Reddit called the palace cursed, but I had to know if the stories were true. The neon sign of the palace flickered against the night sky, casting an eerie red glow across the empty parking lot. My beatup Ford Ranger sat alone in the lot beside a rusted Buick that likely belonged to Roy, the manager.
The theater loomed before me, its art deco facade a shadow of former glory, weathered by decades of neglect and whispered rumors. I checked my phone. 9:47 p.
m. May 19th, 13 minutes until my first night shift officially began. The air grew heavy as I neared the entrance, like pushing through an invisible curtain.
A shiver crept up my back despite the mild spring night. I'd spent weeks combing through online forums about the palace, stories of vanishing employees, strange noises after midnight, and a persistent legend about something called real 13. Most people dismissed them as creepy pasta fodder, but the consistency across different accounts made me wonder.
That wonder was precisely why I'd applied for this job. The glass doors creaked as I pushed them open. The lobby smelled of stale popcorn and something underneath.
Musty like old books left in a damp basement. Gold tiles, chipped and faded, lined the floor in an intricate pattern that seemed to shift under prolonged stairs. Ethan Ramsay.
A gruff voice echoed through the empty space. Roy emerged from the shadows near the concession stand, a stocky man with thinning gray hair and deep set eyes that had seen too much. He wore a faded palace uniform that hung loosely on his frame.
The red vest a dull burgundy under the flickering fluoresence. A faint creek echoed from the upper floors like someone pacing in the dark. "Yes, sir," I replied, extending my hand.
He ignored it, instead thrusting a laminated card toward me. "Rules," he said simply. "Follow these or you're out by dawn.
" I took the card, scanning the handwritten text. One, avoid ticket number 032, offer refunds or bribes to keep holders out. Two, light a candle in the projection booth before screenings to ward off watchers.
Three, never touch real 13, a cursed film that reappears. Four, if the candle blows out, leave the booth and wait in the hallway. Five, if real 13 appears in the booth, lock it and do not engage.
Six. If you hear footsteps from the balcony, ignore them and continue working. My pulse quickened.
These weren't standard theater protocols. They were almost verbatim from the Reddit threads. Something funny?
Roy asked, noticing my expression. No, I said, tucking the card into my pocket. Just reminds me of some stories I've read online about this place.
Royy's eyes narrowed. Those threads, huh? You one of those ghost hunters?
Film school dropout? I admitted just interested in folklore. Folklore, he repeated the word hanging between us like a warning.
Stick to these rules, Ethan. Things crawl here after dark. Like the Reddit stories, cursed films and shadows.
Worse. His voice dropped. Don't play hero.
He handed me a ring of keys, each labeled with faded tape and pointed to a back room door. Employee lockers in there. Late show ends at 10:30.
Lock up at 11:00. Check all theaters. Clean what needs cleaning.
Morning shift arrives at 7:00. I've got an errand to run, Ethan. But I'll check in later.
Don't test the rules. They're all that keep this place quiet. Got it.
And Ethan? Roy paused at the exit. The rules aren't suggestions.
The door swung shut behind him, leaving me alone in the cavernous lobby. I stashed my backpack in the employee locker, a cramped space that smelled of cigarettes and lemon cleaner, then grabbed a broom from the supply closet. Might as well start with the basics.
The lobby's silence pressed against my ears as I swept popcorn from the floor. The broom bristles scraping against chipped tiles. Each stroke revealed patterns in the grime, whirls and lines that seemed almost deliberate, like symbols worn into the floor by decades of shuffling feet.
The air smelled of stale butter and artificial flavoring. But underneath lurked something else, a metallic tang like old pennies. I'd nearly finished when the front doors opened.
A man entered, tall and gaunt, with a scarred right hand. His shadow stretched across the floor, longer than it should have been, its edges curling like smoke seeking crevices. "Evening," I called, propping the broom against the counter.
"Last shows already started, but I can sell you a ticket if you don't mind missing the beginning. " He approached wordlessly, sliding a 20 across the counter, his eyes never quite met mine. "Which theater?
" I asked, fingers hovering over the ancient ticketing system. two," he said, voice like gravel. "Whatever's playing.
