Page 18 of Don’t Watch Alone

Chapter fifteen

Blaiz

The Movie

The harsh fluorescent arcade lighting pours into the theater lobby, creating a sickly green and red glow that blends with the smell of old popcorn and a stronger, uncertain odor—excitement, or maybe fear.

It’s just past midnight, and the place feels alive in the worst way, like we’ve stepped into the stillness before an explosion of chaos.

A giant poster screams DON’T WATCH ALONE in a daring purple and black, like it’s daring us to come in and regret it.

The line for tickets curves past the velvet ropes and almost hits the food court.

Everyone’s thrilled, and Jade and I are vibrating right along with them, practically high on the promise of a good scare .

“This line is longer than the one for Halloween II,” I mutter, extending my neck toward the front.

Jade grins like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to her. “Long line means killer movie. We’re the bitches who laugh in the face of terror. The queens of horror. We are fearless.”

The line moves forward slowly, like we’re being punished for something.

We shuffle. We wait. We listen to strangers whisper theories and rumors about the film—who dies first, how fucked up it gets.

Finally, we get our tickets. I don’t walk; I bolt straight into the main lobby like it’s a finish line.

“Popcorn. Soda. Necessary survival gear,” I say, already heading for the concession stand.

Jade’s on my heels, muttering about extra butter like she’s weighing life-or-death consequences. Behind us, I hear the chaos start. Boys being assholes.

“Derrick, Tony, Drew… cut the shit out!” I yell over my shoulder, not even looking. I already know it’s pointless. They’re loud, th ey’re rowdy, they’re being complete dipshits while some poor elderly couple tries to squeeze past them without getting knocked down.

Then I look over at Eva. She’s standing a little off to the side, like she doesn’t know whether she belongs with our group or not.

She clutches a sad little bag of M 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.

On screen, 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 sneaky little 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 shadows look 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 them again…

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.