Please check out my latest horror impression, this time it’s “Ghostface” from the Scream series. The impression is his phone call to Cotton Weary at the beginning of the film. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJrO7U8Z2R0
I love the Scream films, I watched them when I was little and they were the first horror films I ever saw. I absolutely adore them, I finally bought the boxset of the trilogy and am going to get the 4th for Christmas.
It’s not a ladder, you point out. It’s clearly a stepladder. You aren’t sure why you’re the only one who knows the difference. Maybe those are details that only matter to you.
You don’t usually pay attention to the sensationalist headlines of newspapers and tabloids, but you start looking a little closer when they’re paired with the grey-and-wine-colored portrait photos of a young man— stoic, handsome, and familiar. Thousands of people see the same photos when the issues circulate, but nobody else sees the same person that you do.
The answer is, as always, in the Court Record, but it’s rarely obvious. Everyone else makes it look so easy, but you feel like the evidence only ever says two things to you; the first is that it could be anything, like picking out one voice in a chaotic chorus, or that it seems like it’s nothing at all, as though you were listening for the shrillest scream in a silent film.
When you do present a piece of evidence, you hope more than anything that the music stops. Where is the music even coming from? Maybe you’re the only one that hears it.
You’ve spoken to the dead enough times to know it’s the living that you need to watch out for.
You finally meet him again, the man from the tabloids and rumors. But just as soon as he reenters your life, suddenly he’s gone again, leaving behind only the evidence that he means to, and you wish you could forget that it happened at all. But his name forms scars on your heart and you learn soon enough that you can never really prepare yourself for the dull knife that tears them open again whenever it’s spoken.
The idea of questioning a parrot seems ridiculous, but it’s seen more than it’s trained to say, and there’s so much it would tell you, if it could.
It isn’t long before you become the subject of rumors yourself, and your mistakes become your definition. What you’ve built suddenly becomes piles of rubble and debris around you, but you don’t ask for anyone’s help. Not while there’s someone who still needs yours.
Logically, you know that everyone you know has parents. Of course they do, but you know better than to ask about them, since the lingering presence of grief and guilt that you’ve had too much practice identifying tells you everything you need to know.
When something smells, it’s usually the Butz. Even when he isn’t there, even when he hasn’t been there for years, you still know. It’s the Butz.