" I printed his ticket, number 547 for Theater 2, some action flick in its final week, and handed him his change. As he took the ticket, his scarred fingers brushed mine. They felt cold, almost waxy.
"Enjoy the show," I offered. He nodded, his shadow stretching behind him as he walked toward theater 2, seeming to cling to the walls rather than follow his movements naturally. I watched until he disappeared through the double doors, then checked his ticket stub twice, hands unsteady, not 032, just a regular customer with an odd demeanor.
To calm my nerves, I busied myself restocking the candy display, arranging chocolate bars and licorice in neat rows. The rappers crinkled under my fingers, the sound too loud in the empty lobby. I found myself humming to fill the silence, an old tune my mother used to sing.
At 10:15, I decided to check the seating in theater 1. The doors swung open silently, revealing rows of faded velvet seats in the darkness. The screen glowed with pre-show advertisements, casting a blue palar over the empty room.
My footsteps echoed as I walked down the center aisle, checking seat numbers and picking up stray popcorn bags. As I reached the middle of the theater, faint footsteps echoed from the balcony above. No one was there.
Rule six, ignore them and continue working. I gripped my flashlight tighter, focusing on the velvet seats, but the steps lingered, pacing just out of sight. Each hollow tap sent a chill through me.
The air grew colder, my breath fogging in the May warmth. But I remembered Royy's warning and continued my inspection, forcing my eyes to stay on the task at hand. A cracked mirror hung on the back wall, and as I passed, my reflection caught my eye.
I looked pale, drawn, like I'd been here for days instead of hours. For a moment, I thought I saw something move behind my reflection, a darker shadow within the shadows. But when I turned, there was nothing.
The footsteps above had stopped. The silence felt heavier now, expectant. The lobby doors opened again as I emerged from theater 1.
A woman in a gray coat stood at the counter, her face partially obscured by a scarf despite the mild evening. Something about her posture seemed wrong, too still, like she wasn't quite breathing. "Can I help you?
" I asked, moving behind the counter. "One ticket," she said, her voice soft but clear. "Any show?
" I nodded, tapping at the computer. The system assigned her ticket number 032. My stomach dropped.
The first rule, barely 2 hours into my shift. I'm sorry, I said, forcing a smile. There seems to be a printer error with this ticket.
Let me issue you a different one. She leaned forward, her pale eyes almost luminous under the fluorescent lights. I want that one.
I can't sell you ticket 032, I said, remembering Royy's instructions. System error, but I can offer you a full refund, plus free tickets for tomorrow's show. I don't want a refund, her voice hardened.
I want ticket 032. Please take free popcorn for life instead, I pleaded, sliding a coupon across the counter. Her eyes glowed faintly, locking onto mine, and my limbs froze as if bound by ice.
She snatched the ticket and glided past, her scarf trailing like smoke. I offered a refund, then free tickets for tomorrow's show, but her pale eyes bored into me. I want 032, she hissed, pushing past.
I fumbled for my phone to call Roy, but the line was dead. A low hum vibrated through the lobby as if the theater itself stirred, angered by my failure to keep her out. Shaken by her glowing eyes and my failure to stop her, I needed a mundane task to anchor myself, something to drown out the dread pooling in my chest.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I grabbed a rag and bleach spray, scrubbing at the smear. It clung stubbornly, only dissolving after minutes of determined scrubbing. The bleach burned my nostrils, but a faint creek echoed from the hallway like footsteps on old wood.
I should have called Roy, but the deadline in her glowing eyes haunted me. Cleaning was all I could manage to keep my hands steady. As I wiped the concession counter, my mind replayed the Reddit thread.
Ticket 032 marks you for the watchers. The bleach burned my nostrils, but it couldn't erase the image of her glowing eyes. I'd read about cursed tickets dooming patrons to become part of the theater's collection of souls.
I dismissed it as creative fiction, but now with that gray smudge finally gone from the counter, I wasn't so sure. The clock read 10:30 p. m.
The late show would be ending soon. I needed to check theater 2, where the scarred man had gone, but my feet felt leen at the thought. Instead, I busied myself wiping down the concession stand, the smell of artificial butter making my stomach turn.
I kept glancing toward the hallway where the woman in gray had disappeared. Had she found her way to a seat? Was she watching something I couldn't see?
