The forest shouldn’t have had a path, and yet it did. It wound between pine and maple, under a canopy of fog that breathed like smoke. The air smelled of damp leaves and distant electricity, like something waiting to flicker on. Paper lanterns hung from branches, carved pumpkins glowed from stumps, and somewhere ahead, faint music drifted through the mist... a crackly old record of Monster Mash warped by time. Faded movie tickets and candy wrappers lined the dirt, as if the forest itself had been swept into Halloween.
At the trail’s end stood a two-story building, a hybrid of ranger cabin and video store, lights strung from the roof like constellations. A banner flapped weakly over the door:
SCARECROW VIDEO PRESENTS: HALLOWEEN OFF THE TRAIL — ONE NIGHT ONLY!
“Community, Cinema, and Possibly Ghosts.”
Inside, the air buzzed with life. Folding tables held half-empty popcorn tubs, trivia sheets, and old VHS boxes stacked like treasure. A battered espresso machine coughed steam in the corner while a generator hummed outside, flickering the lights in sync with the rhythm of the wind. Someone had already set up a “Name That Horror Score” game, and a few brave souls were debating whether Evil Dead II was a remake or a sequel. Laughter mingled with static from a looping projector reel. Behind the counter, Ilya Snow adjusted a roll of film between his fingers. A dark-haired twenty-year-old in a thrifted denim jacket and hoodie, he looked half awake, half ghost, and fully at home. His hoodie read “I Paused My Movie To Be Here” which was ironic, considering he probably hadn’t slept since Thursday.
He’d started the “Off the Trail” tradition two years ago, meant to be a small film-club night with a few friends and a borrowed projector. Now it was something more stranger, a once-a-year gathering that no one quite remembered planning, but everyone managed to find… if they were meant to. The projector sputtered, lighting the wall in flashes of static and green-white glow. For a moment, the outlines of other faces flickered among the crowd. They were not living, but not entirely gone either. Ilya blinked, then smirked. “Alright, welcome to Scarecrow Off the Trail,” he said, voice warm and teasing. “Pick your poison. Horror trivia, cursed candy, or the film at midnight. And if you hear anyone whispering your name from the woods... Don’t. Look. Back.”
He leaned on the counter, tossed a candy corn into his mouth, and grinned at whoever was brave (or foolish) enough to step inside next.
“Trick or treat?”
Welcome to Scarecrow Video: Off the Trail!
A secret Halloween event hosted by Ilya Snow. Half community movie night, half urban legend. The forest path appears only in October and only those with curiosity (or supernatural luck) find it.
What You Can Do Here:
- Arrive via the forest trail and enter the lodge.
- Join trivia games, grab candy, or talk to Ilya and other guests.
- Choose between Trick (chaotic spooky fun) or Treat (heartfelt or nostalgic reward.. or just candy).
- Stick around for the midnight film screening.
- Discover an unmarked white door glowing faintly behind the projector room. Those who open it may find themselves stepping into Von Darket Castle, where new frights and perhaps new friends await. Consider it the sequel (or prequel of you come from there) to tonight’s feature film.
Whispers on the wind carried with it a mysterious forest that hosted a place which only seemed to appear once each Halloween. Call it curiosity, but interest was piqued. With a lovely paper umbrella and attire for the evening, damp leaves barely crunched underneath geta shoes as the woman moved through with a grace from centuries of practice. Down the forest path she went. Dark eyes roamed over the finer details. What looked like faded movie tickets and old candy wrappers seemed to line the way, even if it was dimly lit by paper lanterns and carved pumpkins. Their glow cast shadows that danced along to a rhythm she could hear emanate from what looked like a two-story building of sorts just ahead. Was it a cabin or a video store? Head tilted slightly as her gaze pierced through the eerie fog.
She drew closer as the scent of the damp forest continued to waft along like something out of a fairy tale of long-lost memories. How nostalgic! For a moment, she stood just outside and listened in. Voices could be heard from within. Horror movies, music, laughter and maybe even a startled gasp or two. Fingers rolled along the wood of the shaft for the paper umbrella before it was carefully moved and then folded neatly. With that, a hand quietly dove into the pouch-like purse whose strings were looped around her other wrist. A sleek cell phone was fished from it's depths and soon a text message was sent to a certain someone. The message read simply... Let's go out on a date tonight. I'm in a kimono, so come dressed up. She made sure to include instructions on the address of the place and how to get there.
Just as the phone was slipped back into the purse, the woman paused briefly as a playful twitch of her lips was made. She hoped, for his sake, he wouldn't keep her waiting too long. Otherwise, there was a trick or two he'd be facing tonight! Before emotions could slip from control, she recomposed herself and stepped over to the door to open it. Inside was glorious mischief and chaos as she stepped through the threshold and closed the door quietly behind herself. Eyes swept briefly over the scene that played out in front of her like an old clip from one of those cinemas with the big black and white screens back in the day when they first came out. Then her gaze landed on someone that appeared to be in charge of this curious event, so she stepped over to him. Had she heard her name be whispered? Not yet. Were there ghosts around? Possibly!
With a faint hint of mischief in her eyes, she spoke. "I'll take two tickets for the midnight film." Soft-spoken as usual, but still clear enough to easily be heard. The man looked half asleep, which was perfect for casting illusions! She wouldn't start right away but instead would pick and choose her moment to maybe spook a person or two. A cursory glance was made. There was plenty of opportunity here, too! Was that a ghost? She knew the world was filled with them and tonight, of all nights, the veil was thinnest. Her attention turned back toward Ilya. "Thank you for hosting this event." With two tickets in hand, she gave him a knowing smile and stepped gracefully through the crowd as she wandered a bit first. All the while, she ticked the minutes and kept track of the time as she waited for someone to arrive. She'd give him some time. But after that? Yeah, he would be fair game for some pranks! As she peered at the candy nearby, she dared to try one just to see what it would. "Treat." She murmured to herself amusedly.
