I settle into the center seat of the back row and place a mop-bucket sized popcorn atop my lap. With my hand submerged in the pseudo-butter-drenched snack, I breathe a sigh of relief. No husband to nag me about my lumpy thighs. I love Robert, but he’s always on my case about junk food. While his harping gets annoying, I understand where he’s coming from. When we first met, I was svelte as a ballerina. Now, after three decades, two children, and oh-so-many popcorn tubs, my figure’s as wide as a football lineman. I know he only wants what’s best for me, so I do what I can to keep my treats secret.
The movie theater is the one place I can eat what I please. What’s the big deal, anyway? Popcorn’s kind of good for you, isn’t it? One might even say it’s a vegetable or at least vegetable adjacent. Now, the family-sized bag of strawberry licorice in my purse is another story. Then again, one could make the argument it’s like a fruit or perhaps fruit adjacent. But, that gallon of Coke I paid eight dollars for. Pure indulgence. I take a sip, basking in the knowledge Robert will never know.
It’s Monday. My movie night. The night my hubby works late, and I go to the ten o’clock showing of the latest scary flick at The Marks Theater. Unlike other movie houses in our town, The Marks had never gotten a facelift in all its years. Patches of foam poke through the cushions of the old ruby seats. The burgundy carpeting that lines the aisle is frayed and threadbare, and the once gilded ceiling is crumbling like my dreams of squeezing into that little black dress again. While shabby, the theater still holds the same charm it did forty years ago. Robert prefers those overdone, luxury theaters with surround-sound and seats that recline to a laying position, but I like the Marks. After all, we had our first date here, not to mention our first kiss.
Despite the perpetually sticky floor, abysmal acoustics, and the chronic faint smell of someone’s basement, I adore this theater. There’s a majestic feel you just don’t get in those comfy new places. Before each movie, soft Muzak fills the air with songs like Willy Nelson’s, Always On My Mind, and The Carpenter’s We’ve Only Just Begun – lovely ballads that remind me of my wedding day. A heavy, light-blue drape covers the screen until the previews start. Even if I am only in for the latest Texas Chainsaw Massacre knockoff, I get the feeling I’m about to see a magical performance when that drape opens. The once lush screen curtain is now tattered and stained like the rest of the place, but I would be devastated if they ever took it down. That dreamy powder-blue is the same color as my Robert’s eyes. Those eyes I fell for in this very theater.
In addition to its nostalgic appeal, The Marks also shows the best films. Not academy award winders, mind you, but those B horror pictures that always kept me up late at night during my teen years. Poorly acted, campy flicks with dopey heroines and faceless, unkillable villains. I guess you could say I’m a horror addict. Yep, giant snacks and cinematic chillers are my bag. I’ve often thought how I’d react if stalked by some creep in the dark of night. Sure, it would be terrifying, but maybe just the teeniest bit exciting. I’d bet my last licorice rope I wouldn’t fumble about like the girls in nearly every screamer I ever viewed.
The Marks’ decrepit state and movie lineup typically results in a lot of empty seats. Monday nights, in particular, are marvelously dead. Of course, there was the time when those two older women sat three rows ahead of me and talked through the entire showing of Die, My Sweet, Die! Then there was the group of teenage boys at the showing of Ghosted, who spent more time viewing their phones and dotting the dark theater with little pockets of light, instead of watching the movie. But, typically, I have the entire theater to myself, and tonight is no exception.
The sleepy instrumental version of Elton John’s Tiny Dancer silences. The screen drape slides open. I’m still alone. My own private screening! I chew on licorice, watch commercials of personified candies doing shtick and dart my eyes to the theater’s entrance. Still no one but me. I throw a handful of popcorn in my mouth and wash it down with a sweet, fizzy sip.
As the previews start, I hold my breath. That’s typically when the tardies stroll in. I study the entrance — still just me. The theater darkens. The film is starting and still not another soul. After all, it’s the coldest night of the year. I’m sure I’m the only one in town who wanted to see The Lurker in the Dark tonight.
The opening scene fills the screen. A woman in a business suit walks alone in a dark parking garage. She rummages in her purse for her key. Her heels clank on concrete.
I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders and burrow deeper into the hard seat.
A shadow creeps behind the woman. A knife pierces the darkness and plunges into her back. She falls to the ground, crawls toward her car. The killer raises the knife. Stabs her again. Haunting, waterphone music screeches, as the credits announce a cast of unknowns and old sit-com has-beens.