The rules implied severe consequences for ticket 032 holders. Yet, I'd let her pass. My curiosity about the theat's mysteries had overridden my caution.
Exactly what Roy had warned against. The scarred man emerged from theater 2 just as I finished cleaning. He nodded once, then left without a word.
his shadow stretching behind him like a dark stain. Other patrons followed, a trickle of people heading for the exit, none meeting my eyes. By 11 p.
m. , the theater was empty again. I locked the front doors as instructed, then began my cleaning rounds.
Theater 2 first, where the action movie had played. Popcorn crunched beneath my feet as I collected abandoned soda cups and candy wrappers. The screen was dark now, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was still playing, visible only from the corner of my eye.
I worked methodically, focusing on the task to quiet my mind. In the back row, I found a gray scarf draped over a seat, its edges frayed as if burned. My stomach twisted.
Hers. The broom's bristles against the floor created a rhythm, almost soothing in its monotony. Sweep, collect, dispose.
sweep, collect, dispose. By the time I finished theater 2, my nerves had settled somewhat. I hesitated before entering theater 1 again.
The footsteps from the balcony had unnerved me more than I wanted to admit. But it was part of my job, and according to the rules, I just needed to ignore them and continue working. The theater was darker now.
The pre-show advertisements replaced by a blank screen. The emergency exit signs cast a faint red glow over the seats. I moved quickly, collecting trash and straightening seat cushions.
No footsteps came from above, but the silence felt artificial, as if the theater were holding its breath. In the projection booth, I found the candle Roy had mentioned, white wax in a simple holder, matches beside it. Rule two, light it before screenings to ward off watchers.
There were no more screenings tonight, but something compelled me to strike a match anyway. The flame caught, casting dancing shadows across the walls of the small room. No screenings were scheduled, but I lit the candle anyway, figuring it couldn't hurt to ward off whatever lingered.
I wasn't sure if the rule applied only to screenings, but the booth felt safer with the flame flickering, as if the light alone could keep the watchers at bay. The projectors stood like sentinels, their lenses reflecting the candle light. 13 reels lined the shelf behind them, each labeled with masking tape.
I counted them twice. 12. No reel.
13 in sight. Relief washed over me, followed immediately by disappointment. Part of me had hoped to find it, to confirm the stories.
My curiosity about folklore had always been stronger than my sense of self-preservation, a trait that had led me to drop out of film school to pursue urban legends and local ghost stories instead. I left the candle burning and continued my rounds. The bathrooms needed checking, the floors mopping, normal tasks in an increasingly abnormal setting.
As I worked, I kept thinking about the woman with ticket 032. Where had she gone? What happened to those who held that ticket?
The theater's silence pressed against me, broken only by the occasional creek of the building settling. Old buildings breathe, my father used to say. The palace seemed to be holding its breath.
By midnight, I'd finished cleaning. The lobby gleamed under the fluorescent lights. The concession stand was spotless, and all three theaters were ready for tomorrow's showings.
I should have felt accomplished, but instead, unease crawled up my spine. I returned to the projection booth to check on the candle. It still burned, the flame steady and bright.
The booth felt warmer than the rest of the theater, almost welcoming. I sat in the projectionist's chair, watching the flame dance. The Reddit threads had mentioned watchers, entities that lived in the spaces between frames, feeding on fear and fascination.
They were drawn to those who sought them out, who broke the rules that kept them at bay. Royy's laminated card made more sense now, not superstition, but survival. I'd followed most of the rules so far.
I'd tried to prevent ticket 032 from being sold, though I'd failed. I'd lit the candle in the booth. I'd ignored the footsteps from the balcony, but I'd also let my curiosity lead me, exploring the theater theat's secrets, counting the reels, looking for real 13.
The night stretched before me, hours of solitude in a building that felt increasingly alive with each passing minute. The palace had secrets. I was sure of it now.
And despite the warning in Royy's eyes, despite the rules on that laminated card, I intended to uncover them. After all, I'd come here for a reason. The Reddit threads had drawn me in, but there was more to it than that.
I needed to know if the stories were true. If places could be haunted not just by ghosts, but by stories themselves, if the palace was what the threads claimed, I'd found my thesis. If not, at least I'd have a paycheck.
