Horror Classics Reimagined

Greg Waters wasn't the kind of guy to turn down a challenge. He thrived on dares, bets, and anything that let him prove he was better, faster, or smarter than everyone else. It was how he'd ended up as the star quarterback in high school and why he'd clawed his way into his college's football team despite a subpar GPA. He was the kind of guy who posted gym selfies with captions like "Grind never stops" and liked his own posts.

But tonight, there was no grind—just Greg sprawled across his couch, shirtless, with an empty pizza box on the floor and a half-finished beer sweating on the coffee table. He was supposed to be reviewing film from last week's game, but the horror movie marathon on TV had won out.

"Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger… You guys couldn't take me," he muttered as a machete-wielding maniac hacked his way through hapless campers on the screen.

His phone buzzed on the cushion beside him. Greg snatched it up without looking at the number. "Yeah?"

A moment of silence. Then, a distorted voice crackled through the speaker.

"Greg Waters. Big man on campus. Life of the party."

Greg sat up, frowning. "Who the hell is this?"

"Just a fan," the voice replied, dripping with mock cheer. "You're quite the showman, Greg. Always putting on a performance. Care to give me an encore?"

Greg's frown deepened. "Okay, funny. Who is this? Eli? Ryan? You guys messing with me again?"

The voice chuckled, low and menacing. "Oh, Greg. This isn't a prank. I'm here to play a game."

Greg rolled his eyes, settling back into the couch. "Yeah, okay, Ghostface. I've seen this movie before. What's next? You ask me some dumb question about horror movies, and if I get it wrong, you show up outside my house?"

"No questions tonight," the voice said. "Just directions. Go to the front door."

"Yeah, no thanks," Greg said, reaching for his beer.

The voice cut through, sharp and commanding. "Go. To. The. Door."

Greg froze. The playful tone was gone, replaced by something cold and deadly. For the first time, he felt a chill crawl up his spine.

"You want me to go to the door? Why don't you come in?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"You're the star, Greg," the voice said, mocking. "The stage is yours. Take your curtain call."

Against his better judgment, Greg stood. He grabbed a baseball bat from beside the couch—it was more for show than anything, but it felt good in his hands. The house was eerily quiet as he moved toward the front door, his bare feet sticking slightly to the hardwood floors.

He peered through the peephole. Nothing.

His phone buzzed again in his hand. He answered without thinking.

"Open the door, Greg," the voice whispered.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Why don't you just—"

"Because it's showtime."

Greg's fingers trembled as he unlocked the door. He swung it open, bat raised, expecting to find... nothing.

Instead, a small box sat on the porch, wrapped neatly in black paper with a red bow.

"What the…" He stepped outside, glancing around the yard. The street was empty, the only light coming from the flickering streetlamp on the corner.

His phone buzzed again.

"Open the gift, Greg."

He hesitated. This was getting too weird. But curiosity got the better of him. Lowering the bat, he bent down and tore the wrapping off the box.

Inside was a small, bloodied football.

Greg stared, his stomach twisting. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the porch.

"You always said you were unstoppable," the voice sneered, still coming through the phone's speaker. "Let's test that theory."

A shadow moved in the corner of his eye. He spun around just as Ghostface lunged from the side yard.

Greg swung the bat wildly, connecting with Ghostface's shoulder. The masked figure staggered back but didn't go down.

"Think that's enough?" Ghostface taunted, the voice still distorted as if coming through the phone.

Greg bolted inside, slamming the door behind him. He sprinted up the stairs, his breath ragged. At the top, he turned to look back, expecting to see Ghostface at the bottom.

But the staircase was empty.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Greg whipped around to see another Ghostface standing at the top of the stairs.

"No!" he shouted, swinging the bat.

The second Ghostface dodged easily and shoved him hard. Greg's body pitched backward, tumbling down the stairs in a horrifying blur.

As he hit the bottom, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, a sickening crack echoing through the house. Blood pooled around his head as his body twitched once, then went still.

The first Ghostface stepped into view, crouching beside Greg's broken form.

"Such a waste of talent," the voice mused. "But hey, every great movie needs a fall guy."

The screen cut to black.