The Celluloid Hunger

I was twenty-two and living in the city, but my mind kept drifting back to the prairie, to the crumbling cinema that stood like a tombstone on the edge of our town. I’d worked there through high school, a projectionist’s job that came with the dubious honor of cleaning the place every Sunday morning. It was a three-screen relic, its marquee lights long since dead, but the owner, old Mr. Havel, insisted on keeping the reels spinning for the few faithful who came. The smell of stale popcorn and dust was as familiar to me as my own breath.

That particular Sunday was unseasonably warm, a wet heat that clung to the walls like a fever. I had finished the lobby, the bathrooms, the concession stand, and was methodically working my way through Theatre 1. The service lights cast a sickly yellow glow over the rows of empty seats, which faced the blank screen like a congregation waiting for a sermon. I was vacuuming the aisle, the cord snaking behind me, when I heard it—a faint, rhythmic scratching from inside the projection booth. I paused, cutting the vacuum’s roar, and the sound persisted, a dry, insistent scrape against the metal door. I thought it might be a bird trapped in the vent, so I climbed the narrow stairs, my footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

The booth was a cramped room crammed with two projectors, their lenses like glassy eyes. The scratch was louder here, coming from behind the carbon arc lamp housing, a space so tight you could barely fit a hand. I grabbed a flashlight from the tool bench and shone it into the gap. The beam caught a glint of silver—a reel, but not one of ours. It was a battered tin, its label peeled and unreadable, and from within came that scratching, as if something were trying to claw its way out. I pulled it free, and the scratching stopped. The reel was warm to the touch, and when I held it to my ear, I could hear a faint hum, like a distant voice trapped in the celluloid.

I should have thrown it away, but curiosity got the better of me. I threaded it onto the spare projector in Theatre 3, a screen that hadn’t been used in years, its seats torn and dusty. The machine whirred to life, and the film began to roll. It was silent, black-and-white, a grainy picture of a cornfield under a brooding sky. In the center stood a scarecrow, but its face was wrong—too pale, too smooth, with dark hollows where eyes should be. As I watched, the figure began to move, its stick arms jerking in unnatural angles, and I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. I tried to stop the projector, but the button stuck, and the film kept playing, the scarecrow now lurching toward the camera, its mouth stretching into a jagged grin. Then the image cut to a close-up of a face—my face, but contorted in terror, and I saw the scarecrow’s shadow falling over me, its head tilted as if listening to a voice I couldn’t hear.

I slammed the projector off and stood in the dark, shaking. The screen was blank, but I could still see that image burned into my mind. I fled the theatre, but the reel felt heavy in my pocket, a dead weight. That night, I dreamed of the scarecrow standing over my bed, its hollow gaze boring into mine, and I woke to find scratch marks on the walls, deep grooves like nails dragged through plaster.

The next Sunday, I was terrified, but I couldn’t afford to lose this job. I entered Theatre 2, determined to ignore the memory. I picked up a broom and began sweeping, the rhythm calming my nerves. That was when I smelled it—a fetid odor, like rotting meat and old pennies. It emanated from the air conditioning vent behind the screen. I hesitated, then climbed up and pried the grate open. Inside, nestled in the duct, was another reel, identical to the first, but the tin was rusted and dripping with a black, viscous fluid. As I reached in, the scratching returned, but this time it was all around me, from every wall, every speaker, as if the theatre itself was infested with rats. I tore the reel out and hurled it against the wall. It burst open, and a fog of gray dust billowed out, carrying a whisper that was almost words.

I didn’t wait to clean up. I ran out into the parking lot, gasping the fresh air, but the whisper followed me, worming into my ears. That afternoon, I tried to burn the first reel in a trash barrel behind the theatre, but the film wouldn’t catch, the celluloid merely curling in the flames like a living thing. I ended up burying it in a field, but as I tamped down the dirt, I swore I saw a faint movement beneath the soil.

The third Sunday arrived, and I walked in with a crowbar, ready to destroy whatever was in Theatre 1. I had already made up my mind to quit, but I needed my final paycheck. I stepped into the darkness, my flashlight cutting a narrow beam. The screen glowed faintly, not with the service lights, but with a sickly gray luminance, as if a film was already playing. I saw the scarecrow again, now standing in a hallway, its shadow stretching impossibly long. The image shifted to a room I recognized—the projection booth itself—and I watched as a figure that looked exactly like me pulled a reel from the wall and threaded it with trembling hands. Then the figure turned to the camera, and its face wasn’t mine anymore, but a hollow mask of skin, and it spoke in a voice like dry leaves: ‘You are the final reel.’

I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The screen went black, and the service lights flickered back on. I stood there, panting, and then I noticed the floor—it was covered in a fine black dust, and there were footprints leading from the screen to the projector booth, as if someone had walked out. I followed them, my heart pounding, and found the booth door ajar. Inside, the spare projector was running, but it was empty, no reel loaded. Yet the lens cast a beam onto the wall, and in that beam I saw words scrawled in what looked like soot: ‘Sunday never ends.’

I never went back. I left town the next day, moved to the city, and tried to forget. But last week, I received a package with no return address. Inside was a reel, identical to the others, its tin warm to the touch. I haven’t opened it. I’m writing this instead, hoping that by telling you, I can transfer its hunger elsewhere. But as I finish this account, I hear a faint scratching from my closet, and I know the cell in that reel is already breeding, already waiting for Sunday to come again. And when it does, it will find me, no matter how far I’ve run.