Cali Carter Alexis Monroe Jessa Rhodes -

Then, halfway through the second reel, the projector stuttered. The screen went white. The crowd murmured. And from the darkness beyond the last row of cars, a figure stepped into the light.

The man’s eyes flickered. Something moved behind them—not unkindness, but caution. “That place ain’t been used in twenty years.” cali carter alexis monroe jessa rhodes

They settled in. The film flickered to life, grainy and glorious. For a while, it was almost perfect: the three of them huddled in a blanket, Alexis’s head on Cali’s shoulder, Jessa’s boots kicked up on an empty chair. The bat monsters looked like rubber puppets. The acting was gloriously terrible. Then, halfway through the second reel, the projector

“We should have flown,” Alexis moaned, dropping her head against the window. “Why did we agree to drive?” And from the darkness beyond the last row

They drove on. The road narrowed, the pavement giving way to gravel, then hard-packed dirt. The sun began to sink, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange. And then they saw it: the rusted skeleton of the Starview Drive-in. The screen was still standing, just barely, its surface pockmarked with bullet holes and weather. Below it, a scattering of vintage cars and folding chairs had been set up. A few dozen people milled about, holding paper cups and speaking in low, excited voices.

“That was weird, right?” Alexis said quietly. “That wasn’t just me?”

He was tall. Wearing a long coat. His face was lost in shadow, but in one hand he held something that glinted—not a weapon, but a film canister. Old. Tin.