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Will You?
Part 2: Your Ghosts
Poly!Ghostface x AFAB!Reader. Enemies to lovers. Eventual Smut.
“Oh, so slowly he stalks forward, one gloved hand coming up to wipe crimson away from the knife in a taunt so self-assured it lights an unexpected fire in your stomach. Unfortunately for you, the only way out of this is to go through him.”
A/N: Hi, hi, hi! Despite everything I am here, and I bring you this! Chapter two, wowee! I hope ya’ll enjoy it. It’s a pretty rough one in terms of content, just fyi. Next chapter comes the real good stuff :) hah
Word count: 5,463
Warnings: Uhhh graphic violence. Lots of blood. Knives are involved. Name calling and also degradation. They’re literally trying to kill you in this one so just like. Beware! Stu fucks with you. Very brief mentions of sex bc Billy is ridiculous lol. Romanticizing things that definitely shouldn’t be romanticized. Reader makes bad decisions. And? Randy being a (lovable) dumbass.
Chapter 1
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It’s been a terribly dead shift at Woodsboro Video tonight, and you can’t seem to figure out why.
Randy’s certainly been bouncing his crazy theories off of you as to where the usual pre-weekend crowd could be. He keeps popping up at the most random of times to go on some long-winded rant, leaning over you as you do your crossword puzzle in between ringing out the occasional customer. At first, it was just about how obviously none of the movies that came out this week were good enough for anyone to check out, and to that, you had shrugged and nodded along in agreement. You were the one who stocked the “New Releases” wall when you came in today, and you’re not sure you’d be able to remember a single title even if it could save your life.
His theories soon devolved into the half-witted nonsense you’ve come to know and love about him. He sounded genuinely worried for a second as he went on and on about how there was probably a fifty-car pile-up slash explosion somewhere that left your neck of the woods inaccessible. The look on his face when he turned to gaze out the window, eyes off in the general direction of the highway like he’d spot a giant mushroom cloud in the distance, was enough to have you snort so loud that you’re sure the one, annoying drunk guy in the back could hear it.
Speaking of.
“God, can you believe that asshole?”
The sound of Randy’s voice is heard right before the rattling of the front doors slamming shut, and you look up just in time to see him come around the counter. This is the most annoyed you think you’ve ever seen him, and you find yourself missing the happy little grin he usually sports around closing time. Long since has it been replaced with an irritated frown, brought upon by the evening’s last patron.
This guy just would not leave no matter your efforts to get him out. Even after the five-minute announcement was made (by Randy, again, in the bitchiest tone you’ve ever heard), he continued to stagger around the aisles—not a care in the world. You’re so sure he was drunk, not only by his behavior but also by how he could not feel the absolute daggers the two of you were glaring at him.
If you could will yourself to shoot lasers from your eyes, you would have.
Your ever so gracious co-worker enlisted you in cleaning the restrooms while he took care of the guy, and you’d only just come back from your task a few moments prior, waiting patiently by the register area as you watched him corral the drunken bastard toward the front. You’d laughed when you saw him, arms waving in exaggerated movements as he recited the time so the dude would finally take a hint. He’d even propped the doors open on the off chance the drunkard would get confused at the mere concept of pushing them open himself.
“What the hell was with him, anyway?” You ask, tone equally as annoyed as you shift your weight, leaning your hip into the counter. As he gets closer, Randy reaches out his palm and curls his fingers in a little gimme motion, and you’re quick to drop your set of work keys into it.
“I don’t even know—fuck customers, man! We should start locking the doors and hunting them for sport once it’s past ten.” He grumbles, and you can tell that all of this frustration has gotten him flustered by the way he tries (and fails) to clip your set back onto the large collection of keys attached to the belt loop on his khakis. You bite your lip to keep yourself from giggling as he curses, the sound of jingling increasing in volume with each missed attempt. The fourth time’s the charm. “I can’t wait to go home.”
“You and me both.” You sigh dreamily at the mention of leaving, already starting to think of the hot date you’ve got with your bathtub and that book you’ve been meaning to make time for.
It’s the first Friday of the month, which means it’s finally your turn to get the weekend off—if no one else decides to call off, that is.
“Thanks for coming in tonight, by the way. I can’t believe Jean called out, again.”
“Yeah, what a wretched bitch.” He deadpans and for a second you think he’s serious, but then he’s got on that signature dumbass grin that you’ve missed so much. Annoyed frown Randy is not nearly as much fun as normal Randy, that’s for sure. “It’s all good! You know I’d never miss a chance to work with my favorite associate.”
He drags out the word “favorite” for so long that you snort out a sheepish, “Aww, you!”
By no you’ve remembered you actually have things to do, and you push yourself away from the counter to check the garbage bins. It’s the last thing on your cleaning checklist before you can finally move on to the more thrilling stuff—like organizing the clearance section before you sit in the back and wait for Randy to finish counting the safe.
“I know you would have missed me, anyway.” He continues his teasing as he trails along behind you, leaning against the entrance window in a way that’s supposed to be smooth, but you’re way too busy checking the bin by the doors to notice. You sigh in relief when you see it’s not even half full. “Besides, we both know the real reason you called me. Just can’t go a single day without seeing this pretty face of mine, huh?”
“Hah! You’re so right.” With a short laugh, your head snaps to him, giddy with the knowledge that you won’t be taking the garbage out back tonight. The way he’s propped up on the glass is ridiculous, hand resting on his hip as he sends a faux demure look your way. Despite all of the jokes, you genuinely do appreciate his help. This stupid virgin has gotten you through some of the worst work-related experiences of your life.
Your gaze softens.
“What would I have done without you tonight, Dee?”
