ㅤㅤㅤㅤIt was getting late.
The party had thinned out, the couch looking more spacious than it had an hour ago. A few stragglers mumbled excuses about curfew or parents waiting outside as they slipped through the open front door. The sounds of horror movie screams and cheap music blended together, muffled and crackling through the speakers.
Stitch stood near the stairwell, scanning the room. Their eyes caught on Sydney, who was headed toward the door, arm outstretched to close it. Before she could touch the knob, a figure appeared in the doorway—Billy.
Sydney jumped. Stitch flinched.
"Billy?" Sydney scolded, hand still pressed against her chest. "Jesus, you scared me."
Billy didn't even flinch. His eyes flicked from her to Stitch, holding their gaze for a second too long before returning to Syd. "Sorry. Thought I'd drop by. Talk."
Stu popped into view a second later, already grinning like an idiot. "Dude, what are you doing here?" he asked, eyes darting between Billy and Sydney.
Billy shrugged, casual. "I was hoping Sy and I could talk."
Stitch folded their arms, watching closely. "If Tatum sees you, she'll draw blood," they muttered. Their tone wasn't lighthearted. Billy wasn't welcome here, and they were trying to make that clear.
Stu, ever the peacemaker, chuckled and leaned in, clapping Billy on the back. "You guys can use my parents' room. Real quiet up there. No distractions. Just, y'know... talk."
Billy rolled his eyes and shoved Stu's shoulder lightly. "Subtlety, Stu. Look it up."
Sydney didn't seem fazed. She turned to Billy, her expression unreadable. "We do need to talk," she said quietly, then reached up and kissed Stitch on the forehead. It lingered for just a moment.
Stitch watched as she took Billy's hand and led him up the stairs, their fingers intertwined.
Not long after, Randy wandered by, muttering something about missed chances, but he didn't stick around. He slipped into the crowd just as quickly as he'd appeared.
Stu turned to Stitch, closing the door with a loud thud. "Well, now that the drama's dealt with—how about a challenge?"
Stitch arched a brow. "A challenge?"
He wiggled his brows. "A drinking game. We see how far we can get through the alphabet before we can't talk anymore."
Stitch cracked a reluctant smile. "That's the dumbest thing I've heard all night."
"Which means you're in," Stu said, dragging them toward the kitchen before they could argue.
The house felt quieter now, the chaos dwindling to background noise. In the kitchen, Stu pulled out the remaining liquor and started lining up shot glasses like a bartender trying to impress.
They played. For a while, it was nothing but laughter and slurred attempts to get from A to Z. Stitch lost somewhere around the letter Q, unable to remember if Q came before R, but Stu kept going strong, even as his words started mashing together.
"You okay?" he asked, watching them sway slightly.
Stitch nodded, gripping the counter. "Fine. Just dizzy."
Stu stepped closer, his hands finding their way to Stitch's waist as if on instinct. "You're not gonna remember any of this tomorrow."
"Good," they said, smiling tiredly. "Because this is getting embarrassing."
Stu looked at them, the grin on his face softening, becoming something quieter. "I like you, Stitch. Just... figured I should say that before things go to shit."
Stitch blinked slowly. "You already have Tatum."
"I know," Stu murmured, his voice barely audible. "That's what sucks."
They were about to say something, anything, when he leaned down and kissed them.
It was fast and clumsy—alcohol-laced and desperate. His hands didn't move. He didn't push. And for a second, Stitch let it happen.
Then the sound of something dropping echoed down the hallway. A bottle? Maybe glass?
Stitch pulled back slightly. "Did you hear—?"
But Stu grabbed their face again, more forcefully this time.
"Sorry you have to be hurt for this," he whispered, too quiet. His voice cracked with something between guilt and determination.
They didn't even have time to respond.
The pain came sudden and sharp. A deep, tearing stab right into their stomach. The blade went in clean. Stu's hand didn't tremble.
Stitch gasped, staggering back into the counter, the air ripped from their lungs. They looked down, seeing the handle of the knife, their shirt already soaking with red.
Stu stood there, breathing heavily, hand still outstretched.
They tried to say something—his name, maybe—but nothing came out. Just a wheeze.
He caught them as they fell. Held them close, letting them slump to the floor as their body gave out.
"Shh," he whispered. "It'll be over soon."
The lights overhead blurred. The kitchen seemed miles away. Their vision dimmed around the edges, and Stu's face became the last thing they saw, a shadow through the darkness.
And then—
Everything went black.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Pain was the first thing that greeted them.
Not a dull ache, but a knife-sharp throb in their skull. The taste of metal coated their tongue. Stitch's eyes blinked open slowly—light overhead, harsh and disorienting.
They were on the kitchen floor.
Their fingers twitched against something wet. Warm. Sticky.
Blood.
They sat up, gagging as the pain in their gut caught up with the rest of them. It radiated outward like a fire had been lit inside. They groaned, eyes darting around. The kitchen was empty.
But it wasn't quiet.
Somewhere deeper in the house, a floorboard creaked.
Stitch grabbed the edge of the counter and forced themselves up, legs trembling. Their shirt clung to their skin—drenched, partly from sweat, mostly from blood. They stumbled into the hall, one hand pressed to their stomach.
