I’ve always loved movies, and when I got the chance last year to become a projectionist at the local small indie theater, I jumped at it. There wasn’t much to the job, really. Despite the old-fashioned décor and stylized pretense, it was a fairly modern theater in most ways that mattered. Big, comfy seats, a soda machine where you could add your own flavors on a touchscreen, and a relatively new sound system.
One of the things it did have going for it though was it still had old-school projectors. So many places now have gone to purely digital projectors, but not the Phoenix. You had to load the big, ten-pound reels and switch between the two projectors when the time was right so there was no interruption in the film. Even that process was largely automated though, and what had seemed at first like the first steps into some mysterious and arcane world of film quickly became the brain-dead monotony of making sure the machines kept working while half-watching the same old movie for the hundredth time.
Don’t get me wrong, overall I loved the job, and a lot of the movies were either classics I had never seen or more obscure movies I had never heard of. Mr. Brubaker, the owner of the theater, was a kind man who had good taste in films but bad instincts when it came to business. The sleepy college town scene was good for repeat customers, but bad for big spenders, particularly when we made most of our money on concessions.
The problem was our theater wasn’t the type you go to for the blockbusters or to hang out with your friends. Most of our audience members came as couples or by themselves, and they were there for the movie, not overpriced candy. I tried to suggest some ways we could make extra money, and one of them, Horror Movie Monday, actually worked. Some weeks we would make more money showing that double feature than we did the rest of the week combined.
But it wasn’t enough, and I could tell Brubaker was worried about losing the place. That why when he asked me for a favor, I said yes.
He had been contacted by some kind of underground film group that I had never heard of. To be fair, the group didn’t have a name, or if they did, I never knew it. But they had arranged with Brubaker via email to rent out the theater for one night from midnight until six in the morning. They said they were intending to show one movie, and it should only last approximately two hours, but they wanted the additional time for any clean-up that may be needed. They promised the theater would be left in the same condition as when they found it, and they required no staff other than a single projectionist.
As Brubaker told me about it, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I worried he was being set up for a practical joke, or worse, being taken advantage of by some weirdos that would come in and trash the place. But then he told me with a beaming smile that they had paid $25,000.00 cash upfront through a courier. That was more than we made in three months, and he told me he’d give me $500.00 if I would stay the following night to run the projector for the group and keep an eye on things. Both for the money and to help him out, I agreed.
The next night, Brubaker went home about 11:30, making me promise to call at the first sign of trouble. I told him I would, but I doubted there would be any. I had half made up my mind that what they were showing was some kind of porno, and I had already decided where my line would be when it came to cleaning up anything they left behind. Brubaker would just have to take some of the money and hire a cleaning crew if things got overly sticky.
Still, the air of mystery around the whole thing had me excited, and I jumped slightly when I heard a hard knock on the front door. Glancing at the clock above the door, I saw it was exactly midnight.
When I opened the door, I almost burst out laughing. There were five figures outside, all dressed in dark robes with their heads covered and their faces obscured. As far as I know, the one in front is the only one that ever spoke. His voice was high and reedy, as though his words were being snatched away by some unseen wind as soon as he spoke them.
“You…ah…are the projectionist?”
I nodded. “Yes sir. I am. My name’s Marshall.”
He began moving into the lobby and I backed up to give more room as the others followed. “Your name is unnecessary, but we do need to know where to carry the film.”
Swallowing, I smiled awkwardly and nodded. “Sure! Sure thing. Right this way.” I turned to head toward the projectionist room when I heard a dry snapping sound behind me. It sounded like a brittle stick being broken in two, but I figured out it must be the leader snapping two bony fingers. Glancing back, I saw the other four hustling forward, each of them carrying a large metal case that I assumed contained the film reels.
The cases were different than anything I had ever seen, and I tried not to stare. Made out of what looked like a combination of ancient wood and banded metal, each film canister seemed to have been carved with a variety of figures and symbols. I never had the chance to study them in detail, but I could tell they each looked handmade and unique from one another, and I found myself wondering just how old this film must be, as though the age or appearance of the box would necessarily have anything to do with what it contained.
Once in the projectionist’s room, I asked them which reels went first, but all I received was silence. When I went to reach for one of the boxes to see for myself, the figure I was approaching let out a strange hiss and stepped back. The other three moved in front of him and I found myself retreating, hands in the air. I was considering leaving all together, but once I had backed away a few steps, they set to opening the first two boxes and taking out strange reels that looked to be made of some kind of tarnished bronze. I was worried they wouldn’t fit properly, but they had them ready to play within a matter of moments, working with an expertise and fluidity that amazed me.
I found myself wondering why I was there at all. If they weren’t going to let me touch the film, and the knew how to work the projector, what was the point? Just then, I saw they had stepped back and were gesturing for me to start the projector. Frowning, I approached the projector, but then I hesitated.