Either way, I had a long night ahead of me. And as I glanced at the candle's flame, steady now in the projection booth, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching it too, waiting for it to go out. The night had just begun.
The palace wasn't just haunted. It was awake. Midnight crept in like fog, muffling sound and swallowing light.
The palace settled into a different kind of quiet. Not the absence of sound, but something alive with potential. I sat behind the concession counter, scrolling through my phone, the blue light harsh against the dimness.
More Reddit threads about the palace filled my screen. Accounts of night shifts gone wrong. Employees who quit after a single night, strange phenomena that defied explanation.
One post caught my eye. The watchers in the walls. The user claimed they'd worked at the palace 5 years ago and described entities that lived between the theat's reality and somewhere else.
Things that fed on fear and fascination. They were drawn to those who sought them out. Things like me.
I closed the app, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt. The lobby stretched before me, gold tiles gleaming dully under fluorescent lights that buzzed like trapped insects. The concession stand smelled of artificial butter and cleaning chemicals.
But beneath that lingered something older, dust and decay and anticipation. My watch read 12:17 a. m.
Nearly 7 hours until morning. The projection booth needed checking. Rule two on Royy's card.
Light a candle before screenings to ward off watchers. There were no more screenings tonight, but I'd lit it anyway. Better to be safe.
The narrow staircase to the booth creaked under my weight. Each step a protest against my presence. The door at the top stood a jar, a sliver of darkness beyond.
I was certain I'd closed it earlier. I pushed it open slowly, flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. The candle still burned, its flame steady, but smaller than before.
The booth felt different now, colder with a pressure that prickled my skin. The ancient projectors loomed like sleeping beasts, their metal casings reflecting pin pricks of candle light. Tomorrow's horror film needed setting up.
I moved to the workt where the reels waited, my fingers brushing against the cool metal containers. The film inside rustled as I lifted the first reel, a sound like whispering. I threaded it carefully through the projector, the way Roy had shown me during my brief training.
The film clung oddly to my skin, resisting my touch. The projector hummed when I tested it, the sound too loud in the confined space, almost like a growl. The candle flame sputtered suddenly, bending horizontally as if caught in a wind, though the air was still.
Shadows twisted on the walls, sharper than they should be, moving independently of their sources. I froze, watching them dance across the peeling wallpaper. Elongated shapes that resembled limbs, fingers, faces.
Just drafts, I murmured. The sound of my voice startlingly loud. Old building.
The flame steadied again, but the shadows remained, hovering at the edges of my vision. I finished threading the reel with trembling hands, then backed toward the door. According to rule 4, if the candle blew out, I should leave the booth and wait in the hallway.
It hadn't gone out, but the wavering flame and restless shadows were warning enough. The booth's shadows unnerved me, so I fled to the lobby, needing something normal to steady my nerves. Back in the lobby, I busied myself with mindless tasks.
The napkin dispensers needed refilling, a normal, mundane activity to ground myself. The paper crinkled under my fingers as I stacked napkins into metal holders, the sound reassuringly ordinary. While restocking napkins, I found a crumpled one tucked beneath the dispenser, scrolled in red ink.
They're watching. The handwriting matched the faded notes on the real labels, possibly Roy's. My pulse quickened.
Had Roy left it or something else? Reddit mentioned the Watchers feeding on attention, and I'd been giving them plenty. I shoved the napkin into my pocket, trying to dismiss it as a prank.
Yet, even this couldn't dispel the growing unease. The air grew still, but a faint hum vibrated through the walls like a distant projector running. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
A Reddit notification about a new post in the haunted locations forum. I ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand. napkins, dispensers, normal things.
The sound came as I was finishing, a soft thud from theater 1, like something heavy falling onto carpet. I stilled, listening. The theater should be empty.
I checked it myself hours ago. "Hello," I called, my voice echoing across the lobby. No response.
I grabbed the mop and bucket from the supply closet, partly to clean, partly as a makeshift weapon if needed. The doors to theater 1 swung open silently, revealing rows of empty seats in darkness. The screen was blank, but the emergency lights cast a faint red glow over the space, turning the faded velvet seats into pools of shadow.
I began mopping the aisles mechanically, the wet slap of the mop against the floor, oddly comforting. Halfway down the center aisle, I heard it. Footsteps from the balcony above.
