Chapter 1: The Ten Commandments of SilverGate

The neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat against the October sky, casting sickly pink light across Leo Martinez's face as he stood before SilverGate Cinemas. Half the letters had burned out years ago, leaving only "SilG te Cinem s" to mark what had once been the pride of downtown's entertainment district. Now it squatted between a boarded-up pawn shop and a liquor store with bars on the windows, looking like a mausoleum for better times.

Leo checked his phone: 9:47 PM. The interview was at ten, and he couldn't afford to be late. Not when Maya's next treatment was due in three days and his bank account showed a balance that made his stomach clench with familiar dread.

The lobby doors were glass, but so grimy they might as well have been painted black. A hand-written sign taped to the inside read "HELP WANTED - NIGHT SHIFT - INQUIRE WITHIN." Below it, in smaller print: "Serious applicants only. Must be available immediately."

Leo had seen the Craigslist ad at 2 AM during one of his sleepless nights, scrolling desperately through job listings while Maya slept in the next room, her breathing labored even with the new medication. The post had been sparse: "Night usher position. $500/night. No experience necessary. Must be comfortable working alone."

Five hundred dollars a night. Leo had stared at the number until his eyes burned. At that rate, he could cover Maya's experimental treatment in two weeks. It was too good to be true, which meant it probably was, but desperation had a way of making even the most obvious scams look like salvation.

He pushed through the heavy doors, and the smell hit him immediately—stale popcorn butter mixed with something else, something organic and unpleasant that reminded him of the basement of their childhood home after the pipes had burst. The lobby stretched before him, vast and dimly lit by a few working bulbs in an ornate chandelier that had seen better decades. Red carpet, faded to the color of dried blood, covered the floor in patches. Where it had been torn away, bare concrete showed through like bone.

"You must be Leo."

The voice came from behind the concession stand, flat and emotionless as a recorded message. A man emerged from the shadows—tall, gaunt, wearing a theater manager's uniform that hung on his frame like it had been tailored for someone else. His skin had a waxy, translucent quality that made Leo think of funeral homes, and his eyes held a permanent look of distant horror, as if he were seeing something terrible that only he could perceive.

"I'm Dennis," the man said, extending a hand that felt cold and slightly damp. "The manager. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Leo forced a smile. "Thanks for seeing me so late. I know it's unusual, but—"

"Nothing about this place is usual," Dennis cut him off, his left eye twitching. "Follow me."

They walked past the concession stand, where ancient candy boxes sat covered in dust, past movie posters for films Leo had never heard of—titles like "The Crimson Masque" and "Midnight's Children"—their images too faded to make out clearly. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the worn carpet and a distant humming that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

Dennis led him to a small office behind the lobby, barely large enough for a desk and two chairs. The walls were covered with theater schedules, employee handbooks, and what looked like maintenance logs dating back decades. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh, clinical white.

"Sit," Dennis said, settling behind the desk. He didn't pick up a pen or open a file. He just stared at Leo with those wide, horrified eyes. "One question," he said finally. "Why do you need this job?"

Leo had prepared for the usual interview questions—strengths, weaknesses, availability. This caught him off guard. "I... my sister is sick. She needs treatment that insurance won't cover. I need the money."

"How much?"

"Excuse me?"

"How much do you need?"

Leo swallowed. "Fifty thousand. For the experimental therapy. It's her only chance."

Dennis nodded slowly, as if this were exactly what he'd expected to hear. "Desperation," he said. "That's the only reason anyone takes this job. The only reason anyone stays."

"I don't understand."

"You will." Dennis opened a desk drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "The position is yours if you want it. Five hundred per night, paid daily. Seven nights a week if you can handle it. But first, you need to read this."

He slid the paper across the desk. At the top, in bold letters: "SILVERGATE CINEMAS - EMPLOYEE GUIDELINES - NIGHT SHIFT."

Below that, ten numbered rules:

1. When you arrive, go immediately to Theater 5. Sit in the front row. Watch the screen for exactly ten minutes. Do not turn around, no matter what you hear or see.

2. At 11 PM, close and lock the door to Theater 3. Do not open it again until morning, regardless of what you hear from inside.

3. If you hear your name called from the projection booth, do not respond. It is not who you think it is.

4. Sweep the lobby at midnight, 2 AM, and 4 AM. If you miss a scheduled cleaning, check the bathroom immediately. If there are wet footprints leading to the stalls, do not follow them.