She drew closer as the scent of the damp forest continued to waft along like something out of a fairy tale of long-lost memories. How nostalgic! For a moment, she stood just outside and listened in. Voices could be heard from within. Horror movies, music, laughter and maybe even a startled gasp or two. Fingers rolled along the wood of the shaft for the paper umbrella before it was carefully moved and then folded neatly. With that, a hand quietly dove into the pouch-like purse whose strings were looped around her other wrist. A sleek cell phone was fished from it's depths and soon a text message was sent to a certain someone. The message read simply... Let's go out on a date tonight. I'm in a kimono, so come dressed up. She made sure to include instructions on the address of the place and how to get there.
Just as the phone was slipped back into the purse, the woman paused briefly as a playful twitch of her lips was made. She hoped, for his sake, he wouldn't keep her waiting too long. Otherwise, there was a trick or two he'd be facing tonight! Before emotions could slip from control, she recomposed herself and stepped over to the door to open it. Inside was glorious mischief and chaos as she stepped through the threshold and closed the door quietly behind herself. Eyes swept briefly over the scene that played out in front of her like an old clip from one of those cinemas with the big black and white screens back in the day when they first came out. Then her gaze landed on someone that appeared to be in charge of this curious event, so she stepped over to him. Had she heard her name be whispered? Not yet. Were there ghosts around? Possibly!
With a faint hint of mischief in her eyes, she spoke. "I'll take two tickets for the midnight film." Soft-spoken as usual, but still clear enough to easily be heard. The man looked half asleep, which was perfect for casting illusions! She wouldn't start right away but instead would pick and choose her moment to maybe spook a person or two. A cursory glance was made. There was plenty of opportunity here, too! Was that a ghost? She knew the world was filled with them and tonight, of all nights, the veil was thinnest. Her attention turned back toward Ilya. "Thank you for hosting this event." With two tickets in hand, she gave him a knowing smile and stepped gracefully through the crowd as she wandered a bit first. All the while, she ticked the minutes and kept track of the time as she waited for someone to arrive. She'd give him some time. But after that? Yeah, he would be fair game for some pranks! As she peered at the candy nearby, she dared to try one just to see what it would. "Treat." She murmured to herself amusedly.
Inside, the forest’s fog pressed faintly against the windows, painting the glass with drifting white streaks as if trying to peek inside. The building had been a ranger outpost once as the bones said so. Beneath the hum of the generator, one could almost hear the creak of old floorboards carrying decades of stories: boots, laughter, secrets.
Now it was something else entirely.
Every wall was plastered in movie posters that shouldn’t have survived the weather like Nosferatu, The Lost Boys, Hausu, their edges curling and colors bleeding into each other under the low amber light. Rows of VHS tapes and DVDs snaked along mismatched shelving, some titles handwritten in fading ink. Someone had turned a ranger’s desk into a concession counter, lined with mismatched candy bowls, an overflowing popcorn tub, and a stack of Polaroids showing last year’s guests with half the faces blurred by static, though no one seemed to notice.
Ilya had been making his rounds, half host, half phantom projectionist. He checked on the trivia tables, cracked jokes about horror remakes, and gestured for guests to pick their poison — “Trick or Treat, folks, and yes, cursed candy counts.” The air buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the low roll of an old projector reel spinning in the background. Every so often, he caught glimpses of movement in the corners of his vision which were not people, not exactly. Just outlines in the flicker of film light. The ghosts of old moviegoers, maybe. Or maybe just tricks of memory.
He was setting another film canister onto the counter when the door opened again. Cold air swept through the room, threading between the paper lanterns and curling around the projector’s beam. He looked up and for a second, everything seemed to still. The woman who entered didn’t belong to the modern world. She looked like a scene caught between eras—silk and poise wrapped in candlelight. The glow of the lanterns danced across her kimono, softening the edges of her shadow as if the film itself couldn’t decide what frame she belonged to.
People turned. Even the static seemed to hush. Ilya blinked, lips twitching into something between a grin and curiosity. His breath fogged faintly in the cold spot that always followed him, and when he stepped forward, his reflection stuttered once in the glass. The lights flickered out of habit. “You’ve got good timing,” he said, voice easy but threaded with warmth as he leaned one elbow on the counter. “Most people get lost before they even hit the first pumpkin.” His gaze dipped to her umbrella, the faint sheen of rain still clinging to it. Then, back to her eyes that reminded him of something he used to dream about when life still came in clean frames and clear sound.
He reached for the stack of hand-stamped slips, fingers brushing faintly against the ecto-glow bleeding from the edges of the projector’s light. “One for you, one for the brave soul you just texted, I’m guessing.” A pause, then a half-smile. “Fair warning. It’s not exactly a rom-com.” He slid the tickets across the counter, their edges warm from his hand. The projector behind him hummed louder, as if the film itself was waiting for her answer.
“Still,” his grin widened, soft and crooked, “I think you’ll like the ending.” He straightened from the counter, tucking the stamp pad and pen into a film canister that had long since lost its reel. The faint buzz of conversation rose again around them with laughter near the trivia corner, a chorus of groans from the “Guess That Prop” table, someone plucking the same few piano notes from a half-tuned keyboard in the corner. Ilya glanced toward the entrance, where fog still curled in from the open crack of the door, and then back at her with a faint tilt of his head. “You’re early, which means you get the fun part. Free reign before the midnight crowd floods in.”
He gestured loosely to the expanse of the room.
