The Last Reel

The Grand Majestic Cinema, a sprawling 14-screen multiplex, was my home away from home for nearly a decade. I was the Senior Film Technician, the one who threaded the ancient 35mm projectors and spliced together the physical reels of film, checking each frame for dust or damage before the first screening. In the age of digital projection, I was a dinosaur, but the owners kept the old machines for the classic film festival every October. This story, however, is not about me. It’s about a young projectionist named Danny and a manager named Ruth, both as solid and unflappable as they come. Danny was a film school grad who could talk your ear off about Kurosawa, and Ruth was a former Army logistician who ran the cinema with military precision. Neither of them was prone to flights of fancy. So when they both told me what they saw that night, I believed them, even though it turned my stomach cold.

It was a Tuesday in late October, and the festival was showing a restored print of Monsters, Inc. Danny had the evening shift, and Ruth was doing the nightly closing. The film was a favorite, a comedy, and the cinema was only a third full. As usual, I had assembled the reels earlier that day, checking the splices and the sound track. Danny was in the booth with me during the first screening, watching the film on the small monitor, and we chatted about the razor-sharp timing of the animation. When the credits rolled, Danny left to start his rounds, and I stayed behind to let the Xenon lamp cool down before switching it off. The auditorium was empty, the last patrons having shuffled out into the cold night. I sat in the dark, for a moment, listening to the hum of the projector and the faint hiss of the cooling fan. The green exit signs cast a faint glow over the rows of empty seats.

I finally shut down the projector, plunging the booth into a dim red light from the service lamps. I descended the spiral staircase to the main floor, intending to grab my coat from the staff room. As I passed the entrance to Auditorium 4, I noticed the door was ajar, which was odd, because we always kept them closed during the night. I pushed it open, and the stale smell of popcorn and dust drifted out. The screen was a dull gray, the house lights were off, but the spill from the corridor cast a faint rectangle onto the stage. I was about to close the door when I saw something move at the far end of the aisle, near the emergency exit. It was a figure, small and hunched, shuffling towards the screen. I called out, thinking a homeless person had wandered in from the street. The figure paused, and I saw it turn its head. Its face was a blank, smooth oval, like a mannequin’s, and its eyes were two dark hollows. It raised a hand, as if to wave, and then it vanished, dissolving into the shadows. I stood frozen, my heart hammering, for a good minute before I managed to back away and run to the lobby.

Ruth was in her office, counting the day’s intake. She looked up when I burst in, and my face must have been pale, because she asked, ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I told her what I saw, and she didn’t laugh. Instead, her expression grew serious, and she said, ‘You’re not the first. Danny said the same thing when I mentioned it to him last week.’ I stared at her. ‘What do you mean, last week?’ She sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘I’ve been seeing it for years. Only during the festival, when the old reels are playing. I thought it was a trick of the light, maybe a reflection from the screen. But then Danny described it exactly as I’ve seen it—a small figure, like a child, but with no face. And it only appears after a film ends, and only when the projector has been running for more than two hours. I asked him to keep it to himself, because I didn’t want to scare the other staff.’ I sat down, my legs weak. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been here for ten years.’ Ruth looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a hint of fear in her eyes. ‘Because I checked the records. Every year, at the festival, there’s a report of someone seeing that figure. And every year, on the last night, someone gets hurt. Nothing serious—a fall, a cut—but it’s always in the theater where the last movie played. Last year, it was the old janitor, who slipped on a wet floor and broke his arm. The year before, a patron fainted in the lobby and hit his head. I thought it was coincidence. Now I’m not sure.’

I spent the rest of the week on edge, avoiding that particular auditorium. Danny did the same, and we exchanged nervous glances. The festival was nearing its end, with a closing night double feature: the original Halloween, followed by a midnight screening of The Shining. We knew the figure would appear after the last show, but we couldn’t cancel. The cinema was sold out for the closing night. On the final evening, I was working the projector for the 35mm print of The Shining. Danny was in the booth with me, and Ruth was checking the fire exits. The film ran long, and the audience stayed until the end, applauding the classic. As the credits rolled, I saw the figure again, standing in the aisle, watching the screen. It was clearer this time, but still faceless. It raised its hand, and I felt a cold draft. The film ended, the screen went dark, and the house lights came up slowly. The figure was gone. I turned to Danny, and he was as white as a sheet. ‘Did you see that?’ he whispered. I nodded. ‘We need to warn Ruth.’

We found Ruth in the projection booth, checking the rewind. She asked, ‘Did you see it?’ I said yes. She took a deep breath and said, ‘It’s not here to hurt anyone. I think it’s tied to the film itself. But I don’t know what it wants.’ Just then, the fire alarm went off. Not the usual test, but a loud, continuous claxon. We smelled smoke. My heart stopped. We ran to the control room and saw that the projector in Auditorium 7, the one where Halloween had just screened, was overheating. Flames licked from the lamp housing. We rushed to extinguish it with the fire extinguisher, but the smoke was thick, and we had to evacuate the building. The patrons were already filing out, and the fire department came. It was a small fire, contained to the projector, but it destroyed the print of Halloween—the only copy in the country. No one was hurt, but the damage was significant.

Later, as we stood in the parking lot, watching the last of the smoke drift away, Danny said, ‘It was trying to warn us.’ Ruth looked at him. ‘Warn us about what?’ Danny pointed to the burnt remains of the projector. ‘Maybe it was trying to save us. Maybe the fire would have been worse if we hadn’t seen it.’ We never saw the faceless figure again. But every October, during the festival, I feel a presence in that empty auditorium. I don’t know if it’s a ghost, or a projection, or something in the film grain. All I know is that the last reel of Halloween burned that night, and in its place, there’s a pattern of burn marks on the wall of the booth that looks like a small, hunched figure. And when the projector runs, in the corner of my eye, I see it raise its hand, as if to say, ‘I’m still here.’