Heavy, deliberate steps that crossed from one side to the other. I froze, looking up. The balcony was shrouded in darkness, but I could make out the rows of seats, all empty.
The footsteps continued, unhurried, as if whoever, whatever made them had all the time in the world. The footsteps paused, and a faint outline appeared in the balcony's shadows. A figure in a gray coat, her scarf trailing.
Rule six. If you hear footsteps from the balcony, ignore them and continue working. I gripped the mop tighter, knuckles white against the wooden handle, and forced myself to keep cleaning.
The footsteps paused, then changed direction, heading toward the balcony's edge directly above me. The air turned cold suddenly, like a freezer door opened inches from my face. My breath clouded in front of me, though it was May, and the building had no air conditioning.
The mop moved automatically, my body going through the motions while my mind raced. Watch with us. The whisper came from everywhere and nowhere, so faint I might have imagined it.
But the words hung in the frigid air. An invitation or a threat. Watch with us, Ethan.
My name in that whisper sent ice through my veins. I hadn't told anyone here my name except Roy. I kept mopping, movements jerky now, the bucket sloshing as I pushed it along.
Folklore ran through my head. stories of entities that gained power when acknowledged, that fed on fear and attention. I finished the aisle and moved to the next, keeping my eyes on the floor.
The footsteps followed, tracking my progress from above. The temperature continued to drop until the mop water began to crystallize, thin sheets of ice forming on its surface. "I'm just doing my job," I said aloud, voice steadier than I felt.
"Nothing to watch here. " The whispers receded, though the footsteps remained, pacing back and forth like a sentry. I completed my cleaning as quickly as thoroughess allowed, then backed out of the theater, never turning my back to the balcony.
The doors swung shut behind me, and the lobby's relative warmth enveloped me like an embrace. My watch read 1:43 a. m.
The night stretched endlessly before me. I needed a reason to escape the theat's suffocating silence, even if just for a moment, and fixing the marquee seemed like a safe excuse. The marquee outside needed attention, Roy had mentioned a flickering bulb that needed adjustment.
Grateful for any excuse to leave the building, even briefly, I grabbed the stepladder from the maintenance closet and pushed through the front doors. The street outside was deserted, street lights casting pools of yellow light on empty sidewalks. The palace's marquee buzzed and sputtered above the entrance, one bulb blinking erratically like Morse code.
I set up the ladder beneath it, the metal cold against my palms. The night air felt clean after the theater's stuffiness, though the silence was absolute. No cars, no distant voices, not even the rustle of wind through trees, as if the world outside the palace had ceased to exist, leaving only this island of light and sound.
I climbed the ladder carefully, tools in my pocket. The palace's marquee buzzed, its letters shifting before my eyes from action blockbuster to midnight showing The Watchers. I hadn't noticed the title before.
A coincidence, surely. The flickering bulb pulsed in my hand, warm despite the cool night, its rhythm matching my heartbeat. I swapped it quickly, the marquees hum steadying, but the theat's pulse lingered in my veins.
The light stabilized, steady and unremarkable. I descended the ladder with relief, eager to be back on solid ground. Back inside, the lobby felt different, more confined, as if the walls had inched closer while I was outside.
I returned the ladder to the maintenance closet and checked my watch again. 217 a. m.
Not even halfway through my shift, I decided to organize the ticket stubs from earlier shows. A mindless task to occupy my hands and thoughts. Behind the counter, I pulled out the metal box where stubs were collected, dumping them onto the surface to sort by showtime.
As I sifted through the stubs, I noticed something odd. A brittle yellowed edge peeking out from the pile, unlike the usual torn tickets. Beneath the pile of torn paper, something yellowed caught my eye.
Not a ticket stub, but a newspaper clipping, its edges brittle with age. I extracted it carefully, spreading it flat on the counter. 1927 Fire Claims Lives Theater Rebuilt, the headline proclaimed.
Beneath it, a grainy photograph showed the original opera house that had stood on this site. A grand structure with columns and arched windows, smoke pouring from its roof. In one upper window, barely visible against the billowing darkness, was a figure, faceless, watching.
