The dim, dark red light illuminates from Taylor's hair as she stands at the long metal table centered in the middle of the darkroom. On the wire just inches in front of her face there are several freshly developed photographs spaced out and clipped onto the line. They are all from the night of Kris' last performance at the Lager Lounge.

Three rectangular tubs filled with photographic fluid are lined up on the table and, as she peers down to watch the blank sheets slowly fade to life, she pulls her hair back into a loose ponytail. She thrusts her head to the right to sweep her bangs out of her eyes as she slowly dips her fingers into the nearest container to carefully pull out a seemingly finished picture she had snapped when she was standing on stage.

Carefully examining it, her eyes shift left-to-right as she scans every face in the crowd. She sighs, reaching over to clip it onto the line next to the others. Still no sign of Garrett... But she saw him there that night. She knows she did. And if he's still out there, even if he's not the lunatic killing people, maybe he could point the police in the right direction and Morgan can be released.

She glances over at the other two tubs, seeing that the photographs in them are still in the process of developing. Her phone rings from her bedroom, the sound barely audible through the cracked door. Snatching up a nearby hand towel from the table, she quickly dries her hands before turning to walk out of the room and cracks the door back shut behind her. She barely reaches her phone just before it goes to voicemail and, seeing Casey's smiling face lit up on the screen, slides her thumb across the green arrow to answer the call.

"Hey. Long time no talk." Taylor says with a smile on her face, hoping her sarcasm can tone down Casey's already-expected concern.

"I know, right?" Casey takes a deep breath, as if worried for a moment that Taylor wasn't going to pick up. "How are you holding up?"

Taylor pulls her phone back to check the time. "Well, it's almost been two hours. So about the same."

"Sorry. It really hasn't been that long, I know. I'm just worried for you."

"I'm fine, Casey. Really."

"Alright." Casey says, not buying it. "Are you sure you don't want any company tonight? At least until your parents get home? Riley had to drop by his house to grab something but when he returns we can head back over there."

Attempting to brighten the mood, Taylor forces a laugh. "Casey, I love you. But you're smothering me to death right now. Like I said, I think I just need some time to think about things and clear my mind."

She doesn't respond. Taylor pushes the speaker closer to her ear. "Case?"

"Are you breaking up with me?" Casey says playfully.

Nodding, Taylor smiles as she walks up to the window to look into her front yard. This time it's genuine. "It's not you, it's me."

"Alright, alright." Casey giggles from the other end. "I'll let ya go. Call me if you need anything."

"Will do. Goodnight." Taylor says, her smile fading as she catches her own reflection in the glass. She's disgusted by this person she's become since all of this started. Since the night of the accident. With all of this constant lying and deceit, she hardly recognizes herself anymore.

"Night."

The screen flashes black as the call ends and Taylor, still staring at herself, sets the phone down on her nearby dresser. She takes a deep breath before turning around to leave the room. She walks down the narrow hallway and turns to enter the darkroom, not noticing the door is now wide open. She cracks it back shut once again, ensuring little light from the dim lit hall enters the room.

She approaches the desk, looking down at the tubs to check on the photos. In the first container, the picture is fully developed and still submerged in the fluid. The second tub, however, appears empty. She shakes her head as she pulls it over to her and dips her fingers inside, insuring that nothing is there. She could have sworn she had left two pictures to develop. Her eyes gaze up as she looks at the photos hanging past her. "What the—"

Stunned, she sees an extra print clipped to the line in front of her, one that wasn't there just minutes ago. She leans in to peer at it, seeing that the photographic fluid is still dripping from the edges of the page.

It was taken from the corner of the stage at a different angle than the others, and she remembers the moment she snapped this picture vividly as if it had just happened. It was right before she nearly stumbled off of the stage, right after she saw...

Garrett. Her eyes widen as she leans further in, his face barely visible underneath the high contrast of the black hood draped over his head. Her jaw drops as her trembling hands reach to graze against the bottom of the photo.

"Oh my God..." Taylor plucks the picture from the clip to reveal a pale white mask, not even an arm length's away, facing her from the other side of the table. Dark brown eyes peer through it, the reflection of the red light above giving them a crimson glare.

Speechless, her body locks up as she stares into his widening eyes, the expressionless mask tilting as if he is waiting for her to move or make a sound.

