The Flicker at the Last Reel

The night air carried the scent of rain and old concrete as I followed my friend Mira into the narrow alley that led to the Regal Lantern. The marquee buzzed with a dying orange glow, the letters half-burnt out: ‘NOW SHOWING: THE HOLLOW HOUR’. Mira had insisted on this place, saying it reminded her of the cinema her grandmother took her to as a child, the one that smelled of buttered popcorn and dust. I had moved in with her only a week ago, into her small apartment above a butcher’s shop, and I was still learning her moods. She had been quiet all day, even after our lunch at Luigi’s, where she barely touched her fettuccine, and the dozen roses I’d given her sat on the kitchen counter, unarranged.

We pushed through the heavy glass doors, and the interior swallowed us into a different time. The carpet was a faded red with a pattern of intertwined vines, and the walls were lined with framed photos of actors I didn’t recognize. The ticket booth was manned by an old man with a face like crumpled newsprint. He looked up, and for a moment, his eyes had a yellowish tint, like old bindings. He didn’t speak, just slid two tickets across the counter. Mira took them, her hand trembling slightly. ‘You okay?’ I asked. She forced a smile, ‘Just cold from the walk.’ We walked down the corridor, the sound of our footsteps muffled, and the air grew heavier, laced with a smell of ammonia and something sweet, like overripe fruit.

We chose seats in the back row of the small theater. The screen was a huge sheet of white, rippling with dust. There were only five other patrons, scattered in the front rows. The lights dimmed with a mechanical click, and the projector whirred to life. The film began – a grainy black-and-white picture, the title fading in: ‘The Hollow Hour’. It was a silent film, with the occasional card of dialogue. The story was simple: a woman in a long dress wanders a mansion, calling out for her lost child. The film flickered, but that was normal for an old reel. Mira grabbed my arm, her grip tight. ‘Did you see that?’ she whispered. I looked at the screen. The woman was standing at a window, but for a split second, her head turned towards the audience, her eyes seemed to look directly at us, and then the film jumped. ‘Just a glitch,’ I said, but my heart quickened.

The film continued. The woman in the film began to open doors, each one revealing a dark room. In one of the rooms, there was a mirror, and in the reflection, I saw something that was not on the screen – a man in a fedora, standing in the corner of the theater. I turned my head, but there was no one. Mira was breathing fast, her eyes fixed on the screen. ‘We should go,’ she said, her voice barely audible. But I was transfixed. The woman on the screen had now opened a door that led to a staircase, descending. As she walked down, the film speed seemed to slow, and the music (a tinny piano) became a low drone. I felt a cool breath on my neck, and I turned around. Behind us, the exit sign cast a red glow, but in the corner, I saw a shape – tall, thin, shimmering like heat. Mira screamed. I grabbed her, pulling her up. ‘Move!’

We ran down the aisle, but the aisle seemed longer than before. The carpet now felt sticky, and the walls seemed to close in. The exit door was ahead, but we had to pass the concession stand, which was dark. As we passed, I caught a reflection in the glass of the popcorn machine – behind us, the tall figure was following, its face a blank oval. I yanked Mira’s hand, and we burst through the doors into the lobby. The old man at the ticket booth was gone. The lights were flickering. The front door was locked. I fumbled with the lock, but the keyhole seemed to have melted shut. From the theater, we heard a sound – not a scream, but a wet, whispering sound, like a thousand tongues.

Mira was crying. ‘It’s her,’ she said, ‘the woman from my dreams.’ I shook her. ‘What are you talking about?’ She looked at me, her eyes wide and white. ‘When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares about a woman who came out of the cinema. She said she was looking for her child. She always led me to a mirror.’ The lights went out completely. In the darkness, I heard the projector stop, and a voice, low and smooth, filled the lobby: ‘You brought a friend, dear?’ I turned, but Mira was no longer beside me. In the faint glow of the exit sign, I saw her walking back into the theater, her steps slow, as if hypnotized. I ran after her, but the theater was empty. The screen was off, but in the middle of the floor, there was a crack in the wood, and from it, a pale light emanated. And I heard Mira’s voice from below, echoing, ‘It’s so dark down here. Come find me.’

I knelt, peering into the crack. I saw a face looking up at me – Mira’s face, but wrong, the skin peeled back, the eyes sewn shut. A hand pushed through the crack, reaching for my ankle. I stumbled back, but the hand was followed by an arm, and then the woman from the film crawled out, her hair a wet mess, her mouth open in a silent scream. She looked at me and spoke with Mira’s voice: ‘You gave me roses. They’re pretty, but they die.’ I turned to run, but the doors were gone. The walls were closing in, the carpet peeling back to reveal dirt. The woman inched closer, and I saw that she had no feet, only stumps that left dark trails. ‘The last reel is always the same,’ she said. ‘The family reunites, but one is missing.’

I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, I was sitting in the theater seat, the film still playing. The woman on the screen was still walking down the stairs. Beside me, Mira was smiling, but her smile was too wide, and her eyes were black. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, standing up. ‘I know where the child is.’ I followed her out of the theater, through the lobby, and onto the street. The night was silent, the streetlamps casting pools of sickly yellow. Mira led me to the alley, but now it was different – the walls were covered in old movie posters, all for ‘The Hollow Hour’, and at the end, there was a door that hadn’t been there before. Mira opened it. Inside was a mirror. She pointed. ‘Look.’ In the mirror, I saw not my reflection, but a little girl in a nightgown, crying at the bottom of a staircase. The woman from the film stood beside me in the reflection, her face gaunt. ‘Take her,’ she said, ‘and I’ll let you go.’

I turned to run, but the alley was now a long corridor, with endless doors. I opened one, and found myself in my apartment, but the furniture was rotten, and the roses were dead. I heard Mira’s voice from inside a closet: ‘Why did you leave me?’ I pulled open the closet, and out tumbled a cascade of old film reels, unraveling like intestines. At the end of the reel, I saw a frame of Mira, tied to a chair, her mouth open in a scream. And the woman behind her, holding a pair of scissors. The reel jammed, and the frame stopped. I touched the film, and the room went dark. When the light returned, I was standing outside the cinema, the morning sun bleaching the streets. The marquee read ‘CLOSED’. I never saw Mira again. But sometimes, in the flicker of an old film, I see her face, and she’s crying, and behind her, the woman whispers, ‘You still have time.’

I moved back to my old house, but they had sold it. I live alone now. I never watch movies. But at night, I hear the hum of a projector, and the floorboards creak, and I know that somewhere, in a forgotten cinema, a woman is walking down an endless staircase, and she’s not alone. She has Mira. And she’s waiting for me to come back.