Next morning you wake to the less-than-inviting stare of Michael Myers. He's stood in the corner of your room to the right of the door by your window, motionless save for the occasional tilt of his head. You were laid on your right side, facing the window he was standing near. The moment your eyes flickered open and you spotted him, they squeezed shut again immediately, as if your eyelids could protect you from a blade to the throat like a mental shield. You began to panic, your eye nearest your pillow flickering open occasionally to see that yep, he hadn't moved an inch and you were sure he knew you were awake by now but you were too damn awkward to move. At last your alarm went off which told you it was 10 am. You usually got up earlier, but this alarm was a last resort for days you slept in.

Acting as if you'd been fast asleep until that moment, you kept your eyes closed and flipped over to smack your hand down on the snooze button. Not knowing what else to do, you nervously say,

"Good morning, Michael." you aren't necessarily surprised when he doesn't respond. You turn to him, hugging yourself self-consciously under his burning stare. "How long have you been standing there?" you ask, turning your head on a stiff neck, staring just above his eyes; you can't bear to look at him directly. Again, no response, obviously, so instead you climb out of bed and stretch your arms above your head. Your back no longer aches from the skirmish with D, but the simplicity of having laid stiffly in one position for who knows how long was enough to make your back ache like a mother f'er. A part of you says, in a joking manner, 'I wonder what murderer we'll encounter today?' but you push the thought away as if it were some atomic bomb, yet it sticks to the back of your mind like a burr. 'Wouldn't it be so funny if you went digging through Camp Crystal Lake? I'm sure Jason wants a place to stay!', 'I thought I heard something about a haunted mansion! Maybe you should give ghosts a chance!'.

You distract yourself by turning to Michael again.

"I'm going to make breakfast soon, if you're hungry." you smile, still a little tired. Surprisingly, laying idle for hours and hours with a mind swimming in a panicked frenzy isn't your definition of 'sleeping in', and the tears shed the night prior to this morning weren't helping. "Probably eggs and bacon or something." you mumble that more quietly as if you were talking to yourself, which you basically were. Yourself, or rather a tall, murderous wall, or maybe even a rock, but rocks were too expressive. You were sure that if Michael knew what you were thinking he'd have your decapitated head in his hands. You exit your room with a little too much eagerness, basically running out of Michael's view and into the hallway. You turn the corner sharply to head to the stairs, stumbling backwards as D comes racing towards your room at the same time. He isn't fazed by your sudden appearance, just instead seems to grow even more excited.

"Bacon and eggs? Like real, good, not crappy diner-bought bacon and eggs?" his voice was like that of a child on Christmas morning. He seemed ecstatic.

"Yeah, of course?" you were slightly confused, tilting your head as you righted yourself and turned back to the stairs. Michael had cut ahead and made it to the first floor taking the stairs three at a time, an easy task for those long legs of his.

"I haven't had homemade bacon and eggs in..." he stopped and counted on his fingers, "At least seven years, since I broke up with my girlfriend. Well, if you know what I mean." he seemed suggestive, and you knew he had murdered her.

"Reassuring!" you joke, reaching the bottom floor yourself with D close behind, "Well, I hope they're up to your standards. I'm not looking to meet your girlfriend." It felt a little bit wrong to speak ill of the dead, but hey, you were taking care of two murderers without any guilt on your conscience.

"Don't you worry your pretty little face, I enjoy having you around doll." He hopped the last two steps, his boots stomping the ground with a loud sound. 'Doll' was a new nickname, but you didn't mind it, just like the other names he called you. Better than 'Bitch' and 'Brat' like what you'd grown up with. You shake your head to shoo the bad thoughts away like they were flies, stepping foot in the kitchen. Michael had taken a clearly reluctant seat on the island, stiff as a board as D came sliding into the seat next to him. "So, what's your favourite scary movie, big guy?" he rested his chin on his hand as he spoke, genuinely intrigued. Michael seemed thoroughly unimpressed, and you watched out of your peripheral as you grabbed the eggs and bacon from the fridge, getting to work. Ghostface waited patiently for a verbal response that would never come, seeming to finally get the idea and grab a notepad from the island a little to his left. "Come on, I'm curious Mikey!" He shoved the notepad and pencil into Michael's chest as if the Shape didn't have hands that could snap his neck like a twig. You could hear the utterly pissed off sigh come from under Michael's mask as he took the notebook with snappy movements. You heard the scribbling of a pencil, genuinely curious as to what Michael would say. Seconds later, D is hurriedly grabbing the notepad and holding it close to his face in an attempt to decipher the handwriting. He can't.

