Chapter Text
The office has never looked so lively before. People he hardly speaks to address him like an old friend, coworkers who seemed the wallflower type mingling with the rest in an odd subversion of his expectations. Maybe it’s the music, urging everyone to stay active and meander around. Maybe It’s the alcohol. But Jed can’t help smiling as he waves to Diane Perkins and compliments the dress she wore for the occasion, shakes hands with Roger Donnely and tells him his article on the recent burglary down by Bridgley was captivating and a highlight of the month for the Roseville Gazette. The energy is electric with good feelings as Jed Olsen compliments his way through the crowd as he tries to look for one man in particular.
Gold and black streamers litter the walls and confetti of the same color scheme litters the floor, clinging to his shoes as he squeezes between folks in conversation and his eye catches the television propped up in the back of the room. It has a few streamers hanging off of the box with the golden numbers “1993” hanging above it, showcasing the year they’ll be moving into in a few minutes now. People have already gathered around the screen which broadcasts another party, a much larger party out in the open several states over. Thousands of people cheer and hold up bottles of alcohol in the cold while the camera switches from their excited faces to the large and bright ball sitting at the top of a pole. He’s got a few minutes left now to find who he’s looking for, preferably before everyone gets distracted by the celebrations. He’s just about ready to ask someone where Jackson went when he spots the man by the drink table, pouring himself a glass of wine and keeping his gaze on the television. Bingo.
Jed is by the man’s side finally, tapping him on the shoulder as the older gentleman nearly drops his glass in surprise. Jackson Muller laughs it off however, steadying himself with a wide grin. “Olsen! Give me a warning first won't you? Didn’t even hear you walk up.” He bites his tongue on mentioning that with the music playing and conversation it’s hard to hear anything, but instead just grabs a glass and holds it out with a smile. Jackson, the chief editor at the Roseville Gazette, obliges and fills his glass. “Sorry, I saw you standing here and thought I’d come over and chat.” Jed sips his drink and fixes himself properly by the other’s side, looking out over the sea of his coworkers and feeling like he’s watching everyone from another room, behind a one way mirror.
“New Year, huh?” Three minutes until then exactly, and the older man just nods his head. “New Year indeed, and by the looks of it a good one too. You’ve gotten the hang of things around here Olsen, you adapt like no man I’ve ever seen before. We throw you curveballs and you just knock them out of the park.” He wouldn’t describe being called to write articles last minute and asking him to work longer hours as playful curveballs, but he laughs regardless, nodding along like it doesn’t matter. “It’s like what my old man always said, when life comes at you hard and fast you either be prepared to take the hit or kiss your ass goodbye. That’s the way it is here, yaknow? How it is in this country. Hard workers make it happen.”
There’s a surge of pride in his chest when he sees his boss nod along, not for patriotism, but for knowing exactly what to say to engrain himself in this space. Once Jed brings up the greatness of America and how privileged they both were to be Americans it’s like social situations write themselves, especially with Jackson. “Your father raised you right then, Olsen. Damn right.” “Damn right.” They share a laugh as the room suddenly gets louder, and they both get the same idea when looking back to the tv. The countdown has started, and they’re already past the minute mark. 20 seconds. Everyone murmurs excitedly, readying small confetti poppers and bottles with corks to shoot off into the new year. The crowd around the television is too dense to push past, but luckily for Jed he’s able to see it somewhat clearly from this angle and height. 15 seconds. Despite his lack of genuine interest in the celebration itself, he can’t help but get goosebumps when the camera pans over the borderline feral crowds of people watching the ball slowly descend down the pole. Couples waiting for that perfect kiss, friends hyping one another up and downing cans of beer. Jed can’t help but notice the officers waiting by the gates, urging people back just barely captured by the panning camera. His mind wanders to wonder about how dangerous it must be to stand in the middle of that writhing mass of bodies, how terrible the smell must be. 10 seconds.
