Don't Scream 2 Read online

  "Emily?" I whispered.

  She sobbed, over and over, as she stared up at me. As if she weren't quite registering who I was.

  Then I looked down, and my blood ran cold.

  Her hands rested on her stomach. Her round, protruding stomach.

  She was visibly pregnant.

  "Harry?" Emily called from the bed. "Is everything okay?"

  I looked down at the crying woman. Her sobs were silent, now—she just stared up at me, silently, tears in her eyes.

  "Harry?" Emily said, more insistently this time.

  I slowly shut the door. My hands were shaking; my legs were weak. When I turned around, Emily was sitting on the edge of the bed, her brown eyes locked intently at me.

  "The closet was empty," I said. I walked back over to the bed, nearly fainting in the process, and sat down next to her. "I must've just imagined it."

  "Aww, Harry," she said, wrapping an arm around me. I flinched at her touch. "This whole thing has been stressing you out, huh?"

  I nodded.

  Three knocks on the door broke through the quiet.

  "Will you go let them in? I would, but I'm not dressed," she said with a light giggle, hands trailing over her silky chemise.

  I didn't move from the bed.

  "Harry?"

  No. There was no way I was leaving her alone in the bedroom while I went downstairs. "I'd go down, but I don't feel so good," I lied. "I think... I just need to lie down. Will you handle it?"

  She paused, staring into my eyes.

  Then she finally nodded. She got off the bed, pulled on a bathrobe, and headed towards the door. As soon as she disappeared from sight, I ran to the closet.

  She was still there. The woman who looked just like my wife, sitting on the floor, silently crying. The woman who was my wife. I don't know how I knew she was the right one—I just did. It was something intangible, a gut feeling, that I can't put into words.

  I crouched down and laid my hand on her shoulders. "Emily. Emily, can you hear me?"

  Her eyes stared blankly into mine. Tears streamed down her face.

  "What happened to you?"

  She didn't reply.

  Voices murmured downstairs. Heavy footsteps resonated through the house. We were running out of time.

  I grabbed her hand. "You have to come with me. Now."

  She slowly, shakily, stood up. I pulled her out of the bedroom, and we softly entered the hall. Making our way to our kids' room. Downstairs, the lights were on. Emily was turned away from us, talking to the two policemen in dark outfits.

  We can't let her see us.

  Silence. Don't make a sound. Don't even—

  Emily suddenly let go of my hand.

  She ran. Her footsteps thundered across the hall as she sprinted into our kids' room. "Emily—no!" I whispered. As I ran after her, I glanced down the staircase.

  Emily was staring at us. So were the police officers. Their hands were on their guns.

  That's when I realized that Emily hadn't been calling 911 at all. She'd been calling for backup.

  I dove into our kids' bedroom. My wife was already crouched over Abby and Mark, sobbing uncontrollably. And for the first time since I found her, she was speaking. Muttering the same three words, over and over.

  "I love you."

  I helped them out of bed. "Abby. Mark. We need to go. Now." They sleepily followed me towards the door, my wife trailing behind them.

  I opened the door.

  Emily stood in front of us. The two policemen stood behind her, guns raised.

  "Run!" I said to Emily.

  It was a risk. A huge one. They could shoot all of us in an instant. But, for some reason—they didn't. We ran down the stairs, and they chased after us. But no shots were fired.

  We were alive.

  As we ran out the door, I grabbed our car keys from the hook. Then we were pulling out of the driveway. The three of them stood in the doorway, watching us. Guns still raised, yet never pulling the trigger.

  "Abby, Mark, are you okay?" I asked as we pulled onto the highway.

  "Daddy, what's happening?" Abby asked.

  "Are we in trouble?" Mark asked.

  "We're okay now," I said.

  We reported everything to the police, but by the time they arrived at the house, it was empty. No trace of the woman I'd called my wife for months. No trace of the two "police officers," either.

