Atticus Jackson

Not really a lake house so much as a shitty lake cabin, but it was ours until July 4th at least, with a fridge full of beer and a solid Wi-Fi connection, so why not?

Let the marathon begin.

And that was two weeks ago.

At least, I think it was two weeks ago.

Eventually, you lose your relationship with time, and it's just screams and chainsaws lighting up your brain all day and all night.

Corey had hit his limit on day three of this odyssey.

Logan, however, wasn't willing to give up just yet.

On the TV, Sidney Prescott ran from Ghostface, just like she had every day since 1996.

Have another beer.

I've had five beers.

Then take a nap.

I don't care.

That was the one silver lining.

According to Logan, the movies had to be playing endlessly, but you didn't have to watch them endlessly.

So we napped in shifts, sometimes for four or five hours at a time, while someone else manned the controls so we didn't leave too long of a pause between movies.

Corey slumped back on the couch while Logan stared at his phone, thumbing through a website I'd never seen, studying it like it had all the SAT answers.

When I asked him what it was, he stuck his phone in his pocket and went back to the movie.

He'd said that before, more than a few times, but there was an extra layer of energy to Logan's voice this time.

Or maybe Corey and I were just imagining that, hoping for a breakthrough.

We'd gotten to the point with the horror movies where it was less of a pastime and more of a thing we had to conquer so we could leave the lake house, do something else, maybe even just go outside and sit in the sun.