The flickering neon lights of Jasmine’s gaming setup bathed the room in a pulsing spectrum of blues, purples, and greens. She sat cross-legged in her chair, headset on, nails clacking against her mechanical keyboard as her Minecraft avatar sprinted across an open plain. A Valorant match waited in another window, her friends pinging her to hurry up and rejoin.

Downstairs, the townhouse was wrapped in silence. The only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft paws of her black cat, Jinx, padding lazily across the floor.

Her cell phone buzzed against the desk, vibrating loud enough to rattle her water bottle.

She frowned, tugging her headset down to rest around her neck. Who the hell was calling her right now?

The screen lit up — Scream: The Game.

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t even touched the physical game in months, let alone opened the app. The Ghostface voice simulator was only supposed to trigger during an active game… not randomly call her in the middle of a Valorant grind.

Curiosity prickled along her skin. She hesitated, then swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

A pause. Breathing.

Then a low voice, smooth as black velvet:

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

Jasmine huffed a short laugh, smirking to herself as she leaned her elbow against the desk.

“Real original, dude. Let me guess — you’re about to say you’re in my house next?”

Another pause — a slow inhale crackling through the speaker.

The kind of sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up before her brain could catch up.

“Maybe I am,” the voice purred, almost playful.

“Maybe I’m watching you right now.”

The smirk faltered on her lips.

She turned instinctively toward the window beside her gaming setup. The streetlights outside painted the slick pavement in thin silver streams, trees swaying in the warm night wind.

Nothing looked out of place. No shadows. No figures.

Slowly, she swiveled in her chair, turning her back to the computer and facing her bedroom door — left half-cracked open to the dark hallway beyond.

The glow of her RGB lights spilled weakly into the hall, but the landing and stairs beyond were swallowed in shadow.

The townhouse suddenly felt much too quiet.

“Cool story,” she said, trying to sound bored as she slumped casually back in her glowing chair, angling her body toward the door as if daring whoever might be watching. Her hand brushed her mouse, the neon lights of her PC throwing jagged colors across the room.

She glanced at the phone screen again. The Scream: The Game logo still glared back at her — frozen there like a dare.

““Get in line. My Valorant rank is scarier than whatever this game is.”

“I’m not playing.”

“Feisty,” the voice drawled.

“I like that. What else do you like, Jasmine?”

The sound of her name coming from the simulated voice made Jasmine sit up a little straighter.

Or at least — what she thought was the simulated voice.

But no, something was wrong.

The real Ghostface simulator was choppy, pre-recorded — it barked commands for the board game, stiff and predictable.

This voice wasn’t stiff.

It was smooth. Warm. Cruel.

It curled around her name like smoke and tasted it on its tongue.

Her fingers tightened around her phone.

“Alright, now you’re getting weird,” she said, forcing a small laugh — but her voice lacked its usual snark.

There was a pull to the call now, like a riptide she hadn’t noticed until it was already dragging her under.

A dark, magnetic edge that made her heart pick up speed.

“What if I told you…” the voice murmured, low and intimate, “I could make you scream louder than any horror game ever could?”

His words dripped with threat… and something else. Hunger.

Her thighs pressed together without her thinking about it. Heat stirred low in her belly, shocking and unwelcome.

She cleared her throat, shifting in her chair.

“I’d tell you to get a better pickup line.”

A low, dangerous chuckle ghosted through the line.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned, voice thick with promise.

“This isn’t a pickup. It’s a warning.”

A low, dangerous chuckle ghosted through the line.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned, voice thick with promise.

“This isn’t a pickup. It’s a warning.”

Downstairs, something clicked.

Jasmine stiffened, heart pounding.

A second later, the Wii home page music began to play — its cheerful, mindless tune floating up the stairwell, sweet and utterly wrong in the heavy silence of the townhouse.

She froze, her blood chilling.

Jinx let out a soft, questioning meow from somewhere downstairs, but otherwise the house was dead silent, except for that damned music.

Jasmine stared at her phone screen — the Scream: The Game logo still frozen there like an omen.

The app shouldn’t have control over her TV. It shouldn’t do anything except speak canned lines during gameplay.

This wasn’t part of the game.