"Michael, wowie your writing looks alien!" he laughed, and you think you might be able to help since your own writing isn't so legible.

"Let me take a look." you turn and grab the notebook as it's handed to you, keeping an eye on the food as you do so. There, in chicken scratch writing are the two words boldly written, "". You can't help but break out into a light laughter, and you toss the book aside.

"What? What's it say? Does he like Stab? Well? What movie?" D pesters, leaving his seat in a hurry it spins on its pivot and racing over to grab the notebook again.

"Nothing interesting, D. Nothing at all." you look at Michael over your shoulder and smile. You can almost sense the amusement wafting off of him; almost.

"Oh, come on! I've gotta know!" D whines, giving a little unhappy bounce before sliding back into his chair with what you would guess to be a dejected look, if you could see his face. "I'm going to keep working on this. I'll make it my life goal to decipher these words. Myers, I swear to god, Michael Audrey Myers I will-" A calloused hand meets the back of D's head as he says Michael's full name. Again, you can't help but laugh. These two were too chaotic.

"Boys, boys calm down! The food's done!" you cut in just before D can snap at the Shape, hurrying to dish out plates of food. Ghostface's posture straightens and his eyes would have brightened as you set his plate in front of him. His mask shifts to sit on his head and he digs in without hesitation. Michael, on the other hand, is not so keen to lift his mask. "You can go eat in another room if it makes you more comfortable." at your words, Michael tilts his head. It was as if he wasn't used to being given a choice. He was seemingly grateful for your offer, or at least you guessed he was as he grabbed his plate and made off towards the stairs to eat in the upstairs living room.

"Come on, hon, really! What'd it say?" D was still staring intently at the writing. "You're... is the first word you're? You're what?" he turned to you, excited by his new discovery and buzzing as he ate, mumbling to himself with his semi-mechanic voice.

"Just eat your food, it's not important." you dismiss with a wave of your hand and dig into your own food.

"Fine, fine i'll pester the big guy about it some other time. Right now, all I see is food as pretty as its maker!" he leaned towards you with a playful tilt to his head, cramming a piece of bacon in his mouth as he did. You can't help but roll your eyes at his words. "No really, this food is fan-tas-tic!" he punctuates each syllable, another piece of bacon in hand to replace the previous one.

"Thanks," you laugh, "It was my mom's recipe. Well, her 'secret ingredient'." You make air quotes, the mention of anything classified under 'secret' gabbing D's attention like a moth to a flame,

"Secret, you say?" he sidles up to you, shifting his chair to be right up against yours. He slings an arm over your shoulder, glances quickly and sneakily from side to side as if checking for eavesdroppers, then pressed his semi-masked cheek against yours. "What's this secret, sweetheart?"

"It really isn't that interesting." You laugh again, pushing him away and shaking his arm from its place on your shoulders, "It's just honey and maple, with brown sugar too."

"Hey, it's still a secret ain't it? And a secret that makes some good bacon!" He finished his last piece of bacon to accent his words, then noticed he'd finished it all. "No! Nononono!" he pushed his egg around with his fork as if there'd be a piece of the bacon tucked underneath, then let his head drop onto the counter with a groan. "It's gone! I ate it all!" he false-whined, and you knew this was his form of begging. Despite the childish behaviour you pushed your bacon onto his plate with a roll of your eyes and a sigh.