“We’ve got trivia running by the projector. Horror soundtracks only, no cheating with Shazam. The snack counter’s over there, though I can’t promise half the candy hasn’t been cursed by some kid trying to summon Chucky. You can even check out the shelves in back. Every tape here’s a story someone donated, some of them still… talkative.” The grin that followed wasn’t entirely human. It curved just a little too knowingly before softening again. “Or,” he added, tapping the side of a glowing VHS case that pulsed faintly beneath his hand, “if you’d rather see something you’re not supposed to, I can cue up one of the lost reels while we wait. Just don’t blame me if it follows you home.”
He let the offer hang in the air, the projector light flickering between them like a heartbeat. Behind him, a paper lantern swayed gently despite the absence of wind. “Take your time,” he said more quietly then, the warmth in his tone smoothing the tease into something gentler. “Your friend’ll find their way eventually. They always do, if they’re meant to.” With that, he gave a small nod of his head toward the shelves and the hum of laughter beyond. The ghostlight from the film reel shimmered faintly in his eyes as he added, “You’ve got the run of the place till then. Go make some trouble.”
Now it was something else entirely.
Every wall was plastered in movie posters that shouldn’t have survived the weather like Nosferatu, The Lost Boys, Hausu, their edges curling and colors bleeding into each other under the low amber light. Rows of VHS tapes and DVDs snaked along mismatched shelving, some titles handwritten in fading ink. Someone had turned a ranger’s desk into a concession counter, lined with mismatched candy bowls, an overflowing popcorn tub, and a stack of Polaroids showing last year’s guests with half the faces blurred by static, though no one seemed to notice.
Ilya had been making his rounds, half host, half phantom projectionist. He checked on the trivia tables, cracked jokes about horror remakes, and gestured for guests to pick their poison — “Trick or Treat, folks, and yes, cursed candy counts.” The air buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the low roll of an old projector reel spinning in the background. Every so often, he caught glimpses of movement in the corners of his vision which were not people, not exactly. Just outlines in the flicker of film light. The ghosts of old moviegoers, maybe. Or maybe just tricks of memory.
He was setting another film canister onto the counter when the door opened again. Cold air swept through the room, threading between the paper lanterns and curling around the projector’s beam. He looked up and for a second, everything seemed to still. The woman who entered didn’t belong to the modern world. She looked like a scene caught between eras—silk and poise wrapped in candlelight. The glow of the lanterns danced across her kimono, softening the edges of her shadow as if the film itself couldn’t decide what frame she belonged to.
People turned. Even the static seemed to hush. Ilya blinked, lips twitching into something between a grin and curiosity. His breath fogged faintly in the cold spot that always followed him, and when he stepped forward, his reflection stuttered once in the glass. The lights flickered out of habit. “You’ve got good timing,” he said, voice easy but threaded with warmth as he leaned one elbow on the counter. “Most people get lost before they even hit the first pumpkin.” His gaze dipped to her umbrella, the faint sheen of rain still clinging to it. Then, back to her eyes that reminded him of something he used to dream about when life still came in clean frames and clear sound.
He reached for the stack of hand-stamped slips, fingers brushing faintly against the ecto-glow bleeding from the edges of the projector’s light. “One for you, one for the brave soul you just texted, I’m guessing.” A pause, then a half-smile. “Fair warning. It’s not exactly a rom-com.” He slid the tickets across the counter, their edges warm from his hand. The projector behind him hummed louder, as if the film itself was waiting for her answer.
“Still,” his grin widened, soft and crooked, “I think you’ll like the ending.” He straightened from the counter, tucking the stamp pad and pen into a film canister that had long since lost its reel. The faint buzz of conversation rose again around them with laughter near the trivia corner, a chorus of groans from the “Guess That Prop” table, someone plucking the same few piano notes from a half-tuned keyboard in the corner. Ilya glanced toward the entrance, where fog still curled in from the open crack of the door, and then back at her with a faint tilt of his head. “You’re early, which means you get the fun part. Free reign before the midnight crowd floods in.”
He gestured loosely to the expanse of the room.
“We’ve got trivia running by the projector. Horror soundtracks only, no cheating with Shazam. The snack counter’s over there, though I can’t promise half the candy hasn’t been cursed by some kid trying to summon Chucky. You can even check out the shelves in back. Every tape here’s a story someone donated, some of them still… talkative.” The grin that followed wasn’t entirely human. It curved just a little too knowingly before softening again. “Or,” he added, tapping the side of a glowing VHS case that pulsed faintly beneath his hand, “if you’d rather see something you’re not supposed to, I can cue up one of the lost reels while we wait. Just don’t blame me if it follows you home.”
He let the offer hang in the air, the projector light flickering between them like a heartbeat. Behind him, a paper lantern swayed gently despite the absence of wind. “Take your time,” he said more quietly then, the warmth in his tone smoothing the tease into something gentler. “Your friend’ll find their way eventually. They always do, if they’re meant to.” With that, he gave a small nod of his head toward the shelves and the hum of laughter beyond. The ghostlight from the film reel shimmered faintly in his eyes as he added, “You’ve got the run of the place till then. Go make some trouble.”
Neon light washed the city in colors that didn’t belong to nature as magenta haze bled through the fog, the sky bruised with pollution and static. From high above, Zion streaked across the skyline like a falling star rewritten in code. The Tech Jacket glowed with fractal light, its plating humming in sync with his heartbeat as he dove between towers. Below, the sirens started too late. A black van tore through the intersection, its digital plates flickering like a bad signal. Zion’s HUD traced every heat signature inside: four armed, two panicking, one driver praying to no one.
