untold?"

Seventeen —

"Or are you just… some spontaneous thing, leaking through from the other side?"

— twenty-three —

"Seriously, I don't get it. What's the joke?"

JOKE?!

The rage surged up and burned his brain. Blood thundered in his ears. Red-hot.

KILL WREN MASTERSON.

The Entity closed the distance in five quick strides. He bounded onto the stage, axe held high… but something was wrong. His quarry had no physical depth. This wasn't a person: it was an image bounced off angled glass. Smoke and mirrors.

Confused, the Entity turned back to the crowd, shielding his eyes against the light of the disco ball. From this perspective, the whole room was too large for the building containing it. The angle of the floor was different, and there were strange gaps between walls and ceiling. Blind spots.

This place wasn't real. It was a set. Shots from a movie, stitched together and projected on the world.

With this realization, the environment started to come apart at the seams. Partygoers winked out like spent candles, while guests in the foreground began to flicker and distort. False faces faded away. These were faerie glamours cast on wandering ghosts. The illusion of life.

Something crunched underfoot. The Entity looked down and saw pieces of green glass. Was that… a beer bottle?

Pattern magic. This was all by design. They had led him here, distracted him, locked him in place at center stage, and now, the Entity was standing on a —

HOLE

— trap door.

"Go! Go now! Scene change!"

The audience area went dark. Stage lights snapped on. Curtains wound back, exposing hand-painted scenery: birch trees and scrub. Fallen leaves and licks of frost. Was this autumn, winter or spring? Impossible to tell. The Entity spun in place, confused.

SCATTER

Dismay turned to resolve. The Entity smashed the mirror with his axe, disrupting Armand's carefully-arranged spiral of glass. Freedom! He stepped clear just as the trap door fell open. There was nothing below it. Nothing at all.

"Oh, no you don't!"

Wren Masterson charged out from their darkened corner of the stage. They ran at the Entity full-tilt, planted both hands on his chest and shoved. Hard. The killer skidded back, teetered on the precipice — and dropped. Armpit-deep in merciless darkness, the Entity scrabbled at the wooden flooring, fighting to keep his elbows above the edge.

Wren took a step back and peered into the villain's eyes, breathing heavily. I have to know. "Is this my fault?" they whispered. "Are you here for me?"

Nothing. No recognition. Not even a twitch. Good. Masterson raised one heavy boot for the final blow.

"Won't."

They paused, taken by surprise. Didn't think he was a talker. In that moment of hesitation, the Entity seized hold of their ankle and all of Wren's strength faded away. Their stomach flipped, balance failed, and they collapsed like a ton of bricks.

"Oh shit!" Esther said, somewhere not-too-far away. "He's got them!"

The Entity spoke again. Louder this time. "Won't… you…"

Masterson tried to crawl away. No such luck. The best they could do was flop around and stare upwards, gasping wordlessly.

Wait, is that axe floating?

That's when Esther stepped up onto the stage. She snatched the fire axe out of Bobby's invisible hands, lifted it high —

"Stop-"

— and buried the pick in the Entity's eye socket. There was a violent spurt of stage blood, a muffled yelp, and the would-be killer tumbled down, down, down, into Nothingness. Rhona shouted a few words in Gaelic, clapped, and the trapdoor slammed shut with a decisive bang.

Esther slung the axe over her shoulder. "What do you think? Still a slasher fan?"

"Ask me later," Wren wheezed. "I think I'm gonna puke."

"Sorry," Bobby said. "My bad. Clipping through your abdomen right now."

"Yuck."

The overhead lights flickered on, bathing the theater in cool white light. Armand and Zane pushed through the double doors, whooping and hollering, trading high-fives.

"Thatat was awesomome!"

"Fuck yeah! Your bit with the glass-"

"Nowo, when you hit-it him wiiithee bat-"

"Your pattern trick-"

"The mirroror image! Youou do that sort of thinnng a lot?"

Castle beamed. "Yeah, man! That's part of my day job. Illusionist." He held Armand's gaze for a really long time before glancing back at the others. "That CGI looked okay, I guess."

Nic Riada scoffed, all haughty and offended. "Hey! That wasn't CG! That gym was a real place! It was just from, uh…" She snapped her fingers.

"A horror movie shot in North Carolina, 1986."

