A/N: a shorter chapter, but I wanted to get something written for you guys!

"Well, that should be it. No more boxes in the van, and so long as you don't need any more help moving things, we should be good and done." the man who had helped you move furniture into your house, which was now entirely yours, wore a tired smile, having moved a shit ton of stuff. You were (Y/N), a young girl who'd just been given an insanely huge opportunity, despite its morbid truth it brought with it. Your parents had moved to Hawaii recently; as cold as it was, you didn't mind their new absence. You had never been close to them. They had been abusive, mentally and sometimes physically, exhausting as all hell, and they had left you their previous house. It was HUGE, with at least ten times more room than you'd ever need. There were six bedrooms and four bathrooms, two kitchens, and way too many empty rooms to count. Your parents had given you money to buy furniture, made you get a job, and then kicked you out once you were independent enough to fend for yourself. Now, you smiled and waved a goodbye as the movers left for good, leaving you and your quiet home, a good thirty minutes away from any near city, town or settlement. You were used to the quiet life, having grown up where no one could hear your parents yelling at you day and night. You were ecstatic to finally be living alone with your simple job as a small, unpopular journalist. You could do that job from home, which meant you'd only be leaving your house for grocery shopping or some sort of night out with you and only yourself, having no friends close enough to want to hang out with on a friday night.

So, in your huge house, no one around other than yourself, you wondered what the hell you were going to do. Everything was set up and unpacked, everything was perfect. You had eaten already, and it was only 7 'clock, way too early to sleep, especially with your insurmountable amounts of energy and excitement from you newfound independence. Instead of sleeping or anything of the sort, you plop down on your comfy sofa and pull your laptop from the couch-side table. Flipping open the lid, you scroll aimlessly through your works and writings, about 90% news reports you'd written, the other 10% random creative writings you'd done just for the heck of it. You stumble upon the section of 'murder related' news articles, scanning over them all. There were a few stories you needed to rewrite for your own publisher, taken for future reference, as in written by other reporters with all the information you would need to write your own article about the subject. They seemed to fit into four categories, or four different murder styles. One set of murders was gory and brutal, a purposefully fucked up crime scene simply to make a good, enticing story of a truly psychotic killer, while the next was a simple stab-wound to the neck, clean and quick. Another set of cases, the bodies were never found, but there were too many missing persons reports in one particular area of this town not to know there was some serial kidnapper on the loose. The last set of murders were the most odd, the most random. Dead bodies here and there with seemingly no pattern, no motive. These murders weren't being executed for the sake of fame or recognition, these people weren't killed in one specific area, and they were appearing all over town as well as the forest and rural areas.

The first set of murders, the psychopath fame seeking killer was known publicly as The Ghostface, some creep hiding behind the mask of the common Halloween costume labeled 'Father Death'. The second, the simple stab or slash wounds were dubbed the work of the infamous Jason Voorhes, and all those murders were performed around Camp Crystal Lake and the near surrounding area, punishing trespassers. The missing person cases were less solid; some people said they were the work of the Sawyer family, others said they were false reports. Lastly, the random murders could be blamed on no one other than Michael Myers, taking out his violent urges on whoever he sees first, no matter where they are.

You were eternally intrigued by these four killers, their motives, how different all of their murderous styles were... absolutely intriguing. You were infinitely lucky to have been assigned working these cases with your forensic history and criminal knowledge. Returning your thoughts to your computer ahead of you, you scoured the Ghostface cases and compiled as much useful, intriguing information as you could find for the blog page you were assigned to keep updated. You completely failed to notice the click and flash of an old polaroid camera, snatching glimpses of you as you worked. You failed to notice the figure in your home, silently memorizing the layout, watching. Studying. Planning.