The phase cloak shimmered around him, bending light as he dropped through the smog. Concrete trembled under his boots when he landed on the roof of the van. A brief pulse of energy, and the doors blew open like the scene from an action flick with too much budget. They fired first, ha. They always did. The bullets hit his chest and dissolved in ripples of green light. He rolled his shoulder, bored. “Kinetic reroute active.” One arm swung, gauntlet crackling. The returning pulse sent their weapons scattering like magnets repelled.
He’d meant to end it fast. Disable the van, knock out the smugglers, drop them off for the cops to stumble upon with a neat anonymous tip. But the moment he saw the crate in back which was a coolant-lined capsule humming with residual arcane energy, his stomach sank. Another one of those cross-market tech deals. Magic, weaponized and black-marketed. He hated this part. He exhaled through his teeth, cracked open the capsule, and released the last containment seal. The energy flared upward, angry, wild then folded into his armor, absorbed in an instant.
“Containment secured,” his HUD whispered. The suit thrummed, pleased but he wasn’t. Then his comm buzzed. He glanced down at the translucent display, expecting mission data only to find a text message instead. For a full second, Zion just hovered there above the ruined van, silent, while the city hummed beneath him. Then, a slow, incredulous laugh escaped him. “...She actually sent an invite mid-fight.” The AI drones, Bit and Byte, beeped uncertainly at his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “We’re done here anyway.”
He pinged the coordinates to local law enforcement, left a short anonymous note that read Package secured. Perps unconscious. You’re welcome. and shot into the night sky, vanishing into the clouds. By the time he hit street level again, the armor was dissolving in a shimmer of blue light, leaving behind only the faint warmth of the nanites retreating beneath his skin. The city noise rushed back all at once: cars, chatter, the hiss of rain on neon pavement. He ducked into an alley beside a convenience store, already scrolling through costume ideas on his phone. Feudal Japan, huh? He pictured Amaya in that kind of kimono—floral silk, soft light, centuries of grace folded into every movement. He didn’t stand a chance showing up in a hoodie.
Zion tapped his chin. Ninja? Too cliché. Samurai? Too stiff. Maybe a modern spin? Hakama pants, layered haori, clean lines… Yeah, that could work. Minimalist but respectful, like a tech-age ronin who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong timeline. He caught his reflection in a rain-slicked window: tired eyes, faint glow still fading from his neck. “Okay, Liu,” he said under his breath. “Time to look like you belong in a period drama and not a security feed.” He grinned, shouldered his bag, and took off at a run. The night split open with city light and possibility, and somewhere in the woods, a girl in a kimono was waiting.
The flight was quiet this time when it was just the low hum of the Tech Jacket cutting through night air, its neon trails blending with the city’s skyline like another circuit in the machine. The GPS ping in his HUD was faint. It was an off-grid signal, buried deep in the woods outside the metropolitan sprawl. He didn’t question it but Amaya’s messages always had that pull.
Wind hissed past his ears as he banked low over the treeline, eyes catching glimmers of light below: paper lanterns, carved pumpkins, and what looked like a film projector beam cutting through the fog. It felt surreal. He touched down on the edge of the forest clearing, boots sinking slightly into the damp grass. Steam coiled off the armor as it cooled from reentry heat. The tech inside him hummed, reluctant. Pale light rippled across his body as metal receded, folding itself into ghostly tessellations before dissolving completely. What remained was just Zion—still breathing a little fast, hair tousled from the flight, heartbeat racing for reasons that had nothing to do with combat.
He tugged at his collar, straightened the layered haori jacket he’d thrown together in a hurry—deep navy fading to black, edges embroidered with faint gold thread. The outfit wasn’t perfectly historical; the belt hid a slim data-pad instead of a sword, and the haori’s inner lining glowed faintly, like circuitry pretending to be silk.
“Feudal Japan,” he muttered, smirking to himself. “Hope that counts.”
Still missing something, though. His eyes caught a prop booth near the entrance where a rack of fake weapons likely meant for guests playing along with the “costume-friendly” theme. Among them: a wooden katana painted black, its blade chipped but serviceable. Zion picked it up, tested the weight, and gave a single, approving nod. “Yeah. That’s the vibe.” The handle fit neatly at his hip as he adjusted the belt to hold it. With the finishing touch in place, he looked less like a misplaced streamer and more like a wandering swordsman who’d accidentally stepped through time.
The moment he stepped closer, the ground seemed to hum underfoot, like the forest itself recognized his approach. Faded movie posters plastered the exterior walls; carved pumpkins blinked as though aware of his presence. He paused at the door. Through the glass, he could make out shapes moving with figures laughing, voices rising, the soft glow of a projector painting the walls with ghosts of film past.
And there she is, Amaya.
She was hard to miss. Lantern light framed her like she’d stepped straight out of an Edo-period painting with layers of color so vivid they seemed to bloom with every movement. The gentle swish of her sleeves caught the light like water. For a second, he forgot to breathe. Then, past her shoulder, he saw someone else: a man behind the counter, sleeves rolled, dark hair tousled, grin half-hidden by the flicker of projector light. The energy in the room felt… different around him. Alive. Electric. Zion exhaled softly, steadied his grip on the door handle, and muttered under his breath, “Alright, Zion. Be cool. Don’t float through any walls tonight.”
He stepped inside.
Warm air and the scent of popcorn met him first, followed by the muffled chatter of a dozen curious souls. The projector hummed louder as if acknowledging another anomaly entering the frame. His eyes lifted to find Amaya’s almost immediately, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “You weren’t kidding about the kimono,” he said, voice low but teasing, the faintest trace of affection slipping through. His gaze flicked to her sleeves, the artistry in every thread, before meeting her eyes again. “Guess I dressed for the part.”
The wooden sword at his hip bumped gently against his leg as he glanced toward the man behind the counter. “So… this the famous Scarecrow screening, or did I stumble into a fever dream?”
