THE FIRST TIME it happened,  she was seven years old.

It's hard to forget when that first shred of innocence dies.  When the world hunts down what light a child has held on to and pierces it without mercy.  Even when it feels like life boils down to one trauma after another,  that first one remains the open wound that created a gateway for nightmares to form.   For Ellie-Marie,  that moment was when her little hand clutched the phone in 2011 and whispered a soft hello.

She'd trusted the world unflinchingly back then.  Everything outside of Woodsboro was still new and inviting, every new person a chance for friendship.   Ghosts were for stories and pain would be fixed with a band-aid paired with a glass of chocolate milk.  So when Charlie Walker used that voice modulator to ask what her favorite scary movie was,  she didn't think back to how her parents sometimes needed her in their room rather than the other way around.  She didn't think of how Daddy's eyes got wet when she'd laugh a certain way,  didn't think of how Momma showed her the best hiding spots in a way far too serious for their game of hide-and-seek or how auntie Abi would always hold her hand when the phone rang.  To her,  the question was silly.  Daddy says I'm too little for scary movies.

The next question was paired with a chuckle.  She was trembling then,  standing in her rainbow pajamas with her teddy still clutched in one arm.   Maddie,  her babysitter,  wouldn't scare her like this.  Maddie would be annoyed at the silly questions and weird voice.  Maddie would have made it go away,  but Ellie couldn't.

He asked if she wanted to play a game.  I don't play games with strangers.

Then a gloved hand covered her eyes and told her to guess who.

She couldn't.

THE HOLDING ROOM is cold.  Silent enough to be deadly,  reminiscent enough of when Dad was sheriff back home that it could be the same if she focuses on memories.  It's easy for the past to find her when she has nothing to hold her down,  no phone,  no music,  no friends.   Ghosts whisper in her ear like corpses settling in their coffins.   Her sides ache in the memories of knives carving,  etching wounds in her abdomen like a tombstone.  She's played with death before.  The last two times a maniac grabbed a mask and a knife were times destined to age with her body.

She can't help but wonder what wounds this one will bring,  and if they'll be her last.

The door opening is a welcome shift in atmosphere.  Ellie can feel the dryness of her eyes as she forces her focus to Detective Bailey,  hands still clenching around the sleeves of her shirt.

"Is Bella okay?"

He hasn't had a chance to shut the door before she's presented her first question.   It's been on her mind between the screams of the past and flashes of the potential future,  desperation for one of her best friends to be left out of this like she knows the rest won't be.

"I'm sorry?"  He asks, taking the seat across from her.

"Is Bella okay?  Bella Kinley,  she's my neighbor.  Red hair,  superduper sweet,  makes some of the best cookies in the entire world.  She's okay,  right?"

He takes a second too long to answer.  Her leg begins to bounce beneath the table despite her eyes never leaving his face,  searching for the answer she's desperate for.   "Please.  Please tell me she's okay."

"Ms. Kinley is fine."   The relief must show on her face because he offers a kind smile,  reassuring in a way that suggests he's felt that same fear before.  "We have her in another room right now.  She's a little shaken up,  but we've already concluded she'll be alright."

Despite how she feels a little less likely to puke Ellie still finds herself shaky,  squeezing her nails to her palms.   "And Sir Purrington?"

"Who?"

"My cat."   She can tell he wants to laugh.  In another situation she would encourage it,  maybe pairing it with a playful warning to respect Sir Purrington's position of power,  but she's not in her usual joking mood.   "He's like,  twenty pounds of fur and ten pounds of chub.  Easily the cutest cat in the world.  Screams at the front door whenever I leave,  you probably heard him while you were there unless something happened and if something happened then-"

"Your cat is fine,  Ms. Riley.  Your apartment didn't seem to be broken into-and now that you mention it,  I knew I heard a cat."   If he could be a little less amused then that would be great.   She knows how silly her attachment seems to certain audiences,  but come on.  This was total potential for some Urban Legend shit.  Nevertheless the confirmation is enough to soothe her immediate fears,  shoulders slacking as she leans back in her seat.   Everything's good,  then.  Maybe she was overreacting.  Maybe it was Jason and Greg again, always doing something that makes Mrs. Girabellie call to apologize for renting out to them.  Maybe no one did anything,  maybe it was all one big misunderstanding.