She licked her dry lips, chest tightening.

It had to be a glitch. It had to be.

Right?

Gathering her courage, she slid out of her chair and padded toward her bedroom door, moving slowly, carefully.

She cracked it open wider and slipped into the upstairs hallway. The RGB glow from her gaming setup faded behind her, swallowed by the darkness ahead.

Jasmine rounded the corner on bare feet, muscles taut with tension.

At the landing, she paused.

From here, she couldn’t see the living room at all — just the narrow strip of entryway where the front door stood — still closed, the deadbolt still turned.

The wall along the stairs blocked her view, hiding whatever waited beyond.

But the music played on. Happy. Endless. Mocking.

Gritting her teeth, Jasmine edged her way down a few steps, heart hammering harder with every creak beneath her weight.

Halfway down, the wall ended — opening up the view.

She pressed her back to the cool drywall and peered carefully around the corner.

The living room stretched out in front of her, bathed in a soft blue glow from the television.

The couch sat empty.

The coffee table undisturbed.

No movement.

No sign of anyone.

But just beyond the living room, the kitchen lurked in darkness.

The half-bath door stood shut.

The back door at the far end was barely visible, a rectangular shadow among shadows.

Every cell in Jasmine’s body screamed not to go further.

And yet, the quiet draw of the house, the pulsing beat of her own fear, pulled her down another step.

One.

Another.

Another.

She tightened her grip on her phone until her knuckles ached.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

And if she didn’t move fast, she had the chilling sense that whatever was inside her house wouldn’t stay patient much longer.

Jasmine crept slowly down the stairs, her heartbeat drumming against her ribs loud enough she swore it might echo off the walls.

The cheerful, idle music of the Wii home screen floated up at her like a dare.

It was almost worse than silence — the forced happiness of it, the way it didn’t belong.

She hugged the wall as she moved, each step creaking faintly under her bare feet.

The television sat directly beside her along the wall of the stairs, its screen flickering in blue and white hues, casting long, shifting shadows across the furniture.

The couch loomed in the dim light.

The coffee table sat untouched — except for a single copy of EQ Magazines, her sister’s pride and joy, slanted across its surface.

Something about seeing it — a small, real piece of her life — made Jasmine’s stomach knot tighter.

She slid the rest of the way down the stairs, keeping low, keeping quiet.

No lights.

If someone was here — and her gut twisted, insisting someone was — she wasn’t about to hand herself over lit up like a target.

The remote was half-hidden beneath the magazine.

She knelt down, fingertips brushing the glossy cover of EQ, lingering for half a second on her sister’s name printed in the masthead like a distant promise of normalcy. “Not a dream then.” She whispered to herself

Then she snatched the remote.

Click.

The screen snapped to black.

The cheerful music died mid-bounce.

The townhouse plunged into a thicker, heavier darkness.

Only the faint orange glow from the streetlights outside painted the room in thin, skeletal outlines.

For a moment, it was silent.

Still.

Then — a breath against her ear.

“Smart girl,” Ghostface purred through the phone, his voice sliding against her like a silk glove.

“Keeping the lights off. Hiding that pretty little body in the dark…”

Jasmine flinched, whipping around instinctively, her heart ramming against her chest.

She could see nothing.

But she could feel him.

Somewhere.

Close.

“I like that,” he continued, voice lower, rougher, almost affectionate.

“I like picturing you… crawling around for me. Half-dressed. Half-scared. So ready to run.”

Her skin prickled along her spine with fear — thick, sharp, electric — mixed shamefully with something deeper, something hotter.

It left her breathless, burning from the inside out.

“You’re wasting your time,” she rasped, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“I’m not scared of some voice on a phone.”

A dark chuckle answered her — low, pleased, indulgent.

“Who said anything about a phone?” he murmured.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach.

At that moment — she heard it.

A creak.

The soft shifting of weight on linoleum.

The kitchen.

Directly across the living room.

She froze, every instinct screaming to run — but her body locked in place.

“Wanna play a new game… Jasmine?” Ghostface whispered, his voice thick with amusement, dripping with a dark, lustrous tone that made something wicked stir low inside her — made her think, maybe I do want to play.

