Page 33 of Don't Watch Alone
We chat while we wait, swapping class horror stories and mocking the absurdly long-ass titles horror movies insist on now. Somewhere in the middle of all this, that little pit of dread in my gut—the one Andy embedded with his ominous “something bad is going to happen tonight” bullshit—but it finally starts to loosen up a little. Like maybe he was just being his usual puzzling self. Maybe he’s wrong.
Popcorn: check. Soda: check. Eva’s candy: check. We move away from the boys, who arestill acting like unsupervised toddlers in a ball pit, and slip into the dark, echoey auditorium. There’s this low murmur of people settling in, whispering, laughing, waiting. A scream leaks in from the other theater, probably some poor bastard who sat through this alone.
We grab seats just off-center, with a decent view. A few minutes later, Derrick, Tony, and Drew enter, shoving and elbowing like this is some kind of physical contest. The lights begin their gradual lowering, everything softening into shadows. And even though I should be focusing on the screen, I find myself scanning the rows instead, heart doing that stupid anxious flutter again.
I look. I look again. My neck twists; my eyes are searching for something, someone. But there’s no familiar face. No sign of him. Just strangers with wide eyes and open mouths, waiting to be scared.
So far, so normal.
But that doesn’t mean safe.
The movie’s music rises, vibrating through the floor and into my chest like a warning. Onscreen, some blood-soaked college girl stumbles into a payphone booth, her fingers struggling for change, her breath catching as she mutters, “No dial tone.” I laugh and put another handful of popcorn into my mouth. Tony mumbles next to me, bitching about how dumb she is, while Derrick leans forward like he’s never seen a horror film before in his life, jumping at every sudden noise like he’s never encountered anything like it before.
Tony nudges me with his elbow, smirking as he whispers, “See? It’s just a movie. Not a big deal. And seriously… who’d be stupid enough to pull something in here?” he motions to the packed rows, the crowd thick with uninterested couples and groups of teens pretending not to be scared. The theater smells like fake butter and old carpet cleaner, comforting in the way a childhood bedroom might be after you’ve grown old enough to see the cracks in the wallpaper. The soft sound of the projector, the occasional cough, the crinkle of candy wrappers and the quiet whispers between friends—all of it is normal. This feels safe.
Still, something prickles at the back of my neck. A sensation that doesn’t belong there. A cold breeze against my neck in this hot, stuffy theater. I tell myself it’s just the movie doing its job, manipulating the nerves, getting under the skin. Psychological manipulation—that’s all it is. Fear sold piece by piece, and I paid for it, so I’m getting my money’s worth.
The camera cuts back to the killer—tall, slow, stalking down a trash-littered alley under unsteady neon lights. His mask isn’t bloody or exaggerated, just a blank slab of white with two hollow eyes. And somehow that’s worse to me. It doesn’t need to scream. It just needs to stare to scare me.
Thud.
A loud noise comes from behind us and not from the screen.
I jump, nearly spilling my popcorn. Tony jerks too, muttering “fuck,” while trying to save his soda. A few people glance around, but most of them ignore it, dismissing it as surround sound. That’s what I do, so that has to be what it was. The film’s full of sneakylittle sound signals designed to confuse the line between what’s happening on screen and what’s happening around you.
I face forward again and try to focus back on the movie. The girl’s running now, screaming, her voice drowned beneath throbbing, harsh music. But something’s off. That crawling sense of being watched has intensified, turned thick and targeted, like a gun aimed right at the back of my head. Not just the knowledge of people being behind me. No, this feels personal, like someone’s locked onto me.
I don’t turn around. I refuse to. I make myself watch the movie, even as my mind wanders. Is this just Andy’s bullshit warning echoing in my head? Or the stupid “Don’t Watch Alone” tagline screwing with me? Designed to penetrate under the skin like a splinter.
I glance left, toward the exit—emergency lights glowing red and clear. Then, to the right. Just dark outlines of strangers, their faces are faint in the screen’s flicker. I tell myself it’s all tricks of the light, that thing your brain does when it’s scared—makes shadowslook like people, or worse, makes people look like threats. I remind myself: I’m surrounded by at least sixty strangers. So, that means there are sixty witnesses. Nothing bad can happen here.
But when I turn back to the screen, my eyes catch something strange.
In the last row, near the very back, someone’s just standing there.
Not moving in their seat. Not stretching or adjusting. Just standing still. Their form interrupts the smooth curve of heads like a snapped bone protruding through skin. They don’t move. They don’t sit. They just… are.
And for a breath, a heartbeat, I swear I see something shine—pale and smooth, catching the light from the screen.
A mask.
Not the one from the movie. No, this one’s real. Real in the worst fucking way.
My heart drops. My breath is caught in my throat, and I shut my eyes hard, count to three like that’s going to do a damn thing, and when I open themagain…
Nothing.
Just seats and people.
I blink and force myself to focus back on the movie. But my popcorn might as well be a damn weight in my lap. I can’t even taste it anymore. The screen flashes red as the killer plunges a knife into his target, and the audience gasps, a shared breath from sixty lungs. I flinch too, but not because of the gore. That mask—real or imagined—is still burned behind my eyes.
And suddenly, the theater doesn’t feel safe anymore. It doesn’t feel full. It feels empty. It feels watched. All these people, and somehow I feel more alone than I’ve ever been.
Chapter sixteen
Blaiz
The Movie