“10! 9! 8! 7! . . .”
The countdown begins properly, and the room quits the unorganized chatter and begins to chant in unison even if Jed himself stays quiet. Jackson joins their voices, and the broadcast is on the ball now as it descends closer and closer to the bottom of the pole.
“. . . 6! 5! 4! . . .”
A perspective changes briefly in the program, back to looking over the wave of people and truly displaying the scale of the event for the viewers to see. Those cheering people, blurry in the television’s quality and making them all blur into one mass of humanity. His coworkers look towards the countdown in the corner of the screen, while Jed focuses on the bigger picture. Police attempt to de-escalate a fight that’s broken out by the aisles between two different groups of people. Some people are pushed out of the way so others can see the sights better. All in a short few seconds he’s able to glean before It’s back to the ball.
“3!”
Jed goes to sip his wine when Jackson bumps their glasses together, raising his own with another wide grin.
“2!”
He returns the expression and raises his own glass, a toast to the occasion as the world waits with bated breath.
“1!”
Confetti floods the screen as fireworks fill the sky both in the broadcast and outside the office window. The sound of small poppers popping fills the air along with the whoops and hollers of the staff at the Roseville Gazette. Couples kiss, bottles pop, the world screams, and people are carried away by police with bloodied faces down the aisle to the nearest hospital. His wine glints a beautiful shade of red in the strobing lights.
“Happy New Year.”
~ ~ ~
It feels like a dream walking through this cold and quiet space, dead leaves crunching beneath his boots as the fog obscures any chance he has of seeing past a few feet in front of himself. Trees keep him pinned to this single path on both sides and It’s only now that he realizes he’s been wandering for a very long time. But it doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense to Danny. Why is he in the woods? He doesn’t remember going out to any forests, and in fact he doesn’t remember much at all. Just… a scream. A woman, perhaps? High pitched and shrill in his ears, but he struggles to recall the context of it. Who was screaming, where were they? A feeling begins to settle in his chest as the scream replays in his head, and with it he begins to remember that he was running. Yes, he had been running, hadn’t he? That’s why he’s so tired, why his legs are so sore. Or is that because he’s really been walking for hours without a break?
It ignited something in him that compelled Danny to run, to chase some sort of unspecified prey until they must’ve eluded him and now he’s lost in the woods somewhere which still doesn’t make sense. Why did he chase someone into the woods? It’s easy to have his mind wander like this when it’s so quiet and isolated out here, without the idle background noise of wildlife to keep him on edge. He lazily brings a gloved hand to his belt, oddly dreamlike as he confirms that his knife is still in the leather sheath around his hip. Good, he isn’t defenseless. The hand moves to his pocket where he feels around and finds something smooth, pulling it out and glancing down at his palm. A small bottle of cologne, cheap but familiar and without even having to open it the smell hits his senses and makes him cringe back. This stuff is reserved for visits he hasn’t planned out completely, which begins to back up the story he’s already spinning for himself.
Danny had been planning to leave Roseville by car for weeks, and so he must’ve left and hit the road by now. Yes, he had to have been driving, but why stop near someplace like this? Was there an easy target? Was that the scream? But there’s no story to tell when you kill in the woods. The only audience that gives it attention are the beasts that live there, and there’s no worth in performing for woodpeckers or brown bears. There’s nothing here for him. The cologne is pocketed, and he reaches up to wipe the sweat off his forehead only to come into contact with the mask he’s molded his entire identity around. It being on his face lets his questions settle, and instead he just keeps going, moving through the mist like a specter and fails to take notice of the way his straps flow behind himself like ghostly serpents, punctuating the uncanny feelings of his presence.