“I’ll give you a five-second head start…”

A beat.

A smile she could hear — wide, sharp, inevitable.

“After that… I get to put my hands on you.”

His words rolled through her bloodstream like smoke — thick, dark, suffocating — and against every rational thought, her body reacted.

Heat coiled low in her belly.

Her nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric of her tank top, her skin hypersensitive to every brush of air.

Fear.

Desire.

Danger.

All braided together, impossible to untangle.

And somewhere deep inside her, a wicked, forbidden thrill answered him:

Run… but not too fast.

“One…” Ghostface’s voice curled through the phone, thick with amusement, dripping with a dark, lustrous heat that made her heart slam against her ribs.

Jasmine hesitated — just for a breath — instincts screaming at her to run.

“Two…”

A faint noise — barely more than a shuffle — came from the closed door of the half bathroom.

She snapped her gaze toward it.

“Three…”

The door exploded open with a violent crash.

A flash of black robes, the glint of a silver blade — and he was coming for her.

Jasmine choked out a gasp and bolted, her bare feet pounding the floor, her lungs burning.

She darted across the living room, flying for the stairs, grabbing the railing with slippery fingers as she hauled herself upward.

She could hear him behind her — the heavy thud of boots, the rush of fabric — a nightmare coming to life.

She made it — the top step within reach — fingers stretching out for the upper landing—

And then — a brutal, gloved hand wrapped around her ankle.

She screamed — part fear, part furious frustration — as he yanked her back with terrifying strength.

Her body slammed against the stairs, jolts of pain lancing up her spine as she tumbled halfway down, her ribs colliding with the edges of the steps, knocking the air from her lungs.

Before she could scramble, he was on her.

Ghostface pinned her down effortlessly, his weight anchoring her hips, a strong hand pressing her chest into the stairs.

The mask hovered inches from her face — that chilling white grin staring her down — while she writhed beneath him.

“Aw, baby,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery and heat.

“You almost made it.”

She thrashed, but his body caged her in completely — unmovable, inevitable.

A low, predatory chuckle rumbled from behind the mask.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you?” he purred, voice dragging slow across her nerves.

“Bad girls don’t get away.”

She gasped as she felt the cold, deliberate kiss of metal against her side — the blade, tracing her hipbone with almost loving precision.

Slowly, almost leisurely, he dragged the flat of the blade up the curve of her waist, along the exposed strip of skin where her tank top had ridden up from the struggle.

It was cold — achingly cold — but the heat unfurling low in her belly made her entire body hypersensitive, alive.

He slid the knife under the thin fabric of her tank top, right at the seam under her breast.

For a heartbeat, he simply held it there — the weight of the threat — savoring her shivering, trembling silence.

Then — with a wicked flick of his wrist — the blade sliced upward, the tank top splitting open with a soft tearing sound.

The thin cotton fluttered apart, baring her to the chill air, her skin pebbling under the sudden exposure.

Jasmine whimpered, pressing her forehead against the cold wood of the stairs, heart hammering so violently she thought it might crack open her ribs.

Ghostface’s gloved hand slid up her side, rough and slow, following the path the blade had carved — from the curve of her waist to the soft underside of her breast, fingers hovering just shy of truly touching.

“There you are,” he crooned against her ear, voice dripping with dangerous reverence.

“Knew you’d look even sweeter when you stopped running.”

The tip of the knife trailed down again — between her shoulder blades, along the delicate dip of her spine, lower and lower — so close to slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts it made her entire body tense in anticipation.

He wasn’t in a hurry.

He wanted to savor her fear.

Her heat.

Her helplessness.

And somewhere in the dark corners of her mind — Jasmine realized —

so did she.

The blade danced lower — a whisper against her lower back, dragging slow, deliberate circles over her skin — making her twitch, making her whimper against the unforgiving wood of the stairs.

Ghostface chuckled — low, rich, the sound of a man savoring his prize.

He tossed the ruined scraps of her tank top aside, the sound of the fabric hitting the floor lost under the thudding of Jasmine’s pulse in her ears.

“You’re shaking,” he crooned, the mask brushing lightly against her ear.

“Scared… or excited?”

She couldn’t answer.

