Chapter 5: The Man at the End of the Reel

Chapter 5: The Man at the End of the Reel

Sniff… sniff-sniff…

The sound, so close and wet, was an intimate violation. It was the sound of a predator analyzing its prey, of a butcher judging a cut of meat. The warm, foul drop of its ichor on Percy’s cheek was a brand, marking him as different. The hum in his skull was gone, ripped out and replaced by a ringing silence and the frantic, hammering drumbeat of his own heart. In that moment, Percy’s mind, which had been locked in a prison of pure terror, finally shattered.

Then came the giggle.

It wasn't a single sound, but a chorus of them, a wet, gurgling cascade of mirth that echoed from the ceiling above. It was a sound of alien amusement, the sound of a god laughing at a bug that had learned a new, pointless trick. The giggle resolved itself, coalescing into a single, sibilant whisper that slithered directly into his ear, as if the creature itself was leaning down from its unseen perch.

"Enjoy."

That was the key. Not a trigger for bliss this time, but a release for his terror. The command, now twisted into a personal, mocking threat, severed the last tethers of his paralysis.

Percy exploded into motion. He didn't think; he only reacted. He threw himself sideways, tumbling out of his seat and crashing onto the floor with a choked cry. The impact was wrong. The floor wasn't just sticky with spilled soda; it was coated in a thick, resinous slime that sucked at his clothes and hands like warm tar. The air was heavy with the cloying smell of ozone and something like rotten meat left in a hot car.

He scrambled to his feet, his sneakers making a hideous schlorp-schlorp sound with every frantic step. He bolted for the distant, barely-visible exit sign, running blind in the suffocating darkness. The theater, which had seemed so small and mundane when he entered, now felt impossibly vast, a cavernous, lightless dimension. The rows of seats seemed to stretch on forever, a forest of decaying velvet and cold iron.

Above him, the scraping began again. Schhhllluuurrrp… draaaag…

It was keeping pace with him.

The wet, multi-toned giggle echoed through the chamber, no longer directed at him but seemingly all around him. It was toying with him. He was a mouse, and the housecat had decided on a new game before the final bite. He risked a glance upward and saw nothing but impenetrable black, but he could feel its weight, its presence, a looming, predatory mass that blotted out any hint of light.

He stumbled, his foot catching on something soft and yielding. He fell forward, his hands sinking into the viscous coating on the floor. He pushed himself up, his palms slick with the warm, foul-smelling goo, and kept running. The sound was closer now, the dripping more frequent. Plop. Plop. Plop. It was raining filth in the dark.

The exit doors were two faint rectangles of deeper black against the black. He threw his entire wiry frame against the push bar. For a heart-stopping second, it didn't budge, as if sealed by the same resin that coated the floor. He slammed into it again, a raw scream tearing from his throat, and with a groan of protesting metal, the doors gave way.

He burst into the lobby, tumbling onto a cool, clean floor, and the world shifted.

The sound was gone. The smell was gone. The suffocating darkness was replaced by the soft, steady glow of the lobby’s art deco light fixtures. He lay gasping on a floor of polished black-and-white tile, a floor that was miraculously, impossibly clean. He looked back at his hands. The thick, stinking slime had vanished. His clothes were dry. The drop on his cheek was gone. He looked at the heavy, red-velvet-covered doors he had just crashed through. They were pristine, not a single smudge on their brass handles. It was as if the hellscape he had just fled simply ceased to exist the moment he crossed the threshold.

His ragged, panicked breaths were the only sound in the unnervingly silent space. The popcorn machine was off. The ticket booth was empty. The entire place was sterile, still, and waiting.

"Quite an escape."

The voice was calm, smooth, and laced with an unctuous amusement. It came from the far side of the lobby, near the darkened concession stand. Percy’s head snapped up.

Leaning against the wall, as if he had been waiting there for hours, was a man. He was handsome in a severe, dated way, with jet-black hair slicked back from a pale, still face. He wore a pristine white shirt, perfectly pressed, and simple black trousers. He looked like he had stepped out of a 1950s television set, an artifact from a cleaner, colder time. A wide, pleasant smile was fixed on his face, but it was a dead thing. It never reached his eyes, which were dark, unblinking, and utterly devoid of warmth. They watched Percy with the placid, patient interest of an entomologist studying a particularly frantic beetle.

Percy scrambled backward, crab-walking away from the man, his mind reeling from the whiplash of his escape. "Who... what are you? What was that thing in there?" he stammered, his voice cracking.

The man’s smile widened by a fraction of an inch. He pushed himself off the wall with a liquid grace and took a slow, deliberate step forward. "That 'thing' is the audience. Or perhaps the star. It depends on your perspective, I suppose. The point is, you paid for the full ninety minutes. It's terribly rude to walk out before the credits roll."

"It was eating people!" Percy shrieked, his voice echoing in the clean, empty space. "I heard them screaming! I heard it—"

"You heard what was necessary," the man interrupted, his voice never losing its terrifyingly calm cadence. "A symphony has many movements. You only experienced the crescendo. It's the catharsis that truly matters. The blissful silence that follows. The emptiness. You felt it yourself, didn't you? Before you got curious."

The man took another step. He knew. He knew everything. This wasn't a janitor or a manager. He was part of it. He was the Shepherd for the flock.

"Stay away from me," Percy warned, his voice a pathetic tremor. He fumbled to his feet, ready to bolt for the glass doors that led to the street, to salvation.

"I don't think so," the man said softly. He hadn't moved any faster, yet he was somehow closer now, blocking Percy’s path to the exit. He exuded an aura of absolute control. "An anomaly like you can't be permitted. You hold onto things. Memories. Fear. It's an impurity. It upsets the delicate process. It sours the meal."

Percy’s blood ran cold. The man knew his name. Of course, he knew his name. He had seen the anomaly. He had been sent to correct it.

The Man in White stopped a few feet away, close enough that Percy could see his own terrified reflection in the man's flat, black eyes. His smile was a perfect, predatory curve. He tilted his head, a gesture of mock sympathy.

"You've made a mess of things, Percy," he said, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "But it's not too late to fix it. The show is still running. There's plenty of room for you."

He raised a single, immaculate finger and pointed back toward the velvet doors that led to the screaming darkness. His command was delivered with the simple, unassailable authority of a god.

"Go back and finish the movie, Percy."