I see a flicker out of the corner of my eye and squint to see someone standing at the front of the theater, but I’m not worried. The ticket counter guy always makes his first round at the beginning of a film. I wait for him to walk across the front, flashlight in hand. I narrow my eyes some more, bringing him into focus. From the dim aisle lights, I see a bundled figure still wearing a hood climbing the theater stairs. Not the ticket counter guy. I huff. So much for my private viewing. Based on the size and heavy gait, I assume the figure is male. He takes slow, careful steps, pauses halfway up, and looks down a row. I will him with my thoughts to take a seat. If he’s a cougher, texter, or heavy breather, I’d still have enough of a buffer if he sits all the way down there.
Just as I let my hope rise, he pivots and ascends several more stairs. I shove a handful of popcorn into my mouth when he stops two rows in front of me. He side-steps down the row, stares at the screen, then steps back to the aisle and goes up another step. I nearly choke on my popcorn as he ascends another step. He’s standing at the edge of the back row! Is he actually going to sit in the same row as me in an, otherwise, empty theater?
He hovers there at the end for a bit. I assume he’s adjusting his eyes before choosing a seat.
I turn my head back to the movie and keep my eyes peeled to the screen.
His heavy footsteps scrape the floor, the sound louder as he moves closer to me.
My shoulders tighten. Doesn’t he see me? I cough and clear my throat.
More scraping.
I hear the sound of my breath and cough again.
The scraping stops. He pauses. Takes another step — drops in the seat next to me.
My heart plummets. Is he insane?
He plops his arm on the narrow armrest between us. His thick coat sleeve hangs over onto my side.
Anger pulses through me. Should I say something? I open my mouth to complain but then remember the news story about a guy robbing a single movie patron in a dark theater across town. Police caught the thief, but could this be a copycat? Then there was the kissing bandit a couple of years ago who, apparently, sat next to unsuspecting solo female movie-goers, planted wet-ones on their cheeks, then simply left the theater. I’m not sure if he was caught, and don’t know if that’s even a crime, but nonetheless, I’d prefer not to be smooched by a total stranger in a dark theater. Of course, this person could be that older guy I’d see in here from time to time. Pretty quiet and seemingly harmless, but often sat too close for my comfort, although he’d never sat right next to me before.
The eerie music turns my attention back to the screen. A college guy in skinny jeans enters a frat house. The music intensifies, shrieking cords that tell me something sinister is about to go down. After the dude on the screen bites it, I’ll make my move to the front row near the exit.
On the screen, a cloaked figure lurches from a closet. Slices the college guy’s neck. That’s my cue. My heartbeat quickens. On the count of three, I’m out of here. I look down at my popcorn, preparing to flee. In my mind, I command myself to bolt, but my feet are cemented to the grimy floor. My hands freeze to the sides of the popcorn bucket.
The stranger beside me reaches his gloved hand into the popcorn tub on my lap and grabs a handful.
What’s with this guy? He’s got to be out of his tree. My knees tremble. My body, a block of ice.
I hear the rustle of his coat sleeve as he shoves the popcorn in his mouth and crunches.
I dart my eyes toward his lap to see him scrub his greasy glove on his pants. He reaches for the drink in the crook of my arm, takes a sip, and sets the giant cup on the floor.
Despite my fear, I turn to look at him.
His hood covers half his face. He wipes his mouth with the back of his glove.
I quietly wrap my hand around the strap of my purse on the other seat beside me. On the silent count of three, I will run.
One.
Thunder booms on the screen. A downpour crashes onto a scantily clad woman as she runs down the street.
Two.
From behind a bush, a soaking wet lurker lunges at the bad actress.
Three. I scoot to the edge of my seat.
The guy in the next seat turns toward me.
A scream explodes from the screen. The drenched woman drops to the ground and becomes a body in a mud puddle.
I plant my feet on the floor. Prepare to stand. That’s when I see it — that glistening blade. A silent scream rages in my head.
Cold steel on my throat. My heart explodes. My neck, warm and sticky. Blood drips onto popcorn — the sound like soft rain.
I slump, turn to the figure.
Lightening on the screen illuminates the theater.
His hood falls behind him. Blue eyes stare back at me.
Those powder-blue, screen-drape eyes I fell for so long ago.
About Cynthia Lee Sheeler: Cynthia Lee Sheeler is a fiction writer who resides in Northeast, Ohio. She’s published several short stories and is working toward publication of her first novel, Who is Delora Rose?. When not writing fiction, she’s working in the exciting world of Human Resources, volunteering at her local animal shelter, or satisfying her caffeine addiction at Starbucks.