"Yes, my hero!" D gasped, throwing himself on you in a hug. The laugh you let out this time is friendlier and happier than any you'd let out in days, weeks, maybe even months or years, a laugh that's finally free and light and content. "Good to see you laughin', babe, last night was freaky seeing all those tears rollin' down your face.'' The light atmosphere in the room seems to dampen a little, and he seemed to be more serious. A leather-gloved hand shifted to rest on your cheek in a comforting manner, and you placed your own hand on top of it, wearing a faint smile.

"Yeah... I haven't laughed that lightly in... a long time." your voice is quiet too, like the both of you are afraid to burst each other's eardrums with the slightest noise. Ghostface's thumb shifted to rub along your cheekbone for a second before pulling away and returning to his eggs. "Y'know, you're oddly sympathetic and gentle for a killer."

"Yeah, and you're oddly cute when you cry." he retorted, drawing another life and re-lightening the mood. "So, what's today's plan?"

"I was going to go interview some witnesses, assure myself that Michael was the killer, but... well, I already know that he is so there's no need. I guess I'll just be finishing up with my article, and other than that I have nothing to do." you hop from your seat as you swallow your last bite of food, placing your dish in the dishwasher and turning to lean on the counter and face D while he finished his last strip of bacon. He was taking his sweet time, savouring the thing.

"Nice, I'm going to be gone a little today. Got some stuff to move over from my old place in the forest nearby." he took his own dish and dropped it in the dishwasher as well.

"Need any help? I'm down for a nature walk, and the article can wait a little. I should get some fresh air and I don't mind catching a glimpse of your old place." a sudden curiosity erupts in your mind at the thought of seeing the Ghostface HQ, maybe even snapping a few photos since he'd be moving out. "Maybe I can get some pictures too, make an article claiming I found it. It'll make it less suspicious when you suddenly disappear from that area too." D tilts his head, deep in thought, then nods.

"Sure thing. Let's get moving; oh, and be careful, It's dangerously close to Camp Blood, with that Jason guy." he doesn't let you suddenly rethink your decision, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to the door. Not that you would have changed your mind anyways. You were careful, and with your luck you weren't scared of an encounter. Your camera was placed on the coffee table, so you grabbed that on the way out, along with a small tape recorder for audio clips and documentations if necessary.

"Michael, I'm heading out with D! Don't break anything please!" you call out, the only response the stomp of a foot, a sign of acknowledgement. Once in the car, D went straight to turning on the radio as you hit the gas. He told you what turns to take, when to go straight, ducking down quickly whenever anyone stopped their cars at red lights beside us. You pulled against the side of the road and D threw a large homemade grass-weaved net over your car as if to hide it, making it look like a fairly unnatural bush, just normal enough for no one to care.

"This way, m'lady." he motioned with his arms, directing you straight into the heavy brush and thick, tangling bushes. "A path opens up after a little bit of a struggle. Can't leave any traces for nosy hikers, y'know?" he parts the bushes gently so you can just barely slip past, stepping around thorn-bushes and over tangling, gnarly roots for a minute or two before finally finding even footing. "Straight down this way, about ten minutes." He took the lead now, almost skipping. You couldn't blame him, it was beautiful here; fesh, clean air, weak sunlight filtering through the branches and dappling the ground around you, faint birdsong ringing all around.

"Pretty." you breathe out, and D chuckles.

"Wait 'til you see my place. Not so pretty there." he mumbles, hopping a fallen log with ease, though it was slightly more of a struggle for you and you scraped your leg a little. "Graceful." D quips,

"Shut up." you retort, then fall silent before saying something else. You can see a dark shadow in the distance, it looks like an old, tumbledown house.

