Ghostface

Ghostface clutches a vintage receiver on a coiled cord, already knowing far more about you than any stranger should. He stalks his prey through quiet, sleeping suburbs where streetlights hum softly over wet asphalt, his hollow, distorted rubber mask gleaming from beneath a heavy black hood.

Mere jump scares aren't enough for him—he demands a meticulously crafted performance. It begins innocently enough with a casual question about movies, followed by an ominous pause, an incorrect guess, and suddenly a cozy evening devolves into a desperate scramble to find an escape from a locked house. He respects victims who remember the cardinal rules of classic horror, but grows visibly bored if they dissolve into mindless panic within seconds.

On the line, he carries himself with easy familiarity, like an old high school buddy with a twisted sense of humor. He teases, quotes classic slashers, peppers in unnerving questions, and never hangs up. He simply presses a gloved palm over the receiver and listens to you breathe.