Or maybe she's not digging enough.

"Is it Jason and Greg?  They're my neighbors on the other side,  they can be kinda...strange,  sometimes."  Her words are slow and deliberate,  hope edging itself in despite how her gut warns against it.   "Did they do something?"

Detective Bailey lets out a sigh she knows all too well.  No amount of preparation can keep her chin from crumpling against the news,  barely resisting the urge to burst into tears while he searches for words.   "Are they okay?  Please tell me they're okay."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

It feels like a blow has been dealt to her chest.  Squeezing her eyes shut Ellie-Marie leans forward,  pressing her palms against them in an effort to suppress the tears she can't bring herself to otherwise fight.  Life was meant to be different here.  That's part of why she's stayed for eight years,  away from Dad,  Abi,  Buffy,  and Tara eight months of the year.  This was supposed to be safe.  Now two people are dead and the beginning of something awful gnaws like a dog at the bone of her fear.

"May I ask how?"  Her voice is small, meek with a grief that feels ancient.   "Just-  they didn't suffer,  did they?  Not for long?"

"I can't answer that, Ms. Riley-"

"Ellie,"  she interjects,  lifting her reddened face from her hands.   "sorry.  Please call me Ellie,  everyone does."

"-Ellie,"  he corrects,  lips quirking briefly.   "as details of an ongoing case are meant to remain confidential.  Besides,  your involvement in this case unfortunately runs deeper."

She doesn't get a chance to be confused before he's sliding a folder across the metal table,  one hand rubbing at her damp eyes before opening it.

What greets her is a fresh horror.

A scene recognizable to any horror aficionado or a resident of Woodsboro stares up at her.  The story everyone knows,  the one that still makes her shiver when she drives past that tree every summer,  is drawn on this paper in its full horrific glory.   There's only one difference she can spot,  jarring enough for her to snap the folder shut.

"That's not Casey,"  she breathes.  "that's not- that's me."

Grim confirmation is written across his face as he leans forward,  pulling the folder back like that'll retract the horror settling bone-deep.  The steady pounding of her heart amps until it's all Ellie-Marie can hear,  drowning out the drone of the air conditioner and the shakiness of her breathing.  Don't cry.  Don't cry.  People are gonna need her once she's released.  She can freak out later. Not now.

"-on the counter under his bag.  It appears as though he-"

"I'm sorry,"  Ellie interrupts,  trying  (and failing)  to keep her voice steady.   "I'm sorry,  I-I missed some of that.  What'd you say?"

The smile she receives in response is sympathetic enough to take minimal comfort in,  biting the inside of her lip until the bitter taste of iron pricks her mouth.  She has to focus.

"Unfortunately for their families it appears that neither Jason nor Greg were faultless.  We found these...drawings,"  snuff art.  "under a bag identified as Jason's.  What we have currently suggests they were planning to make you their second victim."

"Second?"

"Laura Crane,"  a name she only recognizes because of assignments Buffy mentions,  "was found murdered this evening as well.  There were drawn plans for her death left in Jason's bedroom."

The weight of the situation makes the world feel no heavier than a feather.  They were killers.  Her neighbors,  people she didn't necessarily like but certainly didn't want dead,  were killers.  An innocent woman is dead because of them,  she was next on that list,  and then who?  Their friends?  They went to the same college as her group,  what about them?

Even more pressing: was the person who killed them in on it?

"Do you know?"  She whispers without intending to,  deciding that laser focusing on Detective Bailey is a better alternative to staring down that folder.   "Who did it.  Do you have any leads at all?"

"Unfortunately not.  What we do have is this."

It takes a moment for him to grab the photo from the apparent stack she'd rejected in the folder,  not even fully sliding it across for her to see the mask that's become synonymous with death.

