Chapter 1: The Last Showing

Chapter 1: The Last Showing

The ghost wasn't so much gutsy as it was just… gooey. On-screen, a spectral glob of what looked like lime Jell-O jiggled menacingly at a group of teenagers who had clearly never seen a horror movie before.

“Seriously?” Alex whispered, sinking deeper into his seat. “This is what we rushed dinner for?”

Chloe stifled a giggle, her shoulder pressing warm against his. “Shh. I think this is the scary part.” She nudged a waxy box of popcorn in his direction. It was stale. Everything was. The air in the theater was thick with the ghosts of a thousand other screenings, a cloying mix of burnt butter and disinfectant. The plush seats, a violent shade of crimson that seemed to vibrate under the dim house lights, had a faint stickiness that Alex was trying very hard to ignore.

He fished a piece of popcorn from the box and chewed it thoughtfully. It had the texture of packing foam. “The only scary thing about this movie is that someone got paid to write it.”

“You’re just cynical,” Chloe murmured, her fingers finding his in the dark. Her touch sent a familiar spark through him, a current of comfort that made the terrible movie, the sticky floor, and the ridiculously flat soda he’d been nursing for the past hour all fade into insignificance. He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing the curve of her knuckle. In the pocket of his jeans, the small, velvet-lined box felt like a block of lead. Not tonight, he thought. The setting had to be better than this. But soon. Very soon.

The on-screen ghost finally engulfed one of the hapless teens in a transparent, quivering embrace, accompanied by a sound effect that was less a scream of terror and more a squelch of profound disappointment.

“Okay, you’re right, it’s terrible,” Chloe conceded with a sigh. “But the theater is empty. It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it? Our own private screening.”

She was right. Apart from them, there were maybe three other people scattered throughout the cavernous room, lonely silhouettes in a sea of red velvet. It was the last showing on a Tuesday night; they hadn’t expected a crowd. Still, the quiet was vast and a little unsettling.

“Yeah, romantic,” Alex agreed, turning to face her. The flicker of the screen cast shifting shadows across her face, catching the light in her eyes. He leaned in, and the world narrowed to the scent of her perfume and the taste of cherry lip gloss. Her lips were soft, and for a moment, the bad movie and the empty theater became the perfect backdrop for their own private story.

When they parted, he grinned. “I’ll be right back. This gallon of flat soda has completed its journey through my system.”

“Hurry back,” she whispered, her eyes already turning back to the Jell-O monster’s rampage. “You might miss the dramatic reveal that the ghost was just old man Withers from the haunted amusement park all along.”

He chuckled, giving her hand a final squeeze before disentangling himself. His keys, attached to a small, red Swiss Army knife—a gift from his dad years ago—jingled softly as he stood. He navigated the aisle, his sneakers sticking faintly to the floor with each step, and pushed through the heavy, curtained doors into the lobby.

The change was immediate and jarring. The muted chaos of the movie was replaced by an oppressive silence, broken only by the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The vibrant colors of the movie posters lining the walls seemed garish and loud in the stillness. The concessions stand was dark and abandoned, a single popcorn kernel lying forlornly on the glass countertop. It was late, sure, but the emptiness felt absolute, as if the building itself were holding its breath.

Shaking off the weird feeling, Alex followed the signs for the restrooms. The men’s room door swung open with a soft sigh, revealing a chamber of sterile white tiles and polished chrome. The air was cold, smelling sharply of bleach. It was as empty and silent as the lobby.

He chose a urinal at the far end, the silence amplifying the mundane sounds into a small symphony of echoes. As he finished, a sound from one of the stalls made him flinch. A soft, dry scraping, like fingernails on porcelain.

He hadn’t even realized someone else was in here.

Glancing down, he saw them. Under the partition of the stall next to the end one, a pair of human feet rested on the tiled floor. They were pale, streaked with an impossible amount of grime, and most unsettlingly, they were bare. The toenails were long and yellowed. Who comes to a movie theater barefoot?

Alex moved to the sinks, turning the tap on full blast. The sudden roar of water was a relief. He washed his hands, his eyes flicking to the reflection in the mirror. He could see the closed grey door of the stall, see the dirty feet still planted just behind it. They hadn’t moved.

He reached for the paper towel dispenser, the rasp of the paper tearing through the quiet. Then, a voice from the stall, low and impossibly weary, cracked the silence.

“Finally.”

The word was a dry, rasping thing, less spoken than exhaled. It sent a prickle of unease up Alex’s spine. He froze, paper towel in hand. Was the guy talking to him?

He decided to ignore it. Some weirdo. Every city had them. He crumpled the towel and tossed it into the bin. He just wanted to get back to Chloe.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Alex barked, his voice louder than he intended, echoing off the tiles. The sudden outburst was a desperate attempt to shatter the creeping dread.

From the stall, there was no fear, no surprise. Just a soft, dry chuckle that sounded like dead leaves skittering across pavement. The sound was ancient and utterly devoid of humor.

“Just… finishing,” the voice rasped.

That was it. Alex was done. He didn't know what this guy's deal was, and he didn't care to find out. He turned his back on the sinks and the occupied stall and strode purposefully towards the exit, the heavy wooden door that led back to the lobby.

His hand closed around the cool metal of the push bar. He shoved it open, expecting to be greeted by the garish carpet and faded movie posters of the cinema hallway. He expected the faint, muffled sound of the movie’s score.

He saw white tile.

Alex froze in the doorway, his mind refusing to process the image. He was looking at a perfect replica of the room he was trying to leave. The same line of pristine sinks, the same chrome fixtures gleaming under the same humming fluorescent lights, the same row of grey stall doors.

It had to be a joke. Some kind of weird architectural quirk? A hallway of restrooms? He took a hesitant step forward, his foot crossing the threshold onto the identical tiled floor. He looked back over his shoulder. The first restroom was still there, a perfect mirror image of the one in front of him.

His heart began to hammer against his ribs. A cold sweat slicked his palms. "What the...?"

He spun around, his eyes darting to the stall where the barefoot man had been. He lunged towards it and shoved the door open.

It was empty.

Of course it was empty. The stall in this new room was also empty. They were all empty.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw its way up his throat. This wasn't right. He backed out of the second restroom, back into the first. He slammed the door shut, the sound booming in the profound silence. He stood there for a second, breathing heavily, his back pressed against the wood.

Okay. Calm down. You’re disoriented. You’re tired.

He took a deep breath, held it for three seconds, and let it out. Then, with a steadying resolve, he reached for the door handle again, pulled it open, and stepped through.

White tile. Gleaming sinks. Grey stall doors.

Nothing had changed. He hadn't left. He had just walked from one identical room into another. A labyrinth of sterile, white porcelain. The muffled sounds of the movie were gone. Chloe was gone. There was only the low, incessant hum of the lights and the frantic, suffocating beat of his own heart.