The phase cloak shimmered around him, bending light as he dropped through the smog. Concrete trembled under his boots when he landed on the roof of the van. A brief pulse of energy, and the doors blew open like the scene from an action flick with too much budget. They fired first, ha. They always did. The bullets hit his chest and dissolved in ripples of green light. He rolled his shoulder, bored. “Kinetic reroute active.” One arm swung, gauntlet crackling. The returning pulse sent their weapons scattering like magnets repelled.
He’d meant to end it fast. Disable the van, knock out the smugglers, drop them off for the cops to stumble upon with a neat anonymous tip. But the moment he saw the crate in back which was a coolant-lined capsule humming with residual arcane energy, his stomach sank. Another one of those cross-market tech deals. Magic, weaponized and black-marketed. He hated this part. He exhaled through his teeth, cracked open the capsule, and released the last containment seal. The energy flared upward, angry, wild then folded into his armor, absorbed in an instant.
“Containment secured,” his HUD whispered. The suit thrummed, pleased but he wasn’t. Then his comm buzzed. He glanced down at the translucent display, expecting mission data only to find a text message instead. For a full second, Zion just hovered there above the ruined van, silent, while the city hummed beneath him. Then, a slow, incredulous laugh escaped him. “...She actually sent an invite mid-fight.” The AI drones, Bit and Byte, beeped uncertainly at his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “We’re done here anyway.”
He pinged the coordinates to local law enforcement, left a short anonymous note that read Package secured. Perps unconscious. You’re welcome. and shot into the night sky, vanishing into the clouds. By the time he hit street level again, the armor was dissolving in a shimmer of blue light, leaving behind only the faint warmth of the nanites retreating beneath his skin. The city noise rushed back all at once: cars, chatter, the hiss of rain on neon pavement. He ducked into an alley beside a convenience store, already scrolling through costume ideas on his phone. Feudal Japan, huh? He pictured Amaya in that kind of kimono—floral silk, soft light, centuries of grace folded into every movement. He didn’t stand a chance showing up in a hoodie.
Zion tapped his chin. Ninja? Too cliché. Samurai? Too stiff. Maybe a modern spin? Hakama pants, layered haori, clean lines… Yeah, that could work. Minimalist but respectful, like a tech-age ronin who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong timeline. He caught his reflection in a rain-slicked window: tired eyes, faint glow still fading from his neck. “Okay, Liu,” he said under his breath. “Time to look like you belong in a period drama and not a security feed.” He grinned, shouldered his bag, and took off at a run. The night split open with city light and possibility, and somewhere in the woods, a girl in a kimono was waiting.
The flight was quiet this time when it was just the low hum of the Tech Jacket cutting through night air, its neon trails blending with the city’s skyline like another circuit in the machine. The GPS ping in his HUD was faint. It was an off-grid signal, buried deep in the woods outside the metropolitan sprawl. He didn’t question it but Amaya’s messages always had that pull.
Wind hissed past his ears as he banked low over the treeline, eyes catching glimmers of light below: paper lanterns, carved pumpkins, and what looked like a film projector beam cutting through the fog. It felt surreal. He touched down on the edge of the forest clearing, boots sinking slightly into the damp grass. Steam coiled off the armor as it cooled from reentry heat. The tech inside him hummed, reluctant. Pale light rippled across his body as metal receded, folding itself into ghostly tessellations before dissolving completely. What remained was just Zion—still breathing a little fast, hair tousled from the flight, heartbeat racing for reasons that had nothing to do with combat.
He tugged at his collar, straightened the layered haori jacket he’d thrown together in a hurry—deep navy fading to black, edges embroidered with faint gold thread. The outfit wasn’t perfectly historical; the belt hid a slim data-pad instead of a sword, and the haori’s inner lining glowed faintly, like circuitry pretending to be silk.
“Feudal Japan,” he muttered, smirking to himself. “Hope that counts.”
Still missing something, though. His eyes caught a prop booth near the entrance where a rack of fake weapons likely meant for guests playing along with the “costume-friendly” theme. Among them: a wooden katana painted black, its blade chipped but serviceable. Zion picked it up, tested the weight, and gave a single, approving nod. “Yeah. That’s the vibe.” The handle fit neatly at his hip as he adjusted the belt to hold it. With the finishing touch in place, he looked less like a misplaced streamer and more like a wandering swordsman who’d accidentally stepped through time.
The moment he stepped closer, the ground seemed to hum underfoot, like the forest itself recognized his approach. Faded movie posters plastered the exterior walls; carved pumpkins blinked as though aware of his presence. He paused at the door. Through the glass, he could make out shapes moving with figures laughing, voices rising, the soft glow of a projector painting the walls with ghosts of film past.
And there she is, Amaya.
She was hard to miss. Lantern light framed her like she’d stepped straight out of an Edo-period painting with layers of color so vivid they seemed to bloom with every movement. The gentle swish of her sleeves caught the light like water. For a second, he forgot to breathe. Then, past her shoulder, he saw someone else: a man behind the counter, sleeves rolled, dark hair tousled, grin half-hidden by the flicker of projector light. The energy in the room felt… different around him. Alive. Electric. Zion exhaled softly, steadied his grip on the door handle, and muttered under his breath, “Alright, Zion. Be cool. Don’t float through any walls tonight.”
He stepped inside.
Warm air and the scent of popcorn met him first, followed by the muffled chatter of a dozen curious souls. The projector hummed louder as if acknowledging another anomaly entering the frame. His eyes lifted to find Amaya’s almost immediately, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “You weren’t kidding about the kimono,” he said, voice low but teasing, the faintest trace of affection slipping through. His gaze flicked to her sleeves, the artistry in every thread, before meeting her eyes again. “Guess I dressed for the part.”