  We quickly sold the house and moved several states away. Emily recovered very slowly, but she didn't seem to sustain any permanent damage. In time, she eventually told me what happened:

  "It was a few months ago—about a month after we got pregnant," she said, her hands shaking as she picked up her cup of tea. "I got up to use the bathroom, and I heard someone outside. Someone crying for help. I went to the back door, opened it, and called out to see if they needed help. Then... I don't remember."

  "I'm so sorry," I said, squeezing her hand.

  "I kept waking up in the woods. Every time I did, I tried to make my way back to you. But all I could do was cry, and scream... it was like my mind was too foggy to form words." She squeezed my hand back. "All I could think about was you. Getting back to you, and Abby, and Mark. When I found the door unlocked one night, I walked up to our bedroom. And then—I don't remember—but I must have gotten scared, because I found myself in the closet, hiding away from your and that woman's voice. Unable to stop crying."

  "I'm just glad you're back," I said, wrapping her in my arms and holding her tight.

  Now, it's been almost a year since Emily and I got away. While life has been wonderful, and baby Leah is the sweetest thing... a gnawing fear has settled in my stomach. I've tried to ignore it and pass it off as stress. Anxiety. Fear. One of those haunting thoughts born out of terror, rather than logic.

  But the more time that passes, the harder it is to ignore.

  Our two other kids, Abby and Mark—

  They haven't grown an inch since we moved here.

  FLIGHT 842

  Attention passengers. Flight 842 will now be departing at 7:34 PM.

  My flight was delayed. Again.

  I'd been sitting at gate B8 for nearly five hours. I'd drunk all my Coke, and my phone was nearly dead. I watched enviously as the stream of people walked down the terminal, towards their own gates—a woman in a bright green coat, a gaggle of giggling teenage girls—and I quietly seethed.

  Their flights are on time, I bet.

  They don't have to endure this hell.

  I pulled myself out of the scratchy cloth chair and stormed over to the flight attendant. "It's delayed again?! This is the worst layover I've ever had!"

  "Miss, please. We're trying as hard as we can."

  "I have a wedding to get to, early tomorrow in Lancaster. I need to rent a car, check into my hotel, press my dress, and—"

  I stopped.

  The logo above her head did not say American Airlines. It was a strange, star-like symbol in purple, with the letters: BME.

  "This... this is Flight 842, going to LA, right?"

  "Of course," she said, with a knowing smile.

  I returned to my seat. I pulled out my phone, then remembered it was nearly out of battery, and slipped it back in my pocket. Sighing, I leaned back and stared out at the people going by.

  A man with a handlebar mustache. A tired mother in yoga pants dragging two little boys by the hand. A man in a crisp business suit, talking into one of those fancy earpieces.

  And, after him—

  The same woman in the bright-green coat.

  Wait, what? That's weird. I never saw her pass by in the other direction. But, then again... I was occupied talking to the flight attendant.

  Nothing to worry about. I reached in my bag, found the crushed chocolate bar I'd tucked away, and began to pick at it. Flakes of chocolate crumbled onto my lap, and I sighed.

  I glanced up—

  To see a familiar man with a handlebar mustache.

  I watched in horror as
he was followed by the tired mother, pulling her little boys by the arms. The businessman, talking into his earpiece.

  They’re walking in a loop. But the hallway didn’t seem to curve at all.

  What is going on?

  My heart began to pound. I leapt out of my seat and walked towards them, without even knowing what I was going to say. "Uh, excuse me!" I called out to the mom.

  She didn't turn around.

  "Excuse me! Hey!"

  They ignored me, like I wasn't even there. Not even a single glance from the boys. I opened my mouth to shout again, but then the voice came over the intercom:

  "We are now boarding Flight 842. Please get in the queue."

  I glanced back. The other people at the gate were slowly getting up, gravitating towards the line. As they did, I realized—

  They had no luggage.

  No suitcases. No backpacks. Not even purses.