Did they really want me to start now? Before anyone else showed up? Or was there anyone else coming anyway?
On a whim I glanced through the window to the theater below. My breath caught in my chest as I saw that nearly every seat was filled. While it was hard to tell from that distance and angle, it looked as though most of the people were dressed far more normally than my robed companions. I also saw more than one person looking up impatiently to where I stood. Ready to get the show started and get it over with, I hit the play button and started the film.
I can’t describe what the film actually was, not really. I know I watched it, and I remember parts of it, but if I try focusing on the memory it’s like staring into the sun. I think my mind’s eye will milk over and burn out before it lets me see. I know the name of the film, I remember it from a black title card at the beginning. And I know there was blood and death…I’m not talking about in the film, though it may have been there too. I mean in the theater. I swear I remember seeing several audience members tearing each other apart as the movie played.
But my next clear memory, the first thing I knew that didn’t hurt me, was locking up just after six that morning. I had done a final check of the theater as though I had just finished showing the children’s Saturday matinee, and there were no signs that anyone had been there that night. It wasn’t until I got home that I started shaking and crying.
This film has burrowed into me. I don’t know anything about it, but I know it’s wrong somehow. It’s been almost a year since I saw it, and I can still feel it in me, pressing against my insides like a malignant cancer. I’ve tried forgetting about it, doping myself to sleep, exercising, drinking less and drinking more. Nothing has helped.
When I asked Brubaker about it, asked if he knew any more than he had told me, he just looked worried and slightly scared. He said he didn’t, but he shouldn’t have taken the money. He tried to get me to tell him what happened that night, wanted to know if they had hurt me somehow, and I just shook my head. Told him I couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t remember. Told him I had to quit working there because I had found a new job closer to my apartment. He just nodded, his eyes following me sadly as I waved good-bye and left. He knew I was lying…that I had no new job, but couldn’t bear being in that place any longer. I hope he understood.
My last hope was that time would cure it, but it hasn’t. Instead, whatever that movie did to me seems to be getting worse. I’m starting to lose time. Have strange thoughts. I’ve found myself drawn to repugnant things of late--rotten smells and yielding, decayed meat. It sickens me, yes, but it frightens me more.
I found your address through a friend of a friend--a man in Ontario that has apparently used you for some kind of…occult services in the past. I know this all may sound ridiculous to you, and if you are unable to help, I apologize for wasting your time. But if you can help, I will forever be in your debt. Because I think the movie is changing me.
It is called “Die hungrige Klinge”. I looked it up. It’s German for “The Hungry Blade.”
Please help me.
Signed, Marshall Abner
“We should help him.”
Uncle Teddy looked at me warily over his glass of tea. He loved to drink dark, syrupy tea in the middle of the night, and in the last couple of weeks he had taken to waking me up to keep him company. Sometimes it amounted to little more than me transferring my sleep to the sofa while he stared into the fire, but tonight I couldn’t get back to sleep and decided to go through some of the steadily accruing mail that he refused to look at. He claimed it was a precaution against hexes by post, but given the protections on his house, I knew that was unlikely.
“What do you mean?” His voice sounded mildly bewildered, but his expression reminded me of a fox watching a baby chick flop around in the straw.
“I mean we should help him. With this evil movie thing. Whatever it is.”
Teddy rolled his eyes. “See, that’s the first problem. You don’t even know what it is. Yet you want to go rush off and ‘help’.” His elaborate air quotes were hampered by his death grip on the glass of tea.
I frowned at him. “Do you know what it is? Have you heard of The Hungry Blade?”
He took a long sip and sighed. “Yes, I have. By reputation only. It’s very bad. And dangerous. It’s a very bad and dangerous thing. So no. We should not help.”
“But we might be able to…”
He raised a finger as he started to talk again. “No, and here’s several reasons why not. First, I don’t want to. Second, it could be a trap. Need I remind you that we have quite a few enemies after last month’s party? This could just be them trying to lure us out. Third, fuck that guy. I don’t know him, and neither do you. So fuck him. Fourth, if it is legit, he’s already fucked. That movie is no joke. We’re talking seriously spoopy shit. Fifth, I…why are you laughing at me, young lady?”
I calmed my laughter into a mild snicker. “Spoopy. You didn’t even use it right. You really are super old, you know? And your other reasons are shit. You’re just scared to leave the house. If your big plan to get rid of these evil occult types is to wait for them to die of old age, it’s a sucky plan.”
He gave me a sinister grin. “True. You’ve convinced me.”
I felt a chill. “Just like that? Just that easy?”
He drained his glass with a satisfied smack, looking at it wistfully before turning back to me. “Just like that. I’m defenseless against your compelling arguments and stern reproach.” He stood up with a stretch and a yawn. “Now let’s go talk to the doomed boy. See if he knows any more about that spoopy movie before he croaks or turns into something Lovecrafty.”
---
Credits
Comments