The wooden sword at his hip bumped gently against his leg as he glanced toward the man behind the counter. “So… this the famous Scarecrow screening, or did I stumble into a fever dream?”
The floorboards held a creak underneath those geta shoes of hers that she could hear very clearly despite the buzz of people—whether alive or otherwise. It was with amusement that her mind flitted with possible stories about this place. It looked like it had seen much and tried to tell it, too. The hush of those present was brief before it resumed. She didn't mind it, though. The kimono wasn't necessarily a costume. It was authentic. Silken threads, handstitched patterns, every fiber handpicked for depth, beauty and elegance. She had made it herself long ago and kept it in excellent condition. Which period had it been made from? Hard to say and she wasn't one to tell. To Ilya's comment about becoming lost, the corner of her lips twitched ever so slightly. Almost as if a smile tried to curl up. Almost.
"Not all who wander are lost." Cliched, maybe. But there was a knowing hint that flickered in her dark gaze. Her shadow held the form of a fox. A trick of the light? Maybe. Maybe not. Who truly knew? Amaya had noticed the cold spot where Ilya was and saw the foggy breath, too. Yet she said nothing simply because this world held more than met the eye. She took notice of the ecto-glow, which in turn caused a little spark of inspiration for a prank a little later. Tickets in hand, Ilya's comment about a brave soul on their way almost caused a sly smirk to appear upon her lips. Almost. "Brave or otherwise, it'd be wise of him not to miss our date." Had he been late before to one of their previous dates. Maybe. She would make her displeasure known if he ever had! Something mischievous seemed to shine in her eyes.
The fox shadow's tail waggled as if it had a mind of it's own. Perhaps it did. Or maybe it was a trick of the mind. It was Halloween, after all. As for the film not exactly being a rom-com? "That's perfectly fine. Thank you for the warning." The corners of her lips twitched faintly. Something almost a smile, but it was more because of mischief. The urge to play some spooky pranks with this information came to mind. As for being early? A brow lifted slightly. "Lucky me." What that actually meant? Unlucky for those that came next! The prospects already shaped up for a fun night! Her eyes glanced back at Ilya as he explained what was available. Trivia, horror music, possibly cursed candies and tapes from VHS to DVD with some of them being remastered classics. "Chucky would be lucky if he escaped me." A slight smile actually lifted up this time.
It was more or less a hint she wasn't put off about the cursed candies in the slightest. Maybe she had dealt with something similar in the past and knew how to handle the situation? Who knew? As for the lost reels she gave it thought while the offer hung in the air as if the building held it's breath. "I'll take you up on that. But in a little bit. After all, I'm waiting on someone." If something did follow her home, it might come running back. Even ghostly beings had things they were afraid of. Eyes flickered with mischief as she felt the tickets between index finger and thumb. The pieces were thick to the touch, stamped by hand. Old memories surfaced. Big silver screens. Theatres of old. Ilya's voice and smile were tucked away in something of a mental vault. The knowing look in his eyes meant he knew more than he said, but she picked up on it and gave a nod as if in understanding. To his parting comment about making trouble? She winked before gracefully moving about.
Had she noticed the lantern that moved seemingly of it's own accord? Absolutely. There was the absence of wind. Yet she had an idea what it was. The veil at it's thinnest meant things came through at will. She knew this. Laughter from the trivia table drew her eyes for a moment and, as she studied for a moment, yet another idea formed. The current question was In which state does 1968’s Night of the Living Dead take place, of which a few wrote their answers down. She knew it was Pennsylvania. The clip was replayed repeatedly as people wrote down what they thought. She glimpsed over their answers as something weaved it's way against the very top of the pieces of paper. Each letter took a different shape. The answers became something else without notice. Those that did manage to notice erased their supposedly incorrect answers and rewrote them.
It was amusing to watch then she let the answers stay as they wanted it to. At the last second as the papers were to be turned in, the letters on each piece of paper changed into cute movie scenes with the cast from the film itself, dressed up in the same exact costumes as those that wrote the answers. The person who had taken the papers looked through each of them in total confusion. When they asked about it, and even showed it to everyone, the commotion made them look at it all over again. The correct answers or whatever original responses were there instead! Amaya almost grinned but instead wandered over to the snack bar where she selected a piece of candy and dared to pop it in. Immediately she tasted food dye and knew it would likely turn her tongue into either green or purple based on the taste.
Slowly, graceful steps circled back around toward the counter where Ilya was as she continued to wait for Zion to make his appearance. What would he wear? As her mind pondered this, it wasn't lost on her how much time had passed already. He was a bit late! Just as she thought this, however, there was a sense of being watched that made the hair on the back of her neck rise faintly. It wasn't just the people inside, nor the otherworldly beings that whispered their presence, either. Dark gaze lifted as she glanced around. By the time it got to the windows, a brief shadow announced that someone was outside. She listened intently. Maybe it was hope. Maybe she knew who it was. The door opened and a brush of cold air lazily filtered into the warm building like it owned the place.
The costume he'd chosen made him look like a tech-age ronin that had stepped out into the wrong era. Minimalist but respectful. Even the sword added to the appeal. It may not be historically accurate, but she appreciated the effort on his part. That meant more to her. But that did not mean he was off the hook! As he stepped over to her a genuine smile curled at the corners of her lips. As he teased, she heard the subtle affection in the tone of his voice while she lifted one hand to gently straighten out his wind-blown hair. She could feel the warmth that still came off him and the scent of the city. "How often have you known me to kid around?" Amaya teased gently back. Sure, she played pranks on him before tonight. It came with the territory of dating a Kitsune! Her hand dropped as fingers brushed along his shoulder.