The living room was worse.
Randy lay slumped by the door, unmoving. His eyes open, mouth parted slightly. Blood soaked the carpet beneath him.
Stitch couldn't breathe.
They grabbed the nearest phone—Stu's landline—and with shaking hands, dialed. "N-Nine-one-one," they choked out. "Blood's everywhere. Macher house on... I don't know the street." They hung up. Their body was moving before their brain could catch up.
Outside.
Dewey's body was sprawled on the porch, unmoving. They stepped over him and staggered into the yard.
Sydney was on her knees in the grass, trembling, clothes torn and covered in blood. Stitch collapsed into her arms. Sydney held them tightly, whispering, but the words didn't land. All Stitch could hear was the ringing in their ears.
Then—footsteps.
Randy limped from the house, one hand clutching his shoulder. His face twisted in pain.
"Stitch?! Where the hell have you been?"
"I—I don't know," they stammered, looking at him with wide eyes. "I woke up in the kitchen. Blood was everywhere. It was on me, in my hair—on my hands. What the hell happened?"
Sydney sat up slowly. Stitch tried to breathe through it.
Randy knelt down beside them. "Billy and Stu lost it. Full psycho. We thought you were dead. You weren't moving when—"
Stitch's stomach lurched.
They turned and vomited into the grass. Again. And again. Nothing left but bile and the sound of their own sobbing. Sydney stroked their back, speaking gently, but it barely registered.
Sirens howled in the distance.
When the paramedics arrived, someone lifted them onto a stretcher. That's when Stitch noticed—the blood on their abdomen wasn't just random.
It was their blood.
The wound on their gut was deep. It burned with every movement. Someone said something about internal bleeding. Another about shock.
They drifted.
One voice stood out among the noise: "Sir, no one on the scene besides Tatum Riley."
The words didn't make sense.
Stitch blinked slowly as they were loaded into the ambulance. Sydney climbed in beside them, holding their hand tightly.
She talked the whole way—about Billy, about Stu, about how everything had unraveled the second the doors shut.
Stitch tried to listen, but the pain came in waves, stronger each time. Their eyes fluttered shut. Everything dimmed.
The last thing they remembered was the blood on their shirt.
Then—
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
It had almost been a year since everything happened at the Macher house. Since the night everything cracked open and spilled out. Some days it still felt close, like it had just happened. Other days, like now, it felt like the world had tried to move on without them.
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the TV in the background. Halloween was playing again—Sydney's comfort film, strangely enough. Stitch sat on the couch with their knees pulled to their chest, a large hoodie hanging off their frame. It used to belong to Stu. Too long in the sleeves, loose around the collar, but it was warm. They hadn't really let it go, even if they refused to say his name out loud. Jeans and mismatched socks completed the look—comfort over appearance.
Sydney came walking into the living room, holding a piece of paper in one hand and a backpack slung lazily over her shoulder. Her hair was cut shorter now, and she looked a little older, more tired around the eyes.
"Hey, dude," she started casually, but her voice had that underlying buzz of energy, "Want to go to college with me?"
Stitch blinked at her, the question catching them off guard. They nodded slowly, unsure if she was joking, but Sydney smiled and disappeared into the hallway again.
Stitch looked back at the screen. Laurie was running again, knife in hand, breathing heavy and terrified. The same scene they'd watched too many times, but it never got easier to sit through. Their attention drifted again, pulled away by thoughts they kept locked up most of the time.
There were rumors. There always were. That maybe Billy and Stu hadn't killed them that night because they were one of them. That they couldn't go through with it because they got attached. Maybe even obsessed. It made Stitch's skin crawl just thinking about it. People speculated too much—reading into the details, making up sick fantasies about the killers. About them. None of it felt real. None of it made sense.
They didn't believe any of it. They weren't special. They weren't attractive. They weren't the kind of person someone would become obsessed with. Certainly not a pair of sadistic murderers. The idea that they were spared because of some twisted affection made their stomach turn. It made them feel more violated than the knife wound ever had.
Sydney came running back into the room, cutting through the tension in Stitch's head. She nearly tackled them with a hug, screaming into their ear, "We're going to Woodsboro University!"
Stitch smiled in spite of themselves. The joy in Sydney's voice was infectious, grounding. They hugged her back as she jumped up and down, and the two of them chanted like children, "We're going to college! We're going to college!"
The moment was real. Light, for once.
But the thought lingered.
College was public. Crowded. Open.
Would Billy or Stu—or whatever ghost of them remained—try again? Would they risk it? No one had seen them since that night. Not officially. Some said they were dead. Others whispered about escape, conspiracies, hidden files. Stitch didn't know what to believe anymore.
The hoodie felt heavier on their shoulders all of a sudden. The idea of being around crowds, of stepping into a future they hadn't fully prepared for—it was terrifying. But they didn't say that out loud. Not now. Not while Sydney was glowing with excitement.
Instead, they forced the thoughts down and looked at the screen again. Laurie had survived. She always did. Maybe that meant something.
Maybe surviving had to count for something.