5. Theater 4's emergency exit will receive heavy knocking between 1 and 3 AM. Do not investigate. Do not acknowledge it.

6. If a child approaches you and asks what movie is playing, you must ask them to repeat the title back to you. If they get it wrong, run.

7. The reflection in the bathroom mirror may not always be your own. If it's holding a shovel, do not make eye contact.

8. Strange sounds will come from the basement. The basement door is always locked. Keep it that way.

9. If Theater 1 is showing a movie with a title, do not watch it. Ever.

10. Your shift ends at sunrise. Leave immediately. Do not linger.

Leo read through the list twice, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he looked up at Dennis, who was watching him with that same flat, emotionless stare.

"This is a joke, right?" Leo said.

"Do I look like I joke?"

Leo studied the man's waxy face, the permanent twitch in his left eye, the way his hands trembled slightly as they rested on the desk. No, Dennis didn't look like he joked about anything.

"These rules don't make any sense," Leo said. "What kind of theater—"

"The kind that pays five hundred dollars a night for someone to follow ten simple rules," Dennis interrupted. "The kind that asks no questions about your background, requires no references, and pays in cash at the end of every shift."

Leo's phone buzzed. A text from Maya: How did the interview go? Don't worry about me, I'm feeling better today.

She was lying. She'd been getting worse for weeks, and they both knew it. The doctors had been clear: without the experimental treatment, she had maybe three months. With it, she might have years.

"I'll take it," Leo said.

Dennis opened another drawer and pulled out a contract. It was handwritten on yellowed paper, the ink so faded it was barely legible. "Sign at the bottom."

Leo scanned the document. It was mostly legal boilerplate, but something about the language felt off, archaic. Words like "covenant" and "binding" appeared multiple times. At the bottom, in fresh ink, someone had written: "The contract is not for employment. The contract is for service. Service until the debt is paid."

"What debt?" Leo asked.

"The one you're about to incur," Dennis said. "Five hundred dollars a night is a lot of money, Leo. The theater expects something in return."

"Which is?"

"Follow the rules. All of them. Every night. No exceptions."

Leo's hand hovered over the signature line. Everything about this felt wrong—the decrepit theater, the insane rules, the manager who looked like he hadn't slept in decades. But Maya's face flashed in his mind, pale and thin in her hospital bed, and he signed his name.

Dennis took the contract and locked it in his desk drawer with the solemnity of a funeral director. "Your first shift starts now," he said, standing. "I'll show you to the supply closet, then I'll be leaving. You'll be alone until sunrise."

They walked back through the lobby, past the dead concession stand and faded movie posters. Dennis handed him a ring of keys and a small flashlight. "Main doors lock automatically at midnight," he said. "You can't leave until sunrise. Emergency exits are alarmed."

"What if something happens? What if I need help?"

Dennis's left eye twitched more violently. "Follow the rules, Leo. That's all the help you'll get."

He walked toward the front doors, then paused. "One more thing," he said without turning around. "The rules exist for a reason. People who break them... well, let's just say we've had a lot of turnover in this position."

The doors closed behind him with a final, echoing thud. Leo heard the automatic locks engage with a series of mechanical clicks that sounded disturbingly like coffin lids snapping shut.

He was alone in SilverGate Cinemas.

The silence was immediate and absolute, broken only by that strange humming he'd noticed earlier. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a low, subsonic drone that made his teeth ache. He checked his phone: 10:30 PM. According to the rules, he had half an hour before he needed to be in Theater 5.

Leo walked to the middle of the lobby and turned in a slow circle, taking in his new workplace. The chandelier cast dancing shadows on the walls, and for a moment, he could almost see the theater as it must have been in its heyday—crowds of moviegoers streaming through these doors, the smell of fresh popcorn filling the air, the excitement of escape into another world for a few hours.

Now it felt like a tomb.

His phone buzzed again. Another text from Maya: I love you, big brother. Thank you for everything you do for me.

Leo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could do this. Ten simple rules. How hard could it be?

He pulled out the list Dennis had given him and read rule number one again: "When you arrive, go immediately to Theater 5. Sit in the front row. Watch the screen for exactly ten minutes. Do not turn around, no matter what you hear or see."

The theaters were down a long hallway to his left. Numbers 1 through 5, marked by tarnished brass plates beside each door. Theater 5 was at the very end, its door slightly ajar, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.

Leo checked his phone one more time: 10:35 PM. Time to begin.

As he walked toward Theater 5, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him. The sensation crawled up his spine like cold fingers, but when he glanced over his shoulder, the lobby was empty.

Just shadows and silence.

He pushed open the door to Theater 5, and the darkness seemed to swallow him whole.