"You certainly have dressed the part. Thank you for that." Eyes had dropped momentarily to take him in before they moved back up. Even with the geta shoes, he was still a bit taller than she was. While he seemed to speak with Ilya about this place holding the Scarecrow screening, she turned to stand beside him and held one of the two tickets for him to take. "Of which we will be watching. But in the meantime, how about a few other films while we wait for midnight? I heard about some forgotten reels..." A side glance was given toward the man at the counter. A knowing, yet mischievous glint flickered in her dark gaze. At the same time, her shadow's tail waggled as if in anticipation before it seemed to move into Zion's shadow and hid within it. There were more than ghostly figures in the building tonight.
And not just the living, either. Things would definitely go bump here and there! The paper umbrella was switched to the hand with the purse. Strangely, the water droplets weren't there anymore as they had slowly vanished seemingly without a trace. The night was young, and she was only just getting started with some tricks to the treats. "Maybe we could grab a few things to take with us to the screening? I wouldn't mind some popcorn and a drink." Amaya's voice remained soft as usual, but there was a hint of affection that was present. "Or maybe a large bowl that we can share?" Maybe it was hint. Or maybe she had a little fun to pull? Only time would honestly tell! "If you get some candy, do beware. I hear some of it might be cursed. Something about kids trying to summon a doll by the name of Chucky. Heard of him?" One corner of her lip curved just slightly enough to almost be a smirk.
Nearby there were a few squeals of shock and surprise. Something about gummy worms that wiggled like the real thing. Amaya stayed composed, but inside she was thoroughly amused. Of course the candy was just that. Candy! Sweet, sugary gummies that were safe to eat. They didn't actually wiggle. It was merely a trick of the mind. A simple bend of light to make the mind think otherwise. But if anyone pulled the wriggling things from the cady dish, they would find that it felt like it was truly what it was and not the slimy thing that it appeared to be. She turned her head just enough to glance at the commotion. Namely out of habit. She loved to watch others' reactions to such trickery. Their expressions, the way they acted, their voices when it raised in pitch, the general chaos that followed. When the illusion was lifted, some chuckled, others tried to figure out how they moved at all. Amaya then turned back to look up at Zion. A knowing gleam hidden within that dark gaze.
"Not all who wander are lost." Cliched, maybe. But there was a knowing hint that flickered in her dark gaze. Her shadow held the form of a fox. A trick of the light? Maybe. Maybe not. Who truly knew? Amaya had noticed the cold spot where Ilya was and saw the foggy breath, too. Yet she said nothing simply because this world held more than met the eye. She took notice of the ecto-glow, which in turn caused a little spark of inspiration for a prank a little later. Tickets in hand, Ilya's comment about a brave soul on their way almost caused a sly smirk to appear upon her lips. Almost. "Brave or otherwise, it'd be wise of him not to miss our date." Had he been late before to one of their previous dates. Maybe. She would make her displeasure known if he ever had! Something mischievous seemed to shine in her eyes.
The fox shadow's tail waggled as if it had a mind of it's own. Perhaps it did. Or maybe it was a trick of the mind. It was Halloween, after all. As for the film not exactly being a rom-com? "That's perfectly fine. Thank you for the warning." The corners of her lips twitched faintly. Something almost a smile, but it was more because of mischief. The urge to play some spooky pranks with this information came to mind. As for being early? A brow lifted slightly. "Lucky me." What that actually meant? Unlucky for those that came next! The prospects already shaped up for a fun night! Her eyes glanced back at Ilya as he explained what was available. Trivia, horror music, possibly cursed candies and tapes from VHS to DVD with some of them being remastered classics. "Chucky would be lucky if he escaped me." A slight smile actually lifted up this time.
It was more or less a hint she wasn't put off about the cursed candies in the slightest. Maybe she had dealt with something similar in the past and knew how to handle the situation? Who knew? As for the lost reels she gave it thought while the offer hung in the air as if the building held it's breath. "I'll take you up on that. But in a little bit. After all, I'm waiting on someone." If something did follow her home, it might come running back. Even ghostly beings had things they were afraid of. Eyes flickered with mischief as she felt the tickets between index finger and thumb. The pieces were thick to the touch, stamped by hand. Old memories surfaced. Big silver screens. Theatres of old. Ilya's voice and smile were tucked away in something of a mental vault. The knowing look in his eyes meant he knew more than he said, but she picked up on it and gave a nod as if in understanding. To his parting comment about making trouble? She winked before gracefully moving about.
Had she noticed the lantern that moved seemingly of it's own accord? Absolutely. There was the absence of wind. Yet she had an idea what it was. The veil at it's thinnest meant things came through at will. She knew this. Laughter from the trivia table drew her eyes for a moment and, as she studied for a moment, yet another idea formed. The current question was In which state does 1968’s Night of the Living Dead take place, of which a few wrote their answers down. She knew it was Pennsylvania. The clip was replayed repeatedly as people wrote down what they thought. She glimpsed over their answers as something weaved it's way against the very top of the pieces of paper. Each letter took a different shape. The answers became something else without notice. Those that did manage to notice erased their supposedly incorrect answers and rewrote them.
It was amusing to watch then she let the answers stay as they wanted it to. At the last second as the papers were to be turned in, the letters on each piece of paper changed into cute movie scenes with the cast from the film itself, dressed up in the same exact costumes as those that wrote the answers. The person who had taken the papers looked through each of them in total confusion. When they asked about it, and even showed it to everyone, the commotion made them look at it all over again. The correct answers or whatever original responses were there instead! Amaya almost grinned but instead wandered over to the snack bar where she selected a piece of candy and dared to pop it in. Immediately she tasted food dye and knew it would likely turn her tongue into either green or purple based on the taste.