The article detailed the tragedy. 17 people trapped in the balcony when fire broke out during an opera performance. The building had burned to the ground and the palace had been built on its ashes a year later.
At the bottom, a handwritten note in faded ink. They never left. A chill ran through me as I slipped the article into my pocket.
My folklore obsession buzzing with excitement despite the fear. This was the kind of history I'd hoped to uncover. the bones beneath the palace's skin.
The truth behind the Reddit threads. The concession stand needed cleaning before my break. I wiped down the counters methodically, the smell of industrial cleaner sharp in my nostrils.
The popcorn machine's glass sides were stre with grease that resisted my efforts as if the residue had fused with the surface. As I scrubbed, my reflection appeared in the glass, distorted by the curves and smears, but recognizable. Then a second reflection joined mine.
Standing just behind my left shoulder. I spun around, heart hammering. The lobby was empty.
Turning back to the popcorn machine, I saw only my own reflection now, pale and wideeyed. But the feeling of presence remained, a weight against my back like someone standing too close. "I know you're there," I said quietly, continuing to clean.
"I'm not afraid. " A lie, but a necessary one. Fear was currency here, I was beginning to understand.
The theater fed on it, grew stronger with each quickened heartbeat and nervous glance. The projection booth needed checking again. The candle would be burning low by now if it hadn't gone out entirely.
I made my way up the creaking stairs, each step heavier than the last, as if the air itself resisted my progress. The candle sputtered, shadows twisting like living things. I backed out, rule four echoing in my mind.
Leave if it blows out. In the hallway, I glanced through the booth's window. As I touched the other reels, the air thickened, heavy with static.
A reel sat on the workbench, unmarked, gleaming, vibrating faintly as if summoned by my touch. Reel 13. I hadn't touched it, but my lingering had drawn it out.
I locked the door, hands shaking, and retreated, praying rule five would hold. Through the window, the reel vibrated faintly as if something inside stirred. I locked the door, my breath shallow, and backed away.
I dialed Roy's number, but the line crackled with static, then died. Was he ignoring me, or was the palace cutting me off? The lobby's fluorescent lights flickered as I returned, dimming momentarily before returning to their harsh glare.
The concession stands looked different somehow, the candy arranged in patterns I didn't recognize, the popcorn machine gleaming as if recently cleaned, though the grease stains had resisted my earlier efforts. My watch read 3:17 a. m.
Less than 4 hours until morning, but the night seemed to stretch endlessly before me. The theater growing more awake with each passing hour. I wasn't here to clean.
I was here to feed them. The palace had grown quieter, but it wasn't the silence of emptiness. It was the hushed anticipation of an audience before the curtain rises.
Every creek of the building, every flicker of the aging fluoresence felt deliberate, a performance designed just for me. My watch read 4:13 a. m.
less than 3 hours until morning. I made my way back to the projection booth, drawn there, despite every instinct warning me away. The locked door stood as I'd left it, but the thin line of light beneath had vanished.
Darkness waited on the other side. The key felt cold in my hand as I slid it into the lock. The mechanism turned with a click that echoed in the silent hallway.
I hesitated, hand on the door knob, remembering the rules. Never touch reel 13. If it appears, lock the booth and do not engage.
But I'd already broken that rule, hadn't I? I'd seen the reel appear, lock the door. But now I was returning.
My curiosity, my curse, wouldn't let me stay away. I lingered too long outside the booth, peering through the window. Faint images flickered on the wall.
Grainy scenes of the 1927 fire, panicked faces, then me entering the palace tonight. No projector ran. Yet the visions played, summoned by my curiosity.
I locked the door, heart pounding, cursing my stupidity, faint images flickered, flames engulfing the 1927 opera house. 17 faces watching from the balcony, their eyes hungry, the watchers feeding on terror then and now. I knew I was breaking rule five by lingering, my curiosity drawing the watchers closer, their presence thickening the air like static.
I backed away from the door, unwilling to watch more. My hand found the door knob, and I pulled the door shut behind me, locking it once more. Whatever real 13 was, cursed film or elaborate hoax, I wanted no part of it.
Back in the lobby, I tried to process what I'd seen. The film had shown me the theat's history, the tragedy that birthed it, and my own place in its ongoing story. But why?
What did the palace want from me? The concession stand needed restocking before morning. I focused on this mundane task, hoping it would ground me in reality.