  No luggage at all.

  They mechanically moved forward in the line, holding out their boarding passes. Beep! Beep! The flight attendant scanned each one, and they disappeared into the aluminum tunnel.

  My gaze flicked to the window.

  It was dark out. Too dark. How had I not noticed that before? There were no blinking lights from the runway. No lights coming off the plane. No moon, no stars, no lights from the city around us.

  Just darkness.

  "Are you coming?"

  I jumped. The flight attendant was standing right behind me, her lips curled into that knowing smile. Every single person in the line, too, had snapped towards me. They watched intently, scowling, glaring.

  I backed away. "No. No, I'm not—"

  She grabbed my wrist. "You can't back out now."

  I wrenched my arm free from her grip and ran, abandoning my luggage. I darted out of the gate, into the main aisle. Then I ran, and ran, until my legs ached and I could barely breathe.

  "Ma'am? Are you alright?"

  I looked up to see a security guard standing in front of me. "I... I was at B8 and this woman... she tried to make me board and—"

  "B8?"

  "Yeah."

  "Ma'am, we don't have any B8 gate."

  "What? My flight said B8," I said, pulling out the crinkled boarding pass. I shoved it into his hands.

  "No, that's B6."

  I glanced at my boarding pass again. The 6... I'd mistaken it for an 8. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, walking away.

  I walked back down the hall. He was right—the gates skipped from B7 to B9. A stretch of white wall spanned between them.

  No waiting room. No gate.

  Just wall.

  THE HALLOWEEN MASK

  by Blair Daniels & Craig Groshek

  Ding!

  I jolted awake.

  My phone lit up on the nightstand. It showed one new notification: Motion detected at your doorstep. 3:17 AM.

  My heart pounded as my fingers slipped across the screen. I clicked on the security camera video feed.

  A man stood on my doorstep.

  He stayed so still, I would've thought it was a photograph, if not for the bugs fluttering by every few seconds. His body melted into the shadows around him, but his face shone brightly. Or—not his face. A white mask.

  It was covered in blood.

  He stared straight at the camera, completely still, mouth twisted in a grin.

  ***

  It all started when I ordered the Halloween mask.

  Alicia and I decided to host the neighborhood Halloween party this year. I'd shelled out hundreds of dollars on plastic skulls, purple streamers, and even one of those candy bowls with the animatronic hand in the middle.

  "We still need to decide what to dress up as," my wife said, as she neatly stacked the boxes in the corner. "I was thinking maybe Morticia and Gomez—"

  "No. That's cliché."

  Alicia rolled her eyes. "So what if it's cliché? It's just a neighborhood party."

  "It has to be perfect."

  "Well, whatever it is, you better decide soon. The party's next weekend."

  I scrolled through costumes online, looking for something terrifying. Something our neighbors would remember for years to come. Last year, the party was hosted by my rival neighbor, David Chandler. Ugh. Perfectly handsome, BMW-driving David. My very own Ned Flanders, one-upping me on everything from lawn care to job promotions.

  Last year he threw an incredible party, dressed as the clown from It. He even jump-scared half the guests at various points throughout the evening. People were still talking about how awesome it was.

  I had to do better.

  "What about that?" Alicia asked, pointing to a plain white mask.

  It looked similar to a Michael Myers mask. White plastic, forming the shape of a man's face, with cut-outs for the eyes and the mouth. "You could make it your own. Add blood, or stitches, or something."

  "True." I clicked it, and Google took me to some costume website I'd never heard of before. I added it to my cart, and after scouring the web for some promo codes—I didn’t have much money left after all I’d spent on decorations—found a sketchy-looking website with what appeared to be a legitimate promo URL displayed, with the offer code worked into it. Without thinking, I clicked it.

  As soon as I did so, I was redirected somewhere that was definitely not the website displayed in the URL. Damn it, I thought, I should have copied and pasted the link instead of clicking it directly. As I pondered how many viruses I’d just been infected with, and before I could do anything else, a strange message popped up, taking up my entire screen.

