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The stench of stale beer and a decaying refrigerator seeped through the thin wooden walls of the old cabin.
"You ain't right for that, sir!"
Blared from the small, flickering television in the corner, as black-and-white images moved across the screen.
The man slumped in the worn armchair let out a groan, fed up with the same old, monotonous movies.
He took a long swig from a cheap bottle of beer clutched in one hand while the other held a cold, half-eaten slice of pizza.
His peace was interrupted by a series of sharp knocks on the door.
He paused, unsure if the sound was real or just a figment of his imagination.
When the knocking persisted, though softer this time, he grumbled under his breath. "What the hell is that?"
Rising slowly from the chair, his gut jiggling slightly with each step, he scratched his unkempt beard and adjusted his stained white undershirt.
Visitors were a rarity these days, so he was both curious and cautious as he approached the door, the beer bottle still firmly in his grasp.
"Who's there?" He called out, his voice tinged with suspicion.
"Dewey?" The voice on the other side was familiar, filled with nostalgia. Dewey didn't need to hear more—he swung the door open, a broad smile spreading across his face. "It's me, Stilinski—oof!"
Before Sheriff Stilinski could react, Dewey enveloped him in a bear hug, nearly knocking the wind out of him.
The Sheriff, caught off guard, stiffened as the pungent smell of stale beer assaulted his senses. Dewey quickly pulled back, realizing his over-enthusiasm.
"Sorry about that." Dewey mumbled, his face flushing with embarrassment.
Sheriff Stilinski waved it off with a polite smile. "No, it's fine."
"Come on in." Dewey said, stepping aside to let the Sheriff enter the cluttered cabin. He picked up another bottle of beer from a half-empty case on the floor. "Care for a drink?"
The Sheriff shook his head, declining with a friendly but firm. "No thanks. I've got a parent-teacher meeting at my son's school after this."
Dewey's eyes lit up. "Oh yeah, Stiles! Haven't seen that kid in ages. How old is he now? Twelve, thirteen?"
"Sixteen." The Sheriff corrected with a chuckle.
"Time flies, doesn't it?" Dewey mused, sinking back into his armchair.
He motioned for the Sheriff to take a seat on the worn-out couch opposite him.
"So, how's your boy doing?"
"Henry's doing well." Dewey replied, pride evident in his voice. "He's working under Gale now, trying his hand at journalism. Following in his mom's footsteps."
"That's great. What kind of journalism?" The Sheriff asked.
"Investigative." Dewey answered, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Stilinski smirked. "Not entirely following in his mom's footsteps, then."
They shared a brief, knowing laugh, but Dewey quickly noticed the tension lurking behind the Sheriff's friendly demeanor.
"So, what brings you out here?" Dewey asked, his tone turning serious. "Not that I don't appreciate a visit, but I know you wouldn't come all the way out here just for a chat."
Sheriff Stilinski sighed heavily, pulling out a small stack of photos from his coat pocket.
He spread them out on the table between them.
The top photo showed the pale, lifeless body of a young girl, her abdomen punctured with two stab wounds.
The most striking detail, though, was the dagger still embedded in her chest, its hilt engraved with the unmistakable image of Ghostface.
Dewey's face paled as he examined the photos, his hands trembling slightly. He leaned in closer, scrutinizing every detail with a grim expression.
"When were these taken?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"This morning." The Sheriff replied somberly.
"Who's the victim?" Dewey asked, not taking his eyes off the gruesome images.
"Jessica Stanley, sixteen years old. High school student. She was reported missing ten days ago. We found her body in the woods this morning."
Dewey nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "And the knife?"
"Two stab wounds to the abdomen." The Sheriff recited. "Signs of starvation and dehydration. Thirteen of her nails were clipped off."
Dewey's brow furrowed. "Her nails?"
The Sheriff nodded. "It's a detail that stood out to us as well."
Dewey flipped through the photos again, his eyes narrowing as he studied them. After a long moment, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply.
"What do you think?" The Sheriff asked, watching his old friend closely.
Dewey didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a long sip of his beer, his eyes distant as he collected his thoughts.
"This is just another copycat." He said finally. "Billy Loomis was impulsive, driven by rage and a twisted sense of entitlement. He didn't care about leaving evidence behind—he killed because he wanted to, and he didn't think about the consequences. But this one…this one's different. He's careful, methodical. He doesn't want to get caught, and that makes him more dangerous."
Dewey paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "All the Ghostfaces have followed some sort of pattern, a killer's code, if you will. They always model their killings after something—a movie, a motive. But this one…he's trying to be different. He's trying to stand out in his own way, but he's also trying to stay under the radar."
Sheriff Stilinski listened intently, his face growing more serious with every word.
"The franchise is over, Gale stopped writing her books and the movies ended so did the copycats, or so we thought." Dewey continued. "But if this killer sees himself as part of that legacy, he's going to follow the rules of the reboot. He'll want to make a big impact, but he'll also play mind games. He'll keep you guessing, make you think you're safe, and then strike when you least expect it."
Dewey sighed again, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as he leaned back into the cushion. "Or at least that's what he'll try to do."
The Sheriff took a moment to process everything Dewey had said. It was a lot to take in, but it confirmed his worst fears.
"So, you think he's going to kill again?" The Sheriff asked quietly.
"One hundred percent." Dewey replied, not taking his eyes off the television.
"Any idea how I can find this guy?" The Sheriff pressed, standing up to leave.
Dewey shook his head. "It's hard to say. We only have one victim so far. It's too early to tell what his real motive is."
The Sheriff nodded, accepting the uncertainty of the situation. "Or this could just be a fluke—a copycat trying to throw us off the trail."
"Could be." Dewey replied half-heartedly, his attention drifting back to the television.
Sheriff Stilinski sighed, extending his hand. "Thanks for the advice, Dewey."
Dewey shook his hand with a tired smile. "Anytime, partner. And hey, thanks for stopping by."
As the Sheriff turned to leave, Dewey's voice stopped him in his tracks. "But if this happens again, I'd bet every penny I've got left on one thing."
Sheriff Stilinski turned back, raising an eyebrow. "What's that?"
"The killer is one of those kids at her school."