The popcorn kernels rattled as I poured them into the machine, the sound comfortingly ordinary. A faint jingle of keys sounded from the front entrance, cutting through the theater's oppressive silence. Footsteps echoed in the lobby.
Roy back early. I heard the doors lock before he appeared, his red vest sharper, eyes hollow. You've been busy, Ethan, he said, voice too smooth.
Roy, I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. I thought you went home. The palace is home.
He approached the counter, his movements fluid, almost graceful, not the stiff gate of the man who'd greeted me hours ago. You've been busy tonight, Ethan, breaking rules, asking questions. I saw the real, I admitted it showed me things.
It shows everyone things. That's what it does. Royy's eyes reflected the fluorescent lights oddly.
Too bright, too empty. But it's not the real show. It's just the preview.
He reached across the counter faster than I could react and gripped my wrist. His fingers felt cold, almost bloodless. You read too much, Ethan.
Those Reddit threads, those stories, they like that. They I pulled back, but his grip held firm. The watchers, they've been hungry for someone like you.
Someone who believes before they see. Royy's smile didn't reach his eyes. I've fed them for years, night shift after night shift, but I'm tired now.
They need new blood. I wrenched my arm free, backing away from the counter. What are you talking about?
The palace isn't just a theater. Roy moved around the counter, following me. It's a feeder, a trap.
The rules kept them dormant, but your curiosity woke them. They've been watching you all night, Ethan, tasting your fear, your fascination. The lobby lights flickered, dimming momentarily before brightening again.
In that brief darkness, I glimpsed shapes moving behind Roy. Tall, angular forms with too many limbs, too many joints. "You're insane," I said, though the evidence of my own eyes told me otherwise.
"I'm a survivor. " Royy's eyes darted away when I mentioned the Reddit stories, as if the rules hid a secret he couldn't share. 17 years I've kept them fed, small portions, controlled feedings, but they're always hungry for more.
He gestured around the lobby. This place was built on their ground. Their burned bones are in the foundation.
The rules keep them at bay, but someone always breaks them. Someone always wants to know more. The theater pulsed around us.
A subtle expansion and contraction, like breathing. The gold tiles beneath my feet seemed to shift, patterns rearranging themselves into symbols I almost recognized. "What do they want?
" I asked, though I feared I already knew the answer. To watch. Roiy's voice dropped to a whisper.
To feed. To add you to their collection. The projector's word to life simultaneously.
The sound echoing from all three theaters. The candle in the booth, which I thought had burned out, suddenly flared to life beyond the locked door, its flame unnaturally bright through the small window. Footsteps thundered from the balcony of Theater 1.
No longer solitary, but a stampede. Shadows swarmed, humanoid, but blurred, their yellow eyes glowing in the dimness. They moved jerkily like broken film converging on me.
Roy stood calmly amid the chaos. They're coming now. I can't stop them.
Wouldn't if I could. My time's done. A shadow detached itself from the wall behind him, wrapping around his legs like black water.
He didn't resist as it pulled him down, his body folding at impossible angles. His eyes remained fixed on mine, still calm, almost relieved. He disappeared with a sound like film tearing, leaving nothing behind.
The lobby darkened as the fluoresence failed one by one. Emergency lights kicked on, bathing everything in a bloody glow. The shadows converged, flowing across the floor and walls like living ink, all moving toward me.
From theater 2's screen emerged a figure humanoid but wrong. Its proportions stretched and twisted. It had no face, just a blank expanse where features should be.
Yet somehow I knew it was looking at me, seeing me, wanting me. It mouthed my name, though it had no lips to form the word. My folklore knowledge kicked in.
Fragments of research surfacing through the panic. Salt. In countless traditions, salt repelled spirits, created boundaries they couldn't cross.
A Reddit post flashed in my mind. Salt circles repel spirits, a barrier against the unseen. The concession stand.
We kept salt for the popcorn. I vaulted over the counter, landing hard on the other side as shadows lapped at my heels. The canister of salt sat on the shelf beneath the popcorn machine, industrialsized, heavy in my hands as I wrenched it free.
The faceless watcher advanced, its body rippling like disturbed water. Behind it came others, shadow figures with yellow eyes, transparent forms that might once have been human. The watchers emerging from their realm into mine.