"And here she is, my humble abode." he presents the place to you by shifting a bush aside, his other arm motioning for you to step by first. You push past him and your feet land on a wooden porch, the place so overgrown the bushes were pushed as closely to the house as possible. The house was small, but would have been a cozy cabin in it's prime time. It was a dark brown with a black roof, the windows shattered and boarded up with a total absence of a door. The porch was packed with holes, only a few wooden slats making a thin pathway to the entrance. He slips past you again, stepping inside and ducking under a board nailed across the top of the doorway. Inside you were choked by dust, coughing and waving your hand in front of your face to clear the dust from around you. "Mask privileges, sucker." D laughed, tapping the mesh mouth-cover on his mask.

Inside was... interesting. Cobwebs were pasted to every corner, the hardwood floor muddied and scratched. There was a single old chair to the left of the entrance door, right next to a doorway to another room, though you can't seem to get past the boards covering it. To your right, the door was unboarded, a dark door slightly ajar. From what you could see, which wasn't a lot, you guessed the room was a bedroom. D set off straight through a doorway adjacent to the front opening. He twisted the old handle to the door and pushed it open, not wincing like you did at the groan of despair it let out. You stepped through the doorway and froze. The windows were covered by thick black drapes, letting in just enough light to see faintly; pictures, newspaper articles and clippings and anything close to that were pasted on every single wall, sticky notes with bold writing stuck here and there as well. A big dark, dark red velvet chair sat facing the wall with the most news articles, a small table in the corner to it's right with a tiny TV sat on top. A rug, old and muddy sat underneath the chair. Behind the old, antique seating area was a desk with a computer, an old polaroid camera and boxes and boxes of film, mostly unused. To the left wall of the room were shelves stacked full with boxes spilling more pictures and more newspaper clippings. D had an obsession with all of this, you had to admit.

"Freaky, eh?" he sighed, moving over to the shelves. "I can leave most of this behind here, none of it has my prints. Not that that would matter anyways. I'll admit I've got separation issues with some of these, though." he lifted the lid from one of the boxes, shuffling some of the pictures aside until he grabbed on, admired it for a moment, then slipped it into the inside of his cloak.

"Are they all your victims?" you grip tightly to your camera, asking for silent permission to take photos, and D nods then answers your questions.

"Not all of 'em. I've got some fond memories in here, and those'll be the only ones I keep. A picture or two of a sunset, my old cat, maybe some victims I was especially fond of or one's that gave me a boost of fame... stuff like that." He returned to another box after you'd taken a few pictures of the shelves, rifling through it as you moved on and photographed everything else. "Probably not as bloody as you'd expect for a villains homebase, eh?" you shook your head at that, but this place was still spine-chilling.

"It's freaky..." you quickly correct yourself, realizing you may have sounded rude, "in the best way, of course. It'll make a good article, that's for sure." D nods at that, seeming satisfied it's good enough for an article. "How long have you lived here?" D tapped his foot and let out a hum,

"7 years, more or less." he stepped away form the shelves and turned to the walls, unpinning a few things and stuffing them in his jacket.

"Wow... what would you eat?" you guffawed. This place didn't look like it had running power, but it made sense and lined up with what he had said earlier when he told you he hadn't had bacon and eggs for 7 years as well.

"I was still a normal dude back then in the beginning, only the occasional kill but everyone still knew me as Jed Olsen, normal guy," he could sense you were about to ask if that was his real name, and he shook his head, "A simple alibi. I'd eat fast food or anything I could cook over a fire, but once some nosy asshole linked 'Jed' to 'Ghostface' I couldn't be seen anymore. I'm glad I saw it coming and lived under a fake name." he chuckled.

"So... what is your real name?" you press, averting your gaze in an attempt to show innocence. You weren't trying to screw him over and give his name to the police or anything like that. D seemed hesitant to answer, debating on what to do.

"Not the time for real name's hon. Not right now, anyways." he ends up dismissing the question without a glance in your direction at all.

You can respect that; he barely knew you, probably didn't trust you either, which was fair. Living a life of mistrust, murder and betrayal you couldn't imagine ever truly trusting anyone again. You felt a desperate need to change the subject and bring back some light to the conversation.

"So how long were you watching me before you attacked?" you ask the question despite not really wanting to know the answer, it'd scare the shit out of you.