Could barely think.

Her body was a livewire beneath him, every nerve ending burning, screaming, aching.

Without warning, he shifted — grabbing her hips roughly, yanking her back against his thighs so her ass pressed flush against the hard ridge of him beneath the robes.

Jasmine gasped, her hands scrabbling uselessly against the stairs for leverage, but he was too strong, too sure.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice cracking slightly with raw want.

“You feel even better than I imagined.”

The blade disappeared from her skin — she didn’t even hear it drop, too overwhelmed by the feel of his gloved hands spreading her thighs wider, forcing her into a helpless, vulnerable arch across the stairs.

She whimpered — a high, desperate sound — and felt him laugh low against her back.

“You gonna beg me to stop, pretty girl?” he murmured, dragging a hand down her spine, slow, possessive, almost tender if not for the ruthless grip that followed — squeezing her ass, her thighs, marking her with his touch.

“Or are you gonna beg me for more?”

Jasmine squeezed her eyes shut, humiliated by how wet she already felt — how the fear, the danger, the powerlessness had twisted itself into molten heat between her legs.

She was panting now — small, desperate gasps — trapped under him, burning alive.

One of his hands slipped under the waistband of her shorts, fingers sliding slow and unforgiving between her thighs.

He groaned — deep, guttural — when he felt the soaked fabric there.

“Fuck,” he hissed against her ear.

“You’re dripping for me already.”

She shook her head weakly — a pathetic attempt at denial — but he only laughed again, low and dark and devastating.

“No use fighting it now, baby,” Ghostface whispered, mouth against the shell of her ear, the mask scraping her skin lightly with every cruel word.

“You ran. You lost. Now you’re mine.”

He peeled her shorts down with a rough yank — exposing her fully to the night air, to him — to whatever he wanted to take.

And he wanted everything.

She whimpered again, helpless, as he pressed the hard, heavy length of himself against the bare curve of her ass, grinding just enough to make her arch involuntarily, chasing friction.

“Yeah,” he growled, one hand wrapping in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to whisper it directly against her lips through the mask.

“That’s it. Show me how bad you need it.”

Jasmine whimpered again, thighs trembling — torn between the terror of the moment and the raw, aching need he had forced out of her.

There was no pretending anymore.

No hiding.

Her body wanted this.

Wanted him.

And he was going to take it — all of it — until she had nothing left to give but broken gasps and whispered moans.

Ghostface shifted his weight again, forcing her thighs open wider, pinning her with his hips and the bruising strength of his hands, the dark silk of his robe brushing her exposed skin in maddening, teasing strokes.

“Ready or not, princess,” Ghostface purred, grinding the heavy, throbbing head of his cock against her soaked pussy, “here I come.”

And then — he plunged into her, deep and brutal, splitting her open in a single savage thrust that knocked the air from her lungs.

Jasmine screamed into the stairwell — a raw, broken sound — her body jerking under him as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside her dripping, trembling cunt.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he snarled, voice rough behind the mask, hips snapping hard against her ass.

“Like you were made to be fucked like this. Made to be ruined.”

She tried to buck against him, to fight, to do something — but every savage thrust stole the strength from her legs, each bruising slam driving her further down into the stairs, helpless to resist.

The stretch burned.

The shock of him, the overwhelming fullness, burned.

And God help her, it felt fucking incredible.

Her nails scraped uselessly at the stairs, her body arching without permission, chasing the punishing rhythm he set.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growled, pounding into her harder now, the sound of wet, brutal slaps filling the dark air.

“You love getting fucked like a little bitch in heat.”

“Go to hell,” Jasmine hissed, baring her teeth, spitting the words even as her pussy clenched around him like a vice.

Ghostface laughed — a low, wicked rumble.

“Baby,” he said, punctuating every word with a savage thrust, “you’re already there.”

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back sharply, forcing her to arch for him, to take him even deeper.

“Scream for me,” he ordered against her ear, voice low and brutal.

“Let everyone know you’re mine now.”

Jasmine bit her lip hard enough to draw blood — but the orgasm built inside her like a runaway train, unstoppable, savage, clawing its way up her spine.

The next thrust shattered her.

