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The blonde cheerleader slowly descended the stairs, fearfully glancing around the dark foyer of the sorority house. "Hello? Is anybody there?"

No response. She lingered on the stairs, trying to search the darkness for anything strange, to no avail. Taking a step back up the stairs, the floorboards beneath her creaked, making her flinch and yelp. In that moment, thunder boomed, with lightning flashing white through the glass panels of the door. She was blinded momentarily, lifting a hand up to block the bright light from her eyes. When she lowered the hand from her eyes, she spotted a man standing outside with a knife as thunder rolled overhead again, and she let out a blood curling scream of terror. 

Mickey rolled his eyes, reclining on the sofa with a Buck 120 hunting knife in his left hand. "Jesus, I'd kill the moron who wrote and directed this garbage. Full of clichés and bad dialogue. The only good thing is the gore, especially the part where the cheerleader gets stabbed in the eye. The references are decent ━ Norman runs at her the same way Norman from Psycho runs at Lila Crane. Oh, and the scene where she has to cut off her own arm is a homage to the scene in My Bloody Valentine. But this is basically a sequel to the '82 movie The House on Sorority Row, except it's made from the perspective of a horror movie fan. I can appreciate that, at least."  

He sucked in a breath of boredom, tilting his head to one side. "Well, sequels are generally better. I prefer Psycho 2 a lot more than the first, don't you agree?"

Next to him was a woman around his age, slightly older. Red waves of strawberry scented hair framed her face, her bangs sticking to her tear stained cheeks, reinforced by fresh waves of tears that ran rivers and ruined her mascara. Green eyes glittered with liquid like a jade at the bottom of a lake. Her sobs were muffled by the duct tape secured over her mouth, her hands and ankles bound together with zip ties. Her clothes were cute, a low cut blouse and a skirt, which she had chose for their date earlier that evening. 

After the date, he offered to take her home, where he proceeded to kidnap her and keep her in his apartment. For a job, obviously. Apparently she cheated on an ex? The details didn't really matter to him, it was a chance for him to update his body count, and move to bigger and better things. It was practically in the palm of his hands, waiting for him to take it for himself. 

Emilia Bates, the daughter of Norman Bates ━ the real Norman Bates. He wondered what it would be like to kill the daughter of a serial killer, to snatch her away from him, becoming his better. The thrill of the thought that he would be talked about in reference to him. How Mickey would tell people that she was crazy, just like her psycho dad. People would believe him, crown him as a survivor, shower him with adoration and concern. Interviews, movies, shows. All about him. 

A sigh left his lips as he sat up, lifting his right hand towards the woman. She flinched, cowering back, but stopped when he gave her a look. He removed the tape covering her mouth, asking again: "C'mon, sweetheart, you gotta give me an answer. Do you agree or not?"

"Please just━━" Her voice trembled, broken between sobs. "You don't have to do this, Kelly. Please don't hurt me."

"I know, I know," He employed a soft tone. "But someone wants you to die. Your boyfriend? Sorry, your ex boyfriend. Something about you betraying him?" 

The point of knife in his hand settled on her lower lip, making her whimper in fear. "I mean, as a former potential boyfriend, that worries me too," Mickey paused, reconsidering his words. "No, that's a lie. It's just that horror movies sacrificed victim after victim to mould me; it makes sense if I kill someone for them too, right? The madness of horror movies can ignite something in the right people, bring to surface a darkness they're capable of."

Mickey let the blade slowly trail over her lip and down her chin, barely applying any pressure to avoid cutting her. The knife drifted down her neck, past her collarbone, to her trembling chest that heaved with gasps for air. The point digging into her skin elicited a hiss of pain from her lips, beads of red surfacing from the torn flesh and streaming down her skin, the cloth of her blouse soaking up the blood.

"Let's say I let you live, Amelia. Redirect the path of destiny," He lifted the knife to the point under her chin, catching the sharp inhale she made. "What then?"

"I won't say a word, I swear. Please," Her eyes widened in desperation. "I won't tell the cops. I won't tell a fucking soul, I swear on my life. Nobody will know about this."

He studied her face, his eyes travelling over every detail. Red hair, freckled face, pale skin. She wasn't her; she looked nothing like her. Except, for her green eyes and her similar name. It barely felt like a simulation of a conversation they could have, not with the lame imitation of her. Letting out a resigned sigh, he lowered his blade from her chin. 

"Alright," He said, finally. "I'll make sure you won't tell anybody."

Uncertain hope crawled over her features, which turned to something like relief. Her lips parted to speak, probably to thank him, but she wasn't able to utter a word when he drove the hunting knife into her throat. Eyes wide, she attempted to form words again, only for the rising blood in her throat to splutter out of her mouth, a combination of saliva and blood drooling down her stained lips. All of that was captured with a few snaps of his digital camera, pictures he would use later. 

