Horror Classics Reimagined

The faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the air as officers bustled through the police headquarters. Papers shuffled, phones rang, and tension hung thick over the room. At the center of it all was a file—Jake Miller's file.

Detective Marlowe sat at his desk, staring at the open folder with bloodshot eyes. He reached for his coffee cup with one hand while flipping through the gruesome photos with the other.

"I don't know how anyone could do this," muttered Officer Reynolds as he glanced over Marlowe's shoulder.

The images spoke volumes—Jake's body was found slumped over the bar, his chest split open. Deep gashes carved across his abdomen revealed the brutal, almost surgical precision of the attack. Blood spattered the walls, pooling on the floor in a crimson lake.

Marlowe pushed one photo aside, revealing a heavily redacted autopsy report. Entire sections of text were blacked out with thick lines, a grim reminder that even law enforcement had limits to what they could stomach.

"The cleanup crew said two of their guys had to leave mid-shift," Reynolds added. "And those are guys who've seen it all."

Marlowe exhaled through his nose, closing the folder with a snap. "This isn't just a murder," he said quietly. "This is a goddamn message."

Before either man could say more, a sharp knock interrupted them. A woman, her face pale and tear-streaked, stood in the doorway. Jake's mother.

"I just need to know," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Did he...did he suffer?"

Marlowe hesitated, then stood and guided her away from the office. "Ma'am, why don't we talk in private?" His words were kind, but his expression betrayed the weight of the truth he couldn't share.

---

A few blocks away, the streets were alive with chaos.

Protesters swarmed the entrance of a local Halloween shop, their chants echoing through the crisp autumn air. Signs bearing slogans like "Respect the Dead" and "Ban Ghostface!" bobbed above the crowd.

Inside, employees tried to keep business as usual, but the tension outside bled into their work. Customers, mostly kids and teens, shuffled nervously through aisles stocked with cheap masks, fake blood, and plastic knives.

On the edge of the scene, a uniformed officer leaned casually against his patrol car. His aviator sunglasses reflected the commotion, but he made no move to intervene.

Mia and her friends, Ryan and Elise, watched from across the street.

"This is insane," Elise muttered, pulling her jacket tighter against the cool breeze. "All this over a costume?"

"It's not just a costume," Ryan replied, adjusting his glasses. "It's, like, a symbol of—of horror or something."

Mia rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. People are just looking for something to be mad about. If it wasn't Ghostface, it'd be the zombie costumes or those fake severed heads."

Ryan furrowed his brow. "You know, in horror movies, the mob never does anything useful. They just run around screaming and get picked off one by one."

Elise snorted. "Yeah, thanks for the film analysis, Roger Ebert."

"Actually, it's Gene Siskel," came a voice from behind them.

They turned to see the officer by the car. He hadn't moved from his spot but was now watching them with an amused expression.

Ryan frowned. "What?"

The officer smirked. "You said Roger Ebert. He was the one with the glasses. Gene Siskel was the bald one."

Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond.

Mia raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously correcting him about movie critics right now?"

"Just keeping things accurate," the officer replied, pushing off the car and stretching. He tipped his hat slightly, his gaze lingering on the trio for a moment longer than necessary.

As he walked off, Elise muttered, "What a weirdo."

Ryan adjusted his backpack. "Weirdo or not, he's right. Ebert did wear glasses."

"Shut up, Ryan," Mia said with a grin as they continued walking.

---

Back at The Rusty Spigot, the bar stood eerily quiet, police tape fluttering in the breeze. Behind the counter, the faint smell of bleach barely masked the lingering metallic tang of blood.

In the shadows, a figure stood, the faint outline of a Ghostface mask catching the dim light from a streetlamp outside.

The figure reached up, pressing a button on the side of their mask. A phone chimed, the line connecting with an audible click.

"Don't you just love the classics?" the voice purred, crackling through the device. "A quiet town. A quiet bar. And a body that just won't stay quiet."

They chuckled softly, the sound echoing faintly, as if still passing through a phone.

Then they disappeared into the night.