She screams and hurriedly backs up, just as he suddenly reaches down to clench onto the edges of the table and flips it over. She falls to the ground along with the tubs and a few other equipment, the sharp edge of the heavy table pinning her to the floor as it leans against her thighs with all its pressure. A coldness oozes through her palms and she looks down to see the spilt photographic fluid spreading into a puddle around her.

Still screaming, she continues to struggle out from underneath the table as the killer, gripping his knife tightly at his side, walks around it to approach her. He looks down at her and watches her squirm helplessly, slowly lifting the knife in the air.

Taylor grunts, trying to push the table up as he swings the knife at her neck. She pulls her head back and blocks the attack with her right hand, the long blade digging through her palm as easily as if it were slicing through a stick of butter. She screams, more shocked by the tip of the blade wiggling from the backside of her hand than at the agonizing pain, and the killer twists the handle of the knife as he pulls it out.

"Fuck!" She screams, grabbing onto her palm as blood drips to the floor, diluting into the puddle of fluid surrounding her.

Without hesitation, he lunges for her again and she grabs one of the empty tubs up from the floor, swinging it as hard as she can into his left kneecap. He slips on the liquid beneath his boots and tumbles to the ground, the knife dropping from his hand.

She tries again to push up the table, having even less luck than before with her bleeding hand, and feels the excruciating pain shoot up from her palm to the nerves in her upper arm. She looks over to see him lying motionless on his back, maybe a foot or so away, and glances at the knife lying next to him on the floor.

Reaching out, she attempts to grab the knife's handle. Her fingers miss it by a few inches.

"Come on." She mumbles, trying again. Her fingers slightly brush against the metal pommel but not enough to get a decent grip. Seeing movement out of the corner of her eye, she looks over to see the killer's leg twitch as he wakes.

"Shit!" She screams louder, turning back to push at the desk again. "Come on, goddamnit!"

The man sits up and touches at his mask, as if to ensure it hadn't fallen off in the scuffle, and pulls the strings from his hood to make it a tighter fit. He glances over to see her struggling with the table and turns to reach for his knife.

Trying her best to ignore the pain, she lifts up on the edge of the table and slowly slides her legs out from underneath it just as the killer stands up. He steps toward her, swinging the blade down again but this time aiming at her leg. It barely misses as she crawls backwards and to her feet, the knife digging into one of the planks on the hardwood floor.

She runs around him and to the door when he turns, swinging wildly again and slicing her in the back of her upper thigh. Almost stumbling back to the floor, she catches herself on the doorframe and groans. She grabs the door handle and yanks it open, stumbling into the hallway as the soaked soles of her shoes nearly cause her to slip.

Clasping onto her hand, Taylor limps through the living room and to the front door, grabbing at the chain as she starts to unlock it. She glances behind her as she twists the top lock and turns the handle, just as the killer comes swinging the knife toward her shoulder. She dodges, the knife digging into the door and slamming it back shut, and she bolts past him toward the short hallway that leads to the kitchen.

Grunting, the killer digs the knife out from the door and turns around. He pants heavily as he slinks down the hall to enter through the small archway into the kitchen. His wide eyes immediately gaze to the open patio door, a soft breeze from outside sending its thin drapes blowing inwards.

Nearly a foot away, Taylor peeks through the narrow crack from behind a door as she holds her breath. She turns around, glancing at the wooden staircase below her that leads further down into the basement. One can see through the back of each step on the open staircase. In her free hand, she holds a large kitchen knife she had taken from the sink.

His boots squeaking with each step, the killer walks toward the back door. She takes a soft breath of relief, seeing that he's falling for it.

Without hesitation, he clenches onto the side of the door and aggressively swings it shut. The glass rattles from its wooden frame.

Gasping, she covers her mouth with her trembling hand. Blood slowly oozes down to her elbow and drips to the steps beneath her.

The killer scans the kitchen, his pale mask slowly turning at an angle as he examines each door and possible exit. He spots the pantry door and steps over to it, yanking it open. Seeing nothing inside but shelves full of food and cleaning supplies, he turns to the basement door. As he slowly approaches it, he notices blood dripping from the bronze handle and his steps grow faster. He clasps onto the handle and swings the door open, revealing nothing but stairs and a small trail of fresh blood leading down them.

