JV Hampton-VanSant

Vandalized by movie light, the Rialto intercuts once again with paintbrush streaks of midnight trees.

Different this time, though.

Black and white and full of wolf's bane,

Amid the distant seats, you glimpse a quaint, thatched-roofed village nestled between hills of rolling fog.

A bloated full moon hangs in the sky beside the projector booth.

Near the front row, your watcher throws back his toothy maw, howls silently, and leaps with ferocious agility onto the back of a seat.

Everything about his snarling, muscle-rippled silhouette promises he's ready to pounce.

You scuttle deeper down the back row, hunting for the shackle with the key, praying it's your razor-thin chance at survival.

But the shackles have vanished.

And with every unsteady step, tightly packed horrors shift and poke inside your jagged, serrated leg.

With every step, pointed objects protrude from your stitches.

You think you see the tip of a dagger jutting below what used to be your kneecap.

Bloody leg-splitting hell.

You know what you have to do.

You reach the end of the top row, putting as much distance between you and your watcher as possible.

No way you can outpace him.

He's relished the chase, cherished toying with you.

But if he decides to bounce, you're dead.

Drenched in moonlight and fog, you drop into the Rialto's final seat.

Your leg juts sideways,