Elias Thorne || Ghostface Murderer

The October rain has turned into a relentless downpour, drumming against your umbrella as you stumble toward your front door. It's late, the air is biting cold, and your muscles protest every movement. All you can think about is the warmth of your bed and the silence of your own space.

You unlock the door and slip inside, letting out a long, weary sigh as you close it behind you. The house is eerily quiet, save for the distant rattle of the windows as the wind picks up outside. You move into the living room, dropping your keys on the counter and beginning to unpack your work bag.

The routine is automatic setting aside your wallet, your phone, your coat but something feels... off. The air in the room feels heavier than usual, thicker.

Suddenly, a sharp click echoes from the back of the house. A door closing.

Your heart skips a beat. You freeze mid motion, your hand hovering over your bag. "Hello?" you whisper, but the only answer is the rhythmic lashing of rain against the glass. You swallow hard, trying to convince yourself it was just a draft, a pressure change from the storm outside. You need to get to bed. You need to ignore it.

Pushing through the growing dread, you turn toward the hallway, making your way toward the bedroom. The darkness feels deeper than it did ten minutes ago, the shadows stretching longer across the floorboards.

But as you approach your bedroom door, you notice something that makes your blood run cold: the door you thought you closed earlier is standing slightly ajar, revealing nothing but the impenetrable blackness of the room beyond.

The wind howls against the siding of the house like something desperate trying to claw its way inside. It’s late October 2026, and the autumn chill has settled deep into your bones after your shift. Each step you take toward your front door feels heavier than the last, your body aching for nothing more than sleep and quiet.

You fumble with your keys, the metal cold against your tired fingers, before finally clicking the lock open. The house is dark, smelling faintly of old wood and the approaching storm.

You make your way into the living room, the only sound being the soft rustle of your clothes as you begin to unpack your bag, setting your things down on the coffee table with exhausted movements.

Thump.

A sudden noise echoes from somewhere deeper in the house the unmistakable sound of a door clicking shut. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It's just the wind," you tell yourself, though the wind doesn't sound that deliberate. "Just the house settling."

Shaking off the unease, you grab your phone and head toward the bedroom, desperate to crawl under the covers. But as you pass through the doorway, your breath catches in your throat. The hallway light catches something something pale. Something frozen.

In the corner of the room, standing perfectly still amidst the shadows, is the Ghostface mask. The white, screaming visage gleams unnaturally in the darkness.

Below the mask, you see the hard, defined planes of a bare chest, muscles tensing in the dim light, an overwhelming presence sits between his legs. His pants struggle to contain the large mass he keeps tucked below the belt, and the deadly glint of a hunting knife held in a black gloved hand.

The October wind howls outside like something wounded, rattling the windowpanes of your apartment as the storm intensifies. It's Halloween weekend, and you had planned nothing more ambitious than curling up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the heater humming. On the TV, an episode of Riverdale plays at a low volume, the colorful screen the only source of light in your cozy living room.

You're just starting to relax when suddenly, the screen flickers violently. The show cuts to black before snapping into a stark, red Emergency Broadcast graphic. The urgent chime of the alert system makes your heart jump.

"We interrupt your program with an emergency bulletin from the City Police Department," the news anchor says, her voice uncharacteristically shaken. "A dangerous suspect is on the loose within the city limits. Authorities have received multiple reports of a stalker a male, described as tall and heavily muscled, wearing all black with no shirt. The suspect is considered armed and extremely dangerous."

A grainy, blurred photo flashes on the screen all you can make out is the silhouette of a broad shouldered man. Your breath hitches. You instinctively glance toward your locked front door, your pulse beginning to race.

"Citizens are urged to stay inside, lock all entrances, and activate home security systems immediately. Do not approach any suspicious individuals. Alert the police at the first sign of intrusion."

The news cuts back to static as a sudden, deafening crack of thunder shakes the entire building, making the floor beneath your feet vibrate. In the momentary silence that follows, you hear it: the unmistakable, wet creak of a window being forced open somewhere in the house.

Before you can even scream, the lights flicker once, twice, and then snap the apartment plunges into absolute, suffocating darkness. The only sound left is the relentless lashing of rain against the glass and the frantic pounding of your own heart. Trembling, you grab your phone, the screen's weak glow casting eerie shadows as you begin to make your way toward the hallway, desperate to reach the electrical panel and restore the light.

The steam rises in thick, suffocating clouds, clinging to the tiles of your shower like a warm embrace. The hot water cascades over your shoulders, your only refuge from the chilling October night outside. As you lean your forehead against the cool tile, your mind involuntarily drifts back to the news report from earlier the grainy image of the silhouette, the warning about a shirtless, muscular killer prowling the streets. You try to shake the image off, telling yourself you're safe behind locked doors, but the memory of that news anchor's terrified voice lingers like a bad taste in your mouth. The rhythmic drumming of the water on your scalp is supposed to be soothing, but tonight, it sounds too much like approaching footsteps.

Suddenly, a sharp gust of frigid air cuts through the steam, seeping into the enclosed shower box. The temperature drops instantly, sending goosebumps racing across your wet skin. Your heart stutters. Did I leave the door cracked? you wonder frantically, thinking you must have bumped it open with your ass while washing your back. But as you turn around, the breath dies in your throat. The glass door isn't just open it's been pushed wide. Standing there, framed by the swirling vapor, is the nightmare made flesh. The Ghostface mask stares at you with those hollow, screaming eyes, the white porcelain stark against the dim bathroom light. You open your mouth to scream, but the sound catches in a sob of pure terror when you realize he isn't wearing pants just the black boots, the gloves, and the mask.

Your gaze drops involuntarily, trapped by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. Between his thick, powerful thighs hangs a monstrous display of virility that seems almost impossible. His cock is a staggering fifteen inches of dark, flushed flesh, thick as a wrist and pulsing with each heavy beat of his heart. A roadmap of thick, corded veins snakes around the shaft, standing out in stark relief against the heated skin as it throbs with predatory intent. It carries a slight, menacing curve upward, the tip already slick and glistening with pre cum that catches the bathroom light. The sheer weight of it hangs heavy, swaying slightly with his breathing, a weapon of flesh that looks just as dangerous as the hunting knife clutched in his gloved hand.