  CODE INPUT SUCCESSFULLY

  SELECT YOUR SCARE

  #$@

  &+?

  *&#

  "What the hell is this?" I muttered. I tried to just click away from the dialog box, but it wouldn't disappear. Finally, against my better judgment I clicked the first option, just to make it go away. I was happy to see I was back on the website I’d originally intended to order from, with my item still in my shopping cart, and the promo code successfully applied. I can’t believe it, I thought. It actually worked.

  With that important Halloween-related task checked off my list, but many things left to take care of, I went on with my day, and quickly forgot all about the strange pop-up, and eagerly awaited my new mask.

  ***

  A few days later, I got an email telling me the package had arrived—October 29, two days before the party. But when I got home, I found an empty doorstep.

  "You didn't see a package?" I asked Alicia.

  "Didn't you get the notification?" she asked, pinning up purple and orange streamers. "We were the victim of a porch pirate." She pulled out her phone and handed it to me. "Check it out."

  We have one of those security cameras by the door—mostly to avoid Bob, our resident traveling salesman, who seems to be selling something new every week. Whenever motion is detected, it pings our phones; today I'd been swamped at work, though, and hadn't had a chance to look at it.

  I pressed play.

  I saw our doorstep—and the brown cardboard box sitting on the doorstep. Behind it, on the sidewalk, was a figure in black.

  I watched as the man approached. He walked up my sidewalk with confidence, as if he lived here. As soon as he got close—close enough for me to see his face—he tilted his pale head down.

  Then he stepped onto my porch, and, face still hidden, grabbed the package.

  He walked back down the sidewalk and disappeared.

  "Why would he steal a package of Halloween costumes?"

  "Because your costume was just so amazing, he wanted it for himself," Alicia joked, as she lined up bags of candy.

  "It wasn't amazing yet. It's just the mask." I walked over to the table and helped her set up the candy. "So we have two days, right? What else needs to be done?"

  "Well, we need to get new costumes, and I was thinking—"

  "Morticia and Gomez?" I sighed. "Fine. We'll do it."

  I thought that would be the end of it—some
guy stole the package, and that was it. We'd never see the mask again.

  I was sorely mistaken.

  As I sat at the table a few hours later, dumping candy into decorative bowls, a flash of motion caught my eye. I looked up—and saw someone walking in our backyard. At the edge of the woods.

  They were dressed entirely in black, walking along the perimeter of the forest. In the dusk light, it was hard to pick out any details about them—like their gender, or their face. The only thing I could see was that they walked with slow, deliberate movements.

  And it looked like they were wearing a white mask.

  I heard Alicia's footsteps behind me and motioned her over. "Alicia, look. There's someone in our backyard."

  "What? Seriously?"

  She joined me at the window. But by the time she did, the person had already disappeared into the forest.

  "I'm going up to bed," Alicia said. "We can finish this tomorrow."

  I followed her up. Minutes after my head hit the pillow, I fell into a deep sleep.

  Until I woke up an hour later.

  I looked at the clock. 1:34 AM. I pulled myself out of bed and trudged over to the bathroom, eyes blurred with sleep.

  The moonlight shone in from the window. I walked over to it, as if drawn by the light, and peered into the backyard below.

  I froze.

  At the edge of the backyard was a figure.

  Dressed in all black. Wearing a white mask. Facing our house, standing still as a statue.

  My heart pounded. I reached for my phone—then remembered it was still on the nightstand. I raced over and grabbed it, then looked back out the window.

  He was gone.

  ***

  The next day, in the flurry of getting ready for the party, I forgot about what I'd seen the night before. Around 6 PM, I headed out to the party store to pick up some last-minute things.

  There I received a text from Alicia.

  That was odd, in of itself. I knew she had an important call with a client that evening. Confused, I opened the text.

  What it said made no sense.