The Empty Projector Booth

The Anchor Cinema sat at the end of a decaying pier in Port Na Mainistreach, a town that had long since forgotten its own name. I was the morning cleaner, and every day at 7 AM I’d punch in my code, silence the alarm, and spend three hours scrubbing stale popcorn butter from the carpet. But that Tuesday, something was off.

I slid my key into the back door, expecting the usual shrill beeping. Nothing. The lock clicked, the door swung inward, and the silence was a physical weight. The lights were off, the hallway stretching into darkness like a throat. I fumbled for the panel, but the code didn’t work. The system was dead. I shrugged it off—maybe a power surge had reset it. I made my way through the lobby, flicking switches, and the fluorescent tubes buzzed to life one by one, revealing the usual stained seats and fake velvet curtains. The projector booth at the top of the stairs was dark, as always.

I left to grab a coffee from the kiosk across the street, a quick five-minute ritual. When I came back, the back door was ajar. My heart stuttered. I hadn’t left it open. I pushed it inward, and the alarm screamed, deafening in the empty hall. I fumbled for my code, typing it with shaking fingers. The wailing stopped. My ears rang in the sudden silence.

Inside, the lights were out again. Every single one. I began flipping switches, working my way down the corridor. The main screen room was dark, the screen itself a gray void. But as I passed the door to Projection Booth 2, I saw a sliver of light beneath it. That booth had been sealed for years, its equipment gutted after the fire. I put my hand on the cold metal knob. It turned without resistance.

The booth smelled of ozone and old dust. Inside, the ancient projector—the one they’d never removed—was humming. A reel spun slowly, the film flickering with a low, rhythmic whir. The beam of light cut through the haze, projecting onto a screen that had been removed decades ago. On the bare brick wall, there was an image: grainy, black and white, of a man standing in a field. He was waving. Not at me—at something else. The picture jumped. Now he was running. Now he was pointing. His mouth was open, but there was no sound.

I backed out, my legs numb. I called the manager, who told me to get out, that a security guard would check later. But I couldn’t leave. Something in that booth pulled at me. I went back, forcing myself inside. The projector had stopped. The film was loose, dangling from the reel. On the floor, a strip of film was unspooled, and on it, burned into the frames, was a message: ‘HELP US’—over and over, in letters that looked like they’d been scratched by fingernails.

I snapped a photo with my phone. The flash lit up the room, and I saw my own reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. But the reflection was wrong. It was a different man, older, with a scar across his cheek. He was smiling. The lights flickered. The projector whirred back to life, and this time, the image on the wall was me. Standing in the booth, staring at the camera, my mouth open in a scream I couldn’t hear.

I ran. I didn’t stop until I was outside on the pier, gasping salt air. The sun was up, but the sky seemed wrong—a sickly yellow. I looked back. The cinema window above the door was dark, but I could feel eyes on me. My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: ‘We see you, new one. The reel never ends.’

That evening, the manager called. The security guard had found the back door unlocked, but no sign of me. He asked if I’d forgotten my code again. I tried to explain, but all I could hear was the hum of the projector in my skull. I still hear it. Every night. And when I close my eyes, I see that field, and the man waving. He’s getting closer.