She screamed — loud and wild and raw — her entire body locking up around him, spasming uncontrollably as wave after brutal wave of pleasure crashed through her.

Ghostface didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

He fucked her through it, drawing out every broken moan, every desperate sob, every helpless twitch of her ruined body.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he growled.

“Cum all over my cock. Soak it. Let the whole fucking world hear you.”

She came again — and again — her legs giving out, her mind blurring into white static.

By the third orgasm, she was a sobbing, gasping mess, drooling into the stairs, no strength left to even lift her head.

“Who do you belong to, slut?” he demanded, slamming into her so hard the banister rattled.

“You,” she gasped, broken, delirious, tears streaking her face.

“I’m yours! I’m yours!”

“Damn right you are.”

Without warning, he pulled out — the sudden emptiness making her whimper pathetically — and dropped to his knees behind her.

Before she could even process it, his mouth was on her.

Ghostface devoured her from behind, eating her pussy with savage, wet hunger, tongue lashing her clit, fingers spreading her open obscenely.

He ate like a starving man — messy, ruthless, growling against her slick folds as he feasted on her.

Jasmine sobbed, hips jerking uncontrollably — another orgasm tearing through her almost instantly, her vision going white around the edges.

He gripped her thighs tighter, holding her shaking body in place, lapping up every drop, groaning into her like she was the only thing he needed to live.

She tried to crawl away — instinct, panic, overstimulation — but he slapped her ass hard enough to leave a perfect, burning handprint.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snarled against her dripping cunt.

“You’re not done yet.”

He ate her harder — teeth scraping her inner thighs, tongue stabbing deep inside her — until she was screaming, thrashing, cumming again with no control, her whole body a trembling wreck under his mouth.

Only then — only when she was completely destroyed — did he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove, breathing heavy behind the mask.

“You’re such a fucking mess,” he said, almost admiringly.

Jasmine whimpered something incoherent — a sob, a plea, maybe a curse — but she didn’t even know anymore.

With brutal ease, he grabbed her waist and flipped her over — hauling her limp body up and tossing her like a ragdoll onto her back, legs flopping open on either side of him.

She blinked up at him — dazed, ruined — barely able to lift her head.

The mask loomed over her.

Jasmine, running on pure stubborn defiance, reached up weakly and grabbed at the mask, trying to rip it off.

Ghostface growled — low and dangerous — and slapped her hard across the face.

The sound cracked through the stairwell, and Jasmine gasped, the sting blooming hot across her cheek.

“Don’t fucking touch the mask,” he snarled, grabbing her jaw roughly, forcing her to look up at him.

“You don’t get to see. You just get to suck.”

He shoved his cock — slick and throbbing, soaked in her juices — against her swollen lips.

“Open,” he barked.

Jasmine, trembling, parted her lips obediently.

Ghostface slid into her mouth — thick, heavy, merciless — forcing her jaw wide.

He groaned low as she wrapped her lips around him, her tongue swirling instinctively.

“Good girl,” he hissed, driving deeper with brutal thrusts of his hips, face-fucking her without mercy.

The mask stared down at her — expressionless — as he used her mouth, thrust after savage thrust, the obscene wet sounds filling the air.

She gagged, eyes watering — but it only made him groan harder, one hand fisted tight in her hair, holding her head in place as he fucked her throat.

“You like choking on my cock, don’t you, princess?” he growled, voice rough and brutal.

“Like being my little fucktoy?”

Jasmine whimpered around him, tears streaking her cheeks, drool dripping down her chin — utterly ruined, utterly his.

He fucked her harder, faster — the pace brutal — until he was grunting, hips stuttering.

“Take it,” he snarled.

“Fucking take it all.”

With a final, savage thrust, he buried himself deep, groaning low and broken as he came — thick, hot spurts filling her mouth.

Jasmine swallowed automatically, dazed, her throat working as she took every drop he gave her.

When he finally pulled out, a string of spit and cum still connected them.

She collapsed back against the stairs — panting, sobbing, shaking — her body utterly destroyed, her mind shattered into glittering pieces.

Ghostface loomed over her, cock still twitching, mask gleaming in the darkness.

“And that,” he said, low and satisfied, “was just round one.”