Despite the absurdity of everything he doesn’t feel as nervous as he should, lacking the panic the average man would have finding themselves in this situation. It doesn’t feel real to Danny, like he’s sleepwalking with his eyes open and any moment he’s going to snap awake and find himself fallen asleep pulled over on the side of the road, having dreamed everything up. And then he can get back to planning his next stop, already having eyed Arizona for a while and put a pin in that general area. It makes about as much sense as anything else at this point, but right as he settles on this being a surreal subconscious manifestation he spots something new in the distance. A warm ember-y glow that breaks through the darkness like a beacon, just barely obscured by the dense foliage but still beckoning Danny’s attention. Without much thought he begins to make his way towards it, like a moth to the flame, the crack of branches under him dull compared to what he can hear as the gentle crackle of a fire before him.
He stands just outside of the clearing made around the campfire, unsure exactly of how long it's taken him to get here but he’s here now and above the gentle flickering of the light is the voices of people, actual people he doesn’t recognize but who sit here and talk amongst themselves regardless. They don’t notice the man standing behind the trees, watching them quietly with dulled curiosity as their presence only muddies his mind further.
Before anything else he’s reminded of camping with his father, a memory that, although initially warm and nostalgic, quickly turns to something sour in his heart. The warmth of the campfire. The sweetness of the s’mores. The fear in his heart at the stories his dad told him, about war and honor and being a man. The coldness of the night. The snoring from the tent. The fire reflecting off his blade. Fragments of memories that bring back feelings strong enough to snap him out of his stupor, to process the situation as he should and banish those ugly thoughts back into his head. He can feel the air chill his skin now, the sweat dripping down his forehead and most of all his beating heart.
Why am I in the woods right now?
Daniel’s stomach lurches with newfound anxiety, gripping the tree hard enough to feel it through his gloves as suddenly the world sways beneath his feet and he tries instead to focus on the people talking in front of him. But their words don’t make sense either. None of it does.
“. . . You got a map last match, right? Have anything to add to it?”
“Naw, haven’t been lucky enough this time around. It’s not worth shit right now, but we haven’t been able to scrounge up anything better so it’s all we have. How’s the flower picking gone for you? Any good primrose?”
It’s hard to tell the details on their faces but a male figure turns to another member of the campfire circle, a woman with colorful hair and a stiff demeanor.
“Nothing. I came up empty handed. No primrose, sweet williams, not even a fucking satchet. It’s all bullshit. Our saving grace was that flashlight but someone here had to insist she take it into last trial and waste it. Now I can’t find anything out there.”
The woman being referred to stands up and grabs what looks to be the flashlight in question and moves to beat the colorful haired girl over the head with it, only to be stopped by the others but at this point Danny has already slunk back onto the path and is gripping his head as fear seizes his chest. What the fuck are they talking about? It doesn’t matter, he just needs to backtrack and find his car. These people can talk about whatever weird stuff they want to, fight however long they need to, it’s none of his damn business and he’s already moving to walk back in the direction he came from. Must’ve left his keys in because he can’t feel them in his pockets, his steps turning to a brisk jog as adrenaline courses through his veins and the cloying darkness around him starts to feel like a physical weight on his body. Like running at the bottom of the ocean, alone but never sure of that.
He can only process that he’s running by how fast the trees whip around him and can only tell he’s torn the mask off his face by the cold air stinging his eyes and freezing the sweat on his skin. It’s endless. Endless forest endless trees endless sky endless darkness surrounding him as only now does he realize his straps have become long ribbons behind him by how they whistle and whip in the air like flags, noisy but becoming background sound against his hammering heart and labored breathing. Where is the clearing? How far had he been walking, and for how long? His fit physique helps him clear fallen tree trunks and rocks but it doesn’t bring him closer to any destination, and each branch that claws at him feels like monsters nipping at his heels. There is nothing to guide him, no campfire, no moonlight either.
But like a developing photograph the environment around him seems to shift and change in slow subtle ways, less trees, a more open path, taller grass he nearly trips over as suddenly the fog opens before him and the trees pull back to reveal something new. Finally, something new, a welcome sight but not a comforting one. The trees are sparse but still around, and before him stands a large building made of wood logs and lit by flickering orange lights, barely providing enough lighting to make the whole building out but at least the moon, now visible, basks everything in its pale reflection of sunlight. Danny’s legs ache from the sprint and his lungs burn and yet he still forces himself forwards, the woods feeling hostile now that he has the potential for shelter.