I twisted the cap off the salt canister and poured a circle around myself, the white granules bright against the dark floor. The shadows reached the boundary and recoiled, hissing like steam escaping a valve. The faceless watcher paused, its blank visage tilting in what might have been confusion.
It reached toward me, arm elongating impossibly, but stopped at the salt line as if hitting glass. I remembered a Reddit thread about banishing spirits, a ritual pieced together from various traditions, salt for the boundary, fire for purification, words for intent, the candle. I needed the candle from the projection booth, but the booth was upstairs beyond the circle's protection.
I'd have to break the boundary to reach it, unless the lighter we used for the candle was in my pocket, placed there earlier when I'd first lit it. I pulled it out now, the metal warm against my palm. Not as powerful as the candle itself, but perhaps enough.
I flicked my lighter, its small flame steady. The salt circle glowed faintly, each granle shimmering with unnatural light. "By light and will, you fade," I chanted, my voice steady.
"This place is not yours to haunt. " I repeated the words once more, each syllable a shield against the encroaching shadows. The salt circle began to glow faintly, each granle illuminated from within.
My voice getting steadier now. Get out of my head. Get out of this place.
The faceless watcher convulsed, its body stretching and contracting. The yellow-eyed shadows wailed, the sound-like film running too fast through a projector. They began to dissolve, their forms unraveling like damaged celluloid.
From upstairs came a crack, the sound of metal splitting. Real 13, breaking apart in its canister. The film unspooled, turning to dust that filtered through the air like black snow.
The watchers shrieked, their forms collapsing inward. The faceless one reached for me one last time, its arm passing through the salt boundary as if it no longer existed. But before it could touch me, it dissolved, leaving nothing but a faint impression in the air, then silence.
The emergency light steadied, no longer flickering. The theater settled around me, the sense of malevolent presence fading like mist in morning sun. My watch read 6:17 a.
m. Less than an hour until the morning shift arrived. I stepped carefully over the salt circle, half expecting the shadows to return, but the lobby remained empty, ordinary once more.
Even the gold tiles had settled into their original pattern, no longer shifting beneath my gaze. I climbed the stairs to the projection booth, the lighter still clutched in my hand. The door stood open now, though I'd locked it earlier.
Inside the canister that had held real 13 lay in pieces on the floor, empty of film. The projector was cold, its standby light, dark. The candle had burned down completely, leaving only a hardened pool of wax.
I touched it gently, finding it cool to the touch. Whatever power it had held was gone now, spent in the banishment. Back in the lobby, I cleaned up the salt circle, sweeping the granules into a dustpan and disposing of them in the outside dumpster.
The morning air felt clean against my face, the first hints of dawn lightening the eastern sky. I didn't bother completing the remaining tasks. By the time the morning manager arrived at 700 a.
m. The palace looked like any other small town theater, slightly shabby, but ordinary. I handed the keys to the morning manager, muttering that Roy had left early.
My voice cracked unsteady, and I avoided her eyes, afraid she'd see the terror still clawing at me. My hands trembled as I stumbled to my truck. The parking lot too bright under the dawn sky.
The palace loomed behind me, its neon sign, dark but watching, its art deco facade, a mask, hiding the horrors within. I fumbled the keys twice before starting the engine. The rumble barely drowning out my ragged breaths.
The voice was barely a whisper. Perhaps an echo of the souls I'd freed or a lingering trace of the watchers still clinging to me. "You're free," it said, but the words felt fleeting, as if the theater's grip might linger beyond my escape.
My folklore obsession had led me to the palace, promising answers, but it had nearly trapped me in its endless show. I'd survived, chanting those words, "By light and will, you fade. " But Royy's hollow eyes and the watcher's yellow stare burned in my mind, refusing to fade.
I gripped the wheel, knuckles white, checking the rear view mirror every few seconds. The town shrank behind me, but the hum lingered, not in my ears, but deeper, like a scar. My phone buzzed in my pocket, a Reddit notification I didn't dare check.
What if the watchers followed, feeding on my fear even now? I'd broken their rules, stared too long, and lived. But at what cost?
The road stretched ahead, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the palace wasn't done with me.