Slowly, graceful steps circled back around toward the counter where Ilya was as she continued to wait for Zion to make his appearance. What would he wear? As her mind pondered this, it wasn't lost on her how much time had passed already. He was a bit late! Just as she thought this, however, there was a sense of being watched that made the hair on the back of her neck rise faintly. It wasn't just the people inside, nor the otherworldly beings that whispered their presence, either. Dark gaze lifted as she glanced around. By the time it got to the windows, a brief shadow announced that someone was outside. She listened intently. Maybe it was hope. Maybe she knew who it was. The door opened and a brush of cold air lazily filtered into the warm building like it owned the place.
The costume he'd chosen made him look like a tech-age ronin that had stepped out into the wrong era. Minimalist but respectful. Even the sword added to the appeal. It may not be historically accurate, but she appreciated the effort on his part. That meant more to her. But that did not mean he was off the hook! As he stepped over to her a genuine smile curled at the corners of her lips. As he teased, she heard the subtle affection in the tone of his voice while she lifted one hand to gently straighten out his wind-blown hair. She could feel the warmth that still came off him and the scent of the city. "How often have you known me to kid around?" Amaya teased gently back. Sure, she played pranks on him before tonight. It came with the territory of dating a Kitsune! Her hand dropped as fingers brushed along his shoulder.
"You certainly have dressed the part. Thank you for that." Eyes had dropped momentarily to take him in before they moved back up. Even with the geta shoes, he was still a bit taller than she was. While he seemed to speak with Ilya about this place holding the Scarecrow screening, she turned to stand beside him and held one of the two tickets for him to take. "Of which we will be watching. But in the meantime, how about a few other films while we wait for midnight? I heard about some forgotten reels..." A side glance was given toward the man at the counter. A knowing, yet mischievous glint flickered in her dark gaze. At the same time, her shadow's tail waggled as if in anticipation before it seemed to move into Zion's shadow and hid within it. There were more than ghostly figures in the building tonight.
And not just the living, either. Things would definitely go bump here and there! The paper umbrella was switched to the hand with the purse. Strangely, the water droplets weren't there anymore as they had slowly vanished seemingly without a trace. The night was young, and she was only just getting started with some tricks to the treats. "Maybe we could grab a few things to take with us to the screening? I wouldn't mind some popcorn and a drink." Amaya's voice remained soft as usual, but there was a hint of affection that was present. "Or maybe a large bowl that we can share?" Maybe it was hint. Or maybe she had a little fun to pull? Only time would honestly tell! "If you get some candy, do beware. I hear some of it might be cursed. Something about kids trying to summon a doll by the name of Chucky. Heard of him?" One corner of her lip curved just slightly enough to almost be a smirk.
Nearby there were a few squeals of shock and surprise. Something about gummy worms that wiggled like the real thing. Amaya stayed composed, but inside she was thoroughly amused. Of course the candy was just that. Candy! Sweet, sugary gummies that were safe to eat. They didn't actually wiggle. It was merely a trick of the mind. A simple bend of light to make the mind think otherwise. But if anyone pulled the wriggling things from the cady dish, they would find that it felt like it was truly what it was and not the slimy thing that it appeared to be. She turned her head just enough to glance at the commotion. Namely out of habit. She loved to watch others' reactions to such trickery. Their expressions, the way they acted, their voices when it raised in pitch, the general chaos that followed. When the illusion was lifted, some chuckled, others tried to figure out how they moved at all. Amaya then turned back to look up at Zion. A knowing gleam hidden within that dark gaze.
The lights in the room felt warmer now from the laughter that threaded through the air. That familiar buzz of people gathered, caught between curiosity and nostalgia. Zion’s eyes adjusted as they swept the space, taking in the soft glint of film reels and the shelves lined with physical media that looked like artifacts from another world. For a moment he just stared, caught between nostalgia and curiosity. The plastic cases gleamed like tiny monuments to everything that came before streaming. He could almost hear the sound a VHS made when it clicked into place, the hiss of an old tube TV warming up. It made him want to explore, maybe dig through the shelves for the kind of obscure horror title that never made it online.
“Man, it’s been forever since I’ve seen these,” he said, scanning the shelves. “Physical media. You forget what it feels like to hold a story instead of scrolling to one.” He reached out, taking the ticket Amaya offered between his fingers. The paper felt thick, almost textured, with the faint scent of ink and something else — something older. His thumb brushed over the stamped lettering.
“MIDNIGHT REEL — TITLE: ???”
A small, amused huff escaped him. He turned the ticket over, expecting more. Nothing. Just the faint imprint of the ink bleeding through the other side. When Amaya spoke again, her voice pulled him back to the present. The mention of popcorn earned her an amused glance, and the suggestion of sharing earned a quiet smile that curved the corner of his mouth. “A large bowl sounds good,” he said, tone soft but playful. “As long as you don’t mind me stealing all the caramel pieces.”
He then caught the hint in her smile; it made his own widen. “Yeah, I know Chucky. Possessed doll, overalls, bad attitude. I’m not scared of him.” He leaned closer just enough for a low aside, “Though if he starts crawling out of one of those reels, I’m leaving you to exorcise him.” A small laugh escaped him before his gaze drifted again to the projector in the back. The soft hum of its reel filled the pauses between conversation like a heartbeat. He could already picture it: the lights dimming, the static hiss before the movie began, that brief breathless silence before the story started.
Zion didn’t even need to look directly to know who had caused the noise near the candy table. The squeals, the laughter, the half-panicked shuffle of guests. It had her fingerprints all over it. He turned his head just slightly, just enough to catch the tail end of the commotion: a