"Do you recognize this,  Ellie?"

Like she could ever forget.

IT FEELS LIKE an eternity before Detective Bailey finally walks out of the room.

Placing her in protective hold was the initial option presented to her.   Whoever this new Ghostface was,  they obviously had plans far grander than the simple gutting-and-hanging that Jason and Greg dreamt up.   It would only make sense to place her out of harm's way when it's become evident she's got a target the size of Texas on her back,  but she can't accept that. 

"My friends,"   she reminded him then,  "if i'm in danger,  my friends are too.  Everyone is."

That everyone also happens to include her mother and her cousin, Lou.  Those two are factors she couldn't bring herself to accept in the moment,  though the silence of the room now confronts her with the bloody truth of it all.   She'd been assured that they were calling Mom now- regardless of it nearing two in the morning as of God-knows how long ago-  and she was left with the realization from her nightmares.

She's a brave girl.  That's what Deputy Hicks said to her twelve years ago,  putting her effort into reassuring Ellie-Marie despite being hurt herself.   She's a brave girl.  Everyone believes it now,  seeing a survivor in place of the seven year old she still feels like in her darkest moments.  She's a brave girl.  Only Tara has been present enough on the darkest nights to understand how the screams of years past tear from her throat.  Only Tara has been the recipient of how fiercely Ellie clings afterwards,  arms looped around her sides,  face tucked in the warm crevice between her shoulder and neck.   To others she has remained a night owl,  but Tara must know that she's the furthest from brave at this point.

Another factor.  Tara.

She's probably pissed,  isn't she?   If she's sobered up enough since the party,  she's probably pissed at everyone.  Rightfully so,  yes,  but it still hurts to realize.  She could have died tonight and Tara would be angry at her,  angry at her well-intended betrayal of trust,  and there would have been nothing she could have done about it.

Yet the reality is still somehow worse.

Tara could die.  Buffy could die.  Mom,  Lou,  Rory,  Bella,  Sam,  Anika,  Mindy,  Chad.   No one lacks that target dangling over their head now,  the title of survivor worn like a badge none of them ever wanted to achieve.   This is beyond her.  This is beyond the execution planned,  beyond the stupid frat party,  beyond any words she may have let go unsaid had she made it back a little sooner.  Death has always hung over her like a shroud,  the blood-soaked memory of Maddie Reed staining her shoulders and ruining how innocent people believe her to be,  and it's back now like a mockery.  She thought it was over.  She thought that,  after almost losing her family,  she wouldn't go through this again.

Naïve.  That's what she was.

The table is still cold as she runs her palms over the top,  dragging with the mixture of sweat and beads of blood that blossomed from digging her nails into her skin.  She wants her people.  Her parents,  Abi,  Lou,  her friends.  She wants her people,  but being around her may put them in more danger than not.   There's no need in calling Dad and Abi from Woodsboro when they're finally safe,  no need in making her friends come to her when they've probably already been alerted and shouldn't leave where they're safest.   Hell,  Sam is probably taking Tara and getting out of New York as she sits here.  It'd be for the better if she did.

"I'm sorry."  Ellie whispers into the empty room,  the tears welling behind her eyes finally breaking the dam that death built by hand.

COMMOTION IS EVENTUALLY what wakes her up.

Falling asleep wasn't even on the agenda.  Ellie has no clue how much time had passed since her mini-breakdown led to slipping into slumber on her arms,  but it's the sound of fierce yelling outside the door that jolts her to awareness in moments.

"-my best friend, numbnuts!  You can't keep me away from her!"

Buffy.

Relief pools in her chest despite how her prior reservations come to mind once more,  already moving to rise to her feet when the door opens and an exhausted cop makes himself known.

"Thank you."  Ellie offers as she passes,  barely making it three steps into the hall before arms are around her and the familiar smell of Buffy Meeks-Macher surrounds her.