The pale mask gently taps against the knife sheath on his hip as he steps forward to examine the building further, taking note of the railway coming out from inside of it and breaking off a few feet from what he sees as an entrance. Mine carts full of coal are either toppled over or pressed against one another in the vicinity and he wonders where the hell he ended up if there’s just a mining operation out in the open like this, but it being abandoned quiets that thought. Sure. It’s not impossible that there’s an abandoned mining facility in the woods. It’s just… strange. Like everything else.
With a hesitancy he isn’t used to he steps into the building and turns a corner, watching as the railway leads down and when he walks in far enough to see where it leads he’s surprised to find a caved in entrance, rubble and wood planks covering it up and leaving him to ponder what became of this place. What was its story? If only the walls could speak. Daniel catches a glimpse of something shimmering in the old dirt and moves to take a closer look, only for something rough and jagged to snap against his ankle and cause him to double over and let out a shrill cry into the open air.
A bear trap tears into Danny’s leg like a starving animal’s locked jaws, tearing his flesh asunder and scraping against his bone as its victim wheezes out and desperately tries to pull the metal teeth apart only to feel blood run slick and hot down his fingertips. They tear his gloves like they’re made of cheap fabric and not high quality leather, leaving Danny desperate and too caught up in the pain to think of a practical way out of this that doesn’t involve mangling his hands. He doesn’t even notice the heavy thumps rounding the corner above his own heartbeat and screams, only made aware of the new presence when a shadow looms over his ensnared form.
His head turns upwards once he notices the figure eclipsing the moonlight and through tear filled eyes it’s hard to make out what he’s looking at, outside the obvious point that it’s a human being. Or at the very least shaped like one. Tall and imposing, breathing heavily with its expression hidden behind a different kind of stark white mask he’s never seen before. It’s so… jagged, reminding him briefly of an eel with its odd jaws before the trap fractures his ankle bone and his throat expels a hoarse cry of anguish. Features only come in glimpses now, each making less sense than the last. The mask, the darkly stained coveralls, the serrated cleaver, the sharp pointed metal breaching through the other’s skin like teeth trying to force their way through his body. This feels less like a man and more like a monster, and he’s nothing more than an animal trapped at its mercy.
His father taught him to respect men who could kill him, that’s a lesson he really hammered home in the years before his death. We’re all animals with the methods for violence at the end of the day, and you are no better than the man trying to take your life, because if you were a smart man you’d be trying to kill him first. These words of wisdom fall on deaf ears as Danny screams and tries to crawl away as the man with the cleaver brings a boot down to break his leg with a strength no human man should possess. There is no respect in his heart when he feels the cleaver tear through his back like butter, the straps convulsing and writhing behind himself as his throat fails to let him scream anymore and he’s just wheezing between sobs and hiccups.
What feels worse than his skin and muscles being sliced open is the knowledge that this is how the Legend of the Ghostface goes. Not with a bang, but with a soft pathetic whimper that’ll fizzle out and be heard by nobody. There will be no legacy in his death here, no articles to be written in his gory memory to be feared by people across the states, no, the World. It’s a fate worse than death, to be remembered by nobody. To be lost to time.
His vision darkens as he can faintly recall a hand on the bare bone of his spinal cord, and he falls back into somewhere darker than darkness. The pain fades like evaporating smoke and he floats there for a few moments, briefly free from all earthly affairs and problems. He is nothing, and despite his lamentation over that fact he doesn’t have the thoughts to worry about that anymore. Not until a light flickers into existence in the distance, a pale orange in this nothing space that draws him in and compels him forward like a string attached to his person-hood.
And he opens his eyes.