Matthew Lillard had always believed there were two kinds of horror fans.

  There were the ones who screamed.

  And then there were the ones who paused the movie and started analyzing the killer’s technique.

  Matthew, after thirty years of answering the same convention questions and signing the same glossy photographs, had firmly become the second type.

  On this particular evening, he sat comfortably on his couch, legs stretched out, a bowl of Scooby Snacks balanced on his lap. The glow of the television flickered across the room, casting long shadows along the walls.

  Outside, the neighborhood had settled into a quiet suburban stillness. Porch lights hummed softly. A distant dog barked once… and then thought better of it.

  Inside Matthew’s living room, a familiar movie scene unfolded.

  Teenagers.

  A local town fountain.

  The early moments of a story that had followed him for decades.

  Matthew leaned forward slightly as a lanky teenager appeared on screen.

  Stu Macher.

  His younger self.

  Matthew tilted his head.

  “Well look who it is.”

  On screen, Stu burst into frame with his usual chaotic grin.

  Matthew pointed a Scooby Snack toward the television.

  “Alright, here’s the thing,” he said to no one in particular. “The moment you start explaining the murder like a tutorial…”

  He popped the snack into his mouth.

  “…you’ve already given yourself away.”

  On screen, Stu described how someone could gut another person.

  Matthew snorted.

  “Subtlety, Stu. Ever heard of it?”

  He leaned forward, warming to his critique.

  “Like, honestly, how did anyone not figure out you were the killer right here? You’re literally explaining how Casey died.”

  The television version of Stu continued talking with theatrical enthusiasm.

  Matthew sighed.

  “Rookie mistake.”

  The phone rang.

  Matthew blinked.

  He glanced toward the coffee table.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  The phone vibrated there, lighting up the darkened room.

  Unknown caller.

  Matthew stared at it for a moment.

  The timing was… interesting.

  He looked back at the television, where Stu continued explaining murder like an overly enthusiastic cooking show host.

  Matthew shook his head and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  Silence answered him at first.

  Then a voice.

  Low.

  Distorted.

  Almost whispering.

  “What’s the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?”

  Matthew leaned back against the couch and studied the ceiling.

  “Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s funny.”

  The voice didn’t respond.

  Matthew glanced back at the television.

  Stu was still explaining things.

  Matthew nodded thoughtfully.

  “You know what’s wild?” he said. “Everyone always thinks the scary part is the killer.”

  He gestured lazily toward the screen.

  “But the real scary part is the bad decision-making.”

  Silence.

  Matthew shrugged.

  “If you’re asking me honestly?”

  He glanced again at the TV.

  “This one’s kind of a bad rip-off of the original.”

  The whisper returned immediately.

  “Wrong answer.”

  Click.

  The line went dead.

  Matthew stared at the phone.

  “Well,” he muttered. “Someone’s sensitive.”

  He placed the phone back on the table.

  The movie continued playing quietly.

  Stu laughed on screen.

  Matthew leaned back into the couch again.

  For a moment, everything seemed normal.

  Then he noticed something outside the window.

  A shape.

  Tall.

  Still.

  Matthew squinted.

  Across the yard, partially hidden between two trees, stood a figure in a long black robe.

  The mask was wrong.

  Not the familiar elongated ghost shape people remembered.

  This one looked like something from a painting.

  The mouth stretched wide in an exaggerated scream.

  The figure did not move.

  Matthew stared.

  “Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s new.”

  He stood.

  The figure remained motionless.

  Matthew walked toward the window and cupped his hands against the glass.

  “You filming something?”

  No response.

  The figure tilted its head.

  Then slowly raised a phone.

  Matthew’s own phone rang again behind him.

  He turned.

  Answered.

  “What’s the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?”

  Matthew sighed.

  “Buddy, you already asked me that.”

  A pause.

  Matthew glanced outside again.

  The figure had moved closer.

  Very slowly.

  Deliberately.

  Michael-Myers-style patience.

  Matthew frowned.

  “…Alright.”

  He set the phone down.

  Then he walked calmly to the front door and opened it.

  The cool night air drifted inside.

  The masked figure stood halfway across the yard now.

  Matthew placed his hands on his hips.

  “Okay, let’s just establish the basics here.”

  The figure took another slow step forward.

  Matthew nodded.

  “Right.”

  He pointed.

  “Masked killer.”

  Another step.

  Matthew sighed.

  “Is this the part where I run around?”

  The figure raised the knife slightly.

  Matthew clapped once.

  “Great!”

  And then he ran.

  Out the front door.

  Across the yard.

  Around the side of the house.

  Behind him, the masked figure simply walked.

  Slow.

  Steady.

  Patient.

  Matthew sprinted across the grass, nearly slipping on a garden hose.

  “This feels excessive!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  The figure continued its slow approach.

  Matthew ran around the house again and burst through the back door.

  Inside.

  Through the kitchen.

  Past the living room.

  Around the couch.

  The television still played.

  On screen, Stu laughed hysterically.

  Matthew pointed at it as he ran by.

  “See?! This is what I’m talking about!”

  The masked figure stepped inside.

  Matthew ran up the hallway.

  Down the hallway.

  Back through the living room again.

  “Okay!” he shouted. “Just so we’re clear—am I supposed to scream too?!”

  The figure tilted its head.

  Matthew screamed.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  He sprinted toward the basement door.

  His foot caught the top step.

  Time slowed.

  “Oh,” Matthew said.

  Then gravity took over.

  He tumbled down the staircase in a violent cascade of thuds before finally landing at the bottom with a loud crack.

  Silence filled the house again.

  Upstairs, the masked figure approached the stairwell.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  They looked down.

  Matthew Lillard lay motionless.

  The masked figure stared for a moment.

  Then tilted its head.

  “…fuck.”

  The figure stood there another second.

  Then shrugged.

  They turned.

  Walked calmly out the front door.

  The house door swung shut behind them.

  The television continued playing in the empty living room.

  Stu Macher laughed on screen.