Even in the dim lighting, you can see the way he flushes from your comment, obviously not expecting a bit of sincerity in between all of the humor. In a very Randy move, he makes a funny noise to deflect and comes away from his pose to nudge your shoulder with his knuckles. “Crumble under the immense pressure surely. They would have found you curled up on the floor in hysterics in the morning—probably in a puddle of your own bodily fluids.”
“You’re such an idiot.” You laugh, more endeared than anything else. You’re too busy gazing outside to put any malice behind it anyway, eyes squinting as you lean in closer to the glass. It’s almost like you can’t believe what you’re seeing.
You sigh so hard that Randy can see your chest deflate from behind, and when he asks what’s wrong your hands motion towards the parking lot for emphasis. His eyes follow your line of sight, and for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, you share an annoyed glance. You’re not even disappointed at this point, really, just tired.
All the way on the other end of the parking lot, almost hidden by shadow are a couple of shopping carts that unmistakably belong to Woodsboro Video. They’re all together in a cluster of obnoxious neon, almost like someone decided to be polite enough to gather them for you, but didn’t want to bother to actually bring them back into the store.
“We could just leave them.” Randy offers kindly, even though you’re already shaking your head. You wish you hadn’t noticed them out there, but now that you have it’ll be all you can think about. Your boss will definitely give you guys a hard time if he finds them out there in the morning, anyway.
What’s a little late-night walk across the parking lot going to hurt, anyway?
“I’ll save us the lecture.” You mutter, turning just enough to shoot him a smile from over your shoulder. “It’s not a big deal. Go finish your duties, Mr. Management. I’ve got this.
“You sure?” He sounds like he might protest, but your hand is already wrapping itself around the handle and opening the door. Randy’s a sweetheart and all, but you’d honestly rather get everything finished up and get out before midnight rolls around. You’ve been stuck here long enough.
“I think I can handle a few shopping carts.” Your smile turns into a reassuring little grin, finger poking him in the chest and then moving to point toward the back of the store. “Now, go! Do your duties so we can blow this popsicle stand.”
“Alright, alright.” He rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in a dramatic fashion, but thankfully does as you say. “Just don’t get kidnapped and murdered on the clock. It wouldn’t be good for my reputation.”
It takes everything in you not to chase after him before he gets too far away, and honestly, it’s kind of impressive how his laughter fades only slightly as the door closes behind you.
The night air is pleasantly warm against your chilled skin.
For some reason, the A.C. inside of the store never seems to shut off, and one of the vents just so happens to be positioned directly above the register area. This meant the last eight hours or so of your life was spent standing under a gust of wind fit for a yeti, and of course, your standard-issue work attire is irritatingly thin. Not even your favorite sweater over top is defense enough, and most days you find yourself leaving work with stiffened limbs and permanent goosebumps.
The impact of your steps creates an eerie echo across the empty parking lot, and if you hadn’t done this at least a hundred times before you’d probably be a little creeped out by the way it emphasizes how truly alone you are out here. By now the other stores in the plaza have been closed for nearly two hours, and there’s only a second, equally as empty lot on the other side of the shrubbery that used to belong to a drug store.
You swear you can’t even hear anyone on the roads. Maybe Randy was right about that pile-up after all.
You take your time gathering the carts together in hopes that it’ll kill a bit of time. The clashing of metal is almost deafening against the silence, and you wince each time the sound grates against your ears. Making sure to loop each of the seat straps together so they don’t come apart on your way back, you give them a hard tug for good measure.
Just after one particularly loud crash, you swear there’s a different kind of noise. It’s a rustling– like the bushes caught a soft breeze– and if it weren’t for the small crunching sound afterward, you’d probably write it off as such.
You’re quick to turn, eyes flicking back and forth along the unkempt shrubbery as if at any moment something is going to jump out and grab at you. You halt in a way that only comes with the sudden onset of instinctual panic, the juxtaposition of mood enough to make your head spin, jaw set, and palms becoming clammy in record time.
The mere concept that you’re not as alone as you previously thought has your stomach turning.
It’s the rational part of your mind, the part that tells you that it’s probably just a raccoon or something, that keeps you from scurrying off to safety and leaving the damn carts for someone else to take care of, and when nothing jumps out at you— when no ghost faced mask comes peeping up over the brush— you decide that whatever you heard was just your mind playing tricks on you.
Despite this decision, you do not take your time as you gather up the last cart. Paranoia begins to make your motor skills clumsy, fingers fumbling to tie it to the rest of the group while you try to ignore any movement you think you see out of the corner of your eyes.
Who would have thought Woodsboro Video would ever become a beacon of hope for you at a time like this?
You keep the carts behind you to give yourself some sense of security, sweaty hands clutching the basket side for dear life as you make your way back. The nauseous feeling in your tummy never goes away no matter how much the distance between you and the store shortens.
Maybe you’d feel better if the carts’ wheels would stop getting caught on things. Every half dozen steps or so there’s a snag and you have to give them a slight tug to get them back on track. It happens a good four or five times before you start to get annoyed, curses of increasing severity escaping you with every abrupt stop.
Almost there.
This time when the carts snag it almost sends you backward. You turn to catch yourself, hips banging hard while you bend over at the waist in an embarrassing display that makes you glad Randy wasn’t here to be a witness. The groan you let out is equal parts pained and frustrated. Your hand rubs at your lower stomach to try and soothe away the throbbing ache that’s radiating there, and you know that you’re probably going to be sporting a nasty bruise. Thankfully the pain subsides soon enough because you’re entirely unprepared for what meets you when you straighten out of your slouched position.
What you’re entirely unprepared for is that this time, when your eyes catch movement, it’s no longer in your periphery.
No.
It’s only about six feet in front of you, on the other side of your shopping cart barrier.
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