Two weeks later, the world was quieter.
At least on the surface.
The news cycle had done what it always did when confronted with something too ugly to fully understand: it talked about it relentlessly until the shock became routine.
Now the story had a name.
The Hollywood Massacre.
The words appeared in headlines, on television crawlers, in think pieces, podcasts, and late-night monologues. Reporters used the phrase with the same strange mixture of fascination and dread that people had used for decades when discussing the real tragedies that inspired horror movies in the first place.
Emma Roberts’ house had become a crime scene.
Yellow tape.
Satellite trucks.
Endless speculation.
And one missing suspect.
The killer now had a name too.
Scream-Face.
The media loved that.
It sounded theatrical.
It sounded cinematic.
It sounded like something that belonged in a movie instead of the real world.
Inside a quiet Los Angeles apartment several miles away, Isabel May sat alone on the couch.
The television droned softly across the room.
Blue light flickered across her face as the evening news played footage she had already seen far too many times.
Police cars parked outside Emma’s house.
Investigators moving in and out of the front door.
Cameras flashing.
Reporters speaking into microphones with practiced seriousness.
The lower third graphic read:
HOLLYWOOD MASSACRE INVESTIGATION CONTINUES
Isabel didn’t move.
She watched the footage with the distant focus of someone who had spent the last fourteen days replaying the same night over and over again in her mind.
Every moment.
Every scream.
Every decision.
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Sleep had been difficult since then.
When she did manage it, the dreams always followed the same pattern.
She would be back in the living room.
The bodies would still be there.
And the mask would slowly lift again.
The television anchor’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“Authorities are continuing their search for the individual responsible for the killings at the home of actress Emma Roberts.”
The screen shifted to a series of photographs.
Faces.
Smiling.
Alive.
Emma.
Rory.
Mikey.
Timothy.
Skeet.
Each image lingered on the screen for just long enough to remind viewers that the people behind the headlines had once been laughing in photographs taken before the night went wrong.
The anchor continued.
“Several surviving cast members have declined further comment while the investigation remains active.”
Isabel leaned forward slightly and picked up the remote.
Her thumb hovered over the power button for a moment.
Then she pressed it.
The television screen went dark.
The sudden silence filled the room.
Without the background noise, the apartment felt larger.
Too large.
Too empty.
Isabel leaned back against the couch cushions and closed her eyes for a moment.
Her body felt tired in a way that sleep hadn’t been able to fix.
Interviews with police.
Follow-up statements.
Lawyers.
Producers.
People asking the same questions in slightly different tones.
“What did you see?”
“Did you notice anything strange?”
“Did Neve say anything before the attack?”
“Do you believe she planned the killings?”
She had answered every question honestly.
Which was to say—
she had answered them the only way anyone could.
“I don’t know.”
Because the truth was that none of them understood what had happened that night.
Not really.
They knew the facts.
They knew the bodies.
They knew the mask.
But understanding something like that required a different kind of clarity.
The kind that only came when the killer explained themselves.
And Neve had explained just enough to make everything worse.
Isabel opened her eyes again.
The apartment was dim now.
Evening light filtered through the blinds in thin horizontal stripes across the walls.
Her phone rested on the coffee table in front of her.
For the last two weeks it had been ringing constantly.
Reporters.
Friends.
People she barely remembered meeting.
Everyone wanted to talk about the massacre.
Tonight it had finally been quiet.
For the first time in days.
The silence lasted another thirty seconds.
Then the phone rang.
Isabel flinched.
The sudden sound felt louder than it should have in the quiet room.
She stared at the screen.
Unknown Number.
Her first instinct was to ignore it.
She had ignored plenty of calls lately.
But something about the moment felt strange.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Slowly, she reached forward and picked up the phone.
The screen continued to glow with the unknown number.
Her thumb hovered over the answer button.
Then she pressed it.
“…Hello?”
For a moment there was nothing but static.
A faint crackling sound.
Like a bad radio signal.
Isabel frowned slightly.
“Hello?”
The static shifted.
And then—
A voice whispered through the speaker.
Low.
Distorted.
Familiar.
“What’s the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?”
Every muscle in Isabel’s body went rigid.
Her blood turned cold.
Because even through the distortion—
she recognized the voice.
Not Neve’s voice exactly.
But the voice that had called horror victims for decades.
The voice that always came before the knife.
Isabel opened her mouth to speak.
No sound came out.
The line went dead.
The call ended with a soft electronic click.
Isabel slowly lowered the phone.
Her hand trembled slightly now.
The room around her felt different.
Smaller.
Closer.
She glanced toward the dark television screen.
Toward the window.
Toward the hallway leading deeper into the apartment.
The silence had returned.
But now it felt heavier.
More deliberate.
Somewhere out there—
Scream-Face was still alive.
Still watching.
And the story wasn’t finished yet.
Isabel sat very still on the couch.
The phone resting loosely in her hand.
Waiting.
Listening.
Because after everything she had seen that night—
she knew one thing for certain.
In horror stories like this…
The sequel was always coming.
THE END?!