He stood, walking over to his desk and sitting down at the office chair. In the film Attack on Phi Beta Kappa, the blonde cheerleader was getting dragged away by one of her arms, faintly hearing the echoing laughter of Norman as he dragged her body into a closet. The girl tried to reach for the telephone nearby, and like a hazy response, Amelia stretched her hands out as if to reach for that phone too. A small smile etched his face seeing the red haired woman twitch and cough and make a mess of herself, before death ceased her movements altogether. 

Mickey booted up his computer, the annoying dial up sound muffled by the playing movie. Once it was up and working, he was able to access the internet and log into a website he was intimate with. It was hard to explain ━ no, it was pretty easy to explain. It's really just a forum website that hides an entirely different website called killers for hire, where you can anonymously pay money under a contractual obligation to anonymous killers, where they torture, hurt, stalk or kill an intended victim and provide pictures as proof.

Amelia Strode was that intended victim for some guy. Mickey only really cared about that particular offer because of the vague similarities she had to his own destined victim. And well, he did need a way to pay the rent. In fucking Virginia. God, he knew he shouldn't complain after a few encounters of dodging the cops throughout his life, but Virginia? Really, Mia? He guessed that Emilia did the thing that he should've done and hid herself in one of the least susceptible states. 

He clicked to his messages, to the only one still up. After a contract, messages between the client and the killer disappear immediately, erased from the inner web. It made trying to find his client a whole lot easier considering that everybody's fucking username is anonymous along with a string of randomized numbers. Even with the security measure, it was sometimes made useless to all the first time clients who wanna spill their whole life story and their path to vengeance. If he saw another of those people on his profile, he was gonna have to take his knife to his own neck. 

The Altieri frowned when he noted that there was another message that had been sent by someone else. Anonymous05091980: "Saw your prolific resume on your board, reminds me of the Woodsboro..." the rest was cut off from the display. Woodsboro? He knew that Woodsboro was the Californian town where those kids sliced and diced a few people, and then a movie was made out of it. Mickey gave into curiosity and clicked on the message to read it in its entirety. 

Anonymous05091980: Saw your prolific resume on your board, reminds me of the Woodsboro massacre last year. Heard of it? 

He resolved to reply to it: Sure, who hasn't?

After clicking back to the other messages and confirming Amelia's death, the chat with the Woodsboro fan pinged another message. 

Anonymous05091980: Also read on your board that you want to be infamous. You're ambitious, I need that in a partner. 

Partner? Usually they got him to do all the killing ━ it wasn't everyday that someone is asking to kill with them. Fuck, he really hoped that he wasn't going to be hired as a teacher or something. He went to type, to ask for an explanation, but another message popped up. 

Anonymous05091980: I'm a victim of the murders as well, a victim of a girl called Sidney Prescott. 

Anonymous05091980: She took something from me. Do you think you can help me track her down and take something of hers?

A grin crept across his features. Now, he knew who Sidney Prescott was. The surviving girl of the Woodsboro murders, shining from the limelight. He typed and sent a message, more interested in the offer: Tempting. I could be persuaded with more details. 

It didn't take long for them to send a message back. 

Anonymous05091980: How infamous would you be if you recreated the Woodsboro massacre? Infamous enough to inspire movies? Be asked for interviews? Have the papers print your name in bold? Personally, I think that sort of fame would last a life time. 

His teeth settled on his bottom lip, trying not to smile like a maniac. Whoever Mickey was getting into bed with knew just the right words to grab him with the hook and reel him in. Almost enough to make him doubt his own plan. Would it be better than a Woodsboro murder recreation? It was more relevant in the media, after all. He'd have to go back to the drawing board, think of a way to merge them together. Kill both Sidney Prescott and Emilia Bates. Was it a crime to want to have his cake and eat it too?

Mickey glanced up at his pin board, with all the developed pictures of Emilia and her apartment on Oak Street, Emilia and her trips to the café or the library or the grocery store, Emilia and the people she interacts with. His eyes landed on a picture of Emilia at a bus stop across the street, looking at something to her left. Her wavy, dark hair tried to cover her face, but the wind seemed to be on his side, allowing him to see the frustrated look on her face. He liked the picture because it pointed out her flaws ━ short, small, easy to kidnap and murder without people realising; when it was too late. 

With fingers that pressed the letters on his keyboard without much thought, he listened to the screams of hunted sorority girls fill his ears from behind him, the pale glow of the TV flickering with the lighting changes of the scene. 

Caught my interest. We'll talk later.