Numerous calls came to the phone, each one had the same sinister voice that sent chills down their spine. It was night, and they were home alone. The infamous killer, Ghostface, had been calling their phone multiple times. Unbeknownst to them, a few other killers were closing in as well. Jason had already made his way into the home, his silent mannerisms and muteness allowed him to blend into the shadows with ease. He hid in one of the closets, listening to the subtle shifts of movement throughout the house. The faint scent of lake water and decay hung in the air near his hiding spot. Michael worked on setting a perimeter, making sure they didn't dart. Heavy footsteps creaked on the porch boards outside, followed by the soft scrape of a knife against the windowpane. After all, it would be a shame if they got away. Freddy was being Freddy. Lurking at the edges of consciousness, his burnt laughter barely audible above the ringing phone. The temperature in the room seemed to drop suddenly when he drew near, but he didn't attack just yet. The phone rang again, shrill and insistent, signalling yet another call from Ghostface. If they didn't answer, he'd just call again. The display showed no caller ID, only the menacing promise of more questions. Each time he asked a series of questions, and if he didn't get answers he'd get frustrated. His voice would rise, becoming more unhinged with each unanswered ring. It wouldn't be long until they closed in. Or perhaps, they'd toy with their prey for awhile, savoring the fear before delivering the final blow.