"I came as soon as I heard."  Buffy rushes out the words like they've been bursting at the seams to escape,  barely pulling back for the once over experience has gotten them in the habit of.  Her eyes narrow briefly at the sight of the scratch along Ellie's forehead,  the blood having been hurriedly wiped away with a brief explanation in the cop car.  It's not a good look,  she knows,  but that's not why Buffy is eyeballing it.   "What happened?"

"Frat party,"  the memory of which feels exceptionally tame after everything,   "Frankie was being Frankie."

"So you busted his ass."  Her lips pucker in approval in a half-hearted attempt to make Ellie smile,  giving a fleeting grin in response when it works.  "'Atta girl.  Are you okay,  though?"

"I'm-"

"Seriously,  Els."   Buffy's face softens then,  eyes darting around to ensure no eavesdroppers before she continues.   "None of that 'fine' crap.  I heard your neighbors were planning some fucked up shit,  no one expects you to be fine."

"-fine."  Ellie finishes regardless,  keeping that smile in a desperate reach for reassurance.   "I promise.  I mean,  I feel kinda sick because I saw myself gutted like a fish,  but I'm fine.  Are you okay?"

A flash of something indiscernible flashes across Buffy's face.  Before Ellie can read it,  though,  she hears another call she knows like the back of her hand.

"Ellie!"

When Tara takes Buffy's place it isn't without her friend shooting a knowing smirk her way,  scooting aside to allow Tara full access.   Her hands latch around Ellie's forearms while her eyes,  bright and focused in contrast to mere hours before,  scan her up and down much like Buffy had.   "Thank fuck,"  she breathes when she's seemingly satisfied,  pulling Ellie into her arms.   "Jesus fuckin' Christ,  El.  You scared the shit outta me."

"Sorry."  For once this apology isn't serious, given with an air of levity that makes Tara let out a broken chuckle.  "I also scared the shit outta me,  if that helps any."

"It doesn't."  One soft squeeze is given by Tara before she steps back,  slipping one hand from Ellie's arm to her hand.   "Your mom's stressed the fuck out,  too.  Even Lou is...well, I think she's stressed.  As stressed as she gets."

"Is she tapping her foot?"

"Yeah."

The grimace offered in response makes Tara smile one more time,  a weight lifting from her shoulders before she remembers why it was there to begin with.  Over Tara's shoulder she locks eyes with Buffy,  conveying a message that needs no words.  I need a second.

Buffy,  like the heaven-sent best friend she is,  lifts her phone in silent understanding before clearing her throat.  "I've gotta call my dad.  It shouldn't take long,  but the whole emergency flight thing means I get to play navigator."

The mention of an emergency flight redirects Ellie's attention in a moment,  a question forming on the tip of her tongue before Buffy arches her eyebrows in the least-chill way she has ever seen.  Right.  The Get-Together-For-Fuck's-Sake mission that Buffy has embarked upon isn't easy to distract her from,  even with dire questions. 
True sisterhood.

But when she turns on her heel and walks away with her phone to her ear,  Ellie feels the amusement drain.

"I'm sorry about earlier."  she starts,  barely able to complete the scrap of a thought before Tara is shaking her head.

"Nuh-uh.  No,  Els,  you don't have to.  I don't want you to."   Where their fingers intertwine Tara squeezes once,  words firm.   "You kept me from doing something I'd regret."

"I kept Frankie from taking advantage of you."  It's a small correction that feels important for reasons Ellie cannot name,  swallowing down her fear with an assurance.  "That's different.  If I knew-  I mean,  if I knew you wanted to go when you weren't totally wasted,  I wouldn't have gotten in the way of your night."

"I'm glad you did."   Tara's voice is sweet now,  quiet in that sweet way that makes butterflies swarm in Ellie's stomach.   "I didn't want to.  Don't apologize for looking out for me,  okay?   You do it better than anyone else."

Seven words.  Seven words make the apologies die on Ellie's lips,  smile curving in lieu of remorse.  For a moment this is enough,  a soft beginning after a night of memories.  For a moment she can pretend.

That's the thing about moments,  though.  They're over before they really even begin.