He walks down the wooden stairs, each step creaking under his weight. As he reaches halfway, his foot lands in front of Taylor's face as she hides underneath the staircase. She reaches from the opening to grab his ankle tightly with one hand and, with her other, she uses the kitchen knife to stab him in his right shin.

With the knife still dug halfway through his lower leg, he tumbles down to the bottom of the staircase, hitting the concrete floor with an echoing thud.

Taylor jumps out from behind a stack of boxes and wraps around the staircase, about to run back up it, when she hears a faint groan from underneath the mask. He clenches onto the wooden railing and pulls himself upward as he looks down at the knife deeply embedded into his skin.

Panicking, she turns to look for another way out and spots a thin basement window above a cluttered desk near the far wall. She limps toward it, cutting through the junk they have scattered throughout the messy basement, and pushes all of the dusty boxes off of it before climbing onto the tabletop. Using her left palm, she brushes at the dust on the window to see that it is made of acrylic blocks. She bangs on it with both hands, screaming loudly. "Help me! Somebody help!"

From outside, the muffled screams can barely be heard through the thick glass that's leveled with the ground.

The killer pulls the knife out of his shin and chunks the bloody blade off to the side. His eyes twitch as he looks over at Taylor.

"HELP!" She screams again, pulling away from the window as she looks around the desk for something sturdy and strong enough to break through the glass. Leaning against the table are a few rusted pipes and she snatches one up from the ground.

She turns back to the window and swings the pipe into the glass, sending a small crack splitting through one of the middle tiles. She swings again, the crack widening and the glass blocks push inwards.

The killer stands up straight and pops his neck. Paying no attention to his bleeding leg, her charges in her direction.

Screaming, she swings again, this time sending glass spraying into the yard. She sticks the pipe halfway out the window and runs it along the thin edges to break out the loose pieces of broken glass. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turns to see the masked man reaching out, his hunting knife swaying in the air, just a couple feet away.

"Screw you!" She pulls the pipe back through and swings it at him, knocking him to the ground. She throws it at his chest before turning back to the window.

Taylor clenches onto the window frame to pull herself up, ignoring the small shards of glass digging into her palms. She reaches further out to dig into the ground, the grass and soil beneath her fingernails a beautiful feeling, as she pulls her body through the window.

Almost completely through, a hand suddenly clenches onto her right ankle. The killer pulls her back and she clasps onto the outside wall of the house, blindly kicking her legs as she screams frantically.

She manages to slip through his grip and pulls herself further outwards before rolling onto her back, looking down to see the mask peering at her through the small opening. She kicks him with her foot and he falls off of the table and back to the concrete floor.

She gazes around the backyard as she pulls herself up to her feet, unsure of which direction to go. She scales the wall of the back of her house as she limps toward the right. She stares at the back patio door, part of her expecting the killer to bust through any second, as she passes it and cuts around the corner of her house to the chain link fence separating her back yard from her front.

Peering behind her as she opens the gate, she clenches back onto her palm as she runs forward—stumbling into someone's open arms. Screaming, she swings both fists as she attempts to pull herself back. The person grabs her arms and holds them down.

"Taylor?!"

Taking a deep breath, she looks up at the blurred figure. Her eyes finally adjust to reveal Marc, distraught and beyond worried.

"Are you okay?! I heard screaming..." He asks, his eyes gazing down at the blood still dripping from her wounded palm. He reaches for her. "Holy shit. What happened?!"

Still in a state of shock, she quickly pulls back and bumps into the fence behind her. "The killer..."

"I'll call the cops. We have to go!" Marc pulls out his phone with one hand and reaches for her again with the other.

A nauseating feeling overcomes her as the adrenaline in her system wears off. She lets go of her cold hand, watching as the blood continues to seep down her wrist and to her elbow. Her face turns ghostly white, nearly as pale as the mask on the lunatic that was chasing her. Her vision seems distorted, everything around her a hazy blur swarming in with the night sky. Like a developing photograph in reverse, what was once a clear image fades into nothing but a glossy blank page as her eyes close. She slides down the chain link fence, her limp body tumbling to the ground.

"TAYLOR!"

♫ ᴛᴀɢ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɪᴛ / ᴍᴇʟᴀɴɪᴇ ᴍᴀʀᴛɪɴᴇᴢ ♫