JV Hampton-VanSant

You jerk awake in the back row of the ancient Rialto Theater and gag on a fistful of popcorn crammed inside your mouth.

Something metallic clicks against your teeth.

Choking on disorientation and rancid imitation butter, you spit out the crunchy, sharp wad on the floor.

What the actual hell?

You don't remember passing out.

You remember buying a ticket for a midnight screening of your favorite horror flick.

Remember peering over your shoulder, nervous your watcher with the spidery silhouette and that glowing, flickering gaze might have followed you in off the street.

The shadowy creep hadn't.

You didn't buy popcorn, but you remember sitting in the packed theater,

A center seat with a clear view of both aisles, both exits.

Three endless days of this, of seeing him everywhere.

Important to stay alert.

Stay around people.

You're an expert.

You've devoured all the best scary movies and know what happens when morons doze off with lurkers slinking around.

Still, there's no denying it.

You passed out.

Hard.

Now, spitting out the last invasive bits of popcorn, blinking woozy sleep from your eyes, you realize two things at once.

You're alone in a blackened theater.