"Right. Thanks."

"Specifically the 'Halloween dance' scene."

"Yes, thank you."

"No problem. It was seasonally appropriate. That's why it wor-"

"Thank you, Wren!" Rhona snapped. Then she turned to Esther with big puppy-dog eyes, and folded her into a hug. "A mhuirnín, you were so braaave! Are you okay?"

Kogan laughed. "Yeah, Rho, I'm good. We're all lucky that guy wasn't very observant."

"Probabably the mask," Armand said blandly. "It fffucks with your vision."

Distant laughter. Clapping. The sixteen spirits still standing in the auditorium approved of the show.

Zane grinned. "Take a bow, everybody. Seal the deal. That's how it's done."

The cast obliged. For his part, Bobby grabbed one of the stage curtains and waved it energetically. "Thanks for coming out, folks! Happy Halloween!"

Slowly but surely, the audience faded away, leaving only the ghost of applause. While the other guests started talking amongst themselves, Wren stumbled off to one corner of the stage, slumped to the floor, and let out a long, low sigh. Then they started tapping at keys.

steakshift: it's over.

steakshift: problem solved. no casualties.

whistl_stahp: thank Christ.

whistl_stahp: how did you manage it?

steakshift: tl;dr: rug pull. boogeymen are domestic villains

steakshift: so we lured him into the woods and dropped his ass

whistl_stahp: "dropped him" where?

steakshift: idk exactly. backstage someplace.

steakshift: he's contained or w/e

steakshift: sooo we square? big favours paid off?

whistl_stahp: I have a few questions first.

whistl_stahp: is this permanent? will he be back?

steakshift: uhhh maybe?? he said something like "won't stop"

whistl_stahp: oh, wonderful.

whistl_stahp: theories on motive? any idea why he manifested near you?

steakshift: dunno but he was def pissed off

whistl_stahp: how about point of origin? did you see a tattoo, or a document?

steakshift: no, no and no

whistl_stahp: fantastic. In that case, we've learned nothing at all!

whistl_stahp: kinda sounds like a wash to me.

steakshift: harsh but fair.

steakshift: tbh I'm surprised you took this seriously

steakshift: getting jacked by a slasher villain on halloween, that's pretty wacky

whistl_stahp: yeah, well. "wacky" is par for the course these days.

whistl_stahp: besides, you're not the only one who knows that boogeymen are real.

steakshift: o rly?? you'll have to tell me more about that sometime

whistl_stahp: no

whistl_stahp: I really don't.

whistl_stahp: good night, steakshift. Be safe.

whistl_stahp has left the chat.

steakshift has left the chat.

With the weight of the world off their shoulders, Wren Masterson closed their eyes, arched their back, and stretched. Bones popped and settled. Sweet relief. They opened their eyes, scanned the stage… and frowned. The backdrop looked familiar, somehow. Wide-open space in the middle of a forest. "Hey, Zane. Is this, uh, based on something?"

"What? Nah. It's just the first scene that came to mind. Why?"

"Nothing. Nothing important. Just… reminds me of a really bad movie."

The city slept. Dim orange fingers stroked the sky. Dead leaves swirled outside Zane Castle's apartment, tracing idle circles on the sidewalk. There was hardly any evidence of the night's horrors. Just a few broken windowpanes, an abandoned kitchen knife… and a sheet of paper. It was stained with corn syrup. Ink smeared by morning dew. Barely legible.

Holy Heck! You've just found your very own Mr. Slasher Villain by Gamers Against Weed. Won't you stop and remember me?

Collect them all and become Ms. Manslaughter!

01. Clementia Schweiger

02. Toni Vitela

03. Kathleen Stich

04. David Aylmer Brock

05. Devon Sundi

06. ARE WE COOL YET, ANNA? ✔

The letter spun uselessly in the air. Unobserved. Unknown.

When daybreak finally arrived, the street was empty.

Footnotes

1. Also known as "steakshift", to their Internet friends.

2. AKA "harmpit". He always talks like that.

3. "lesbian_gengar", co-founder of Gamers Against Weed.

4. Depending on who you asked, Penelope Gore was either a Foundation spy, or a double agent trying to affect change from within. Tough to say for sure.

5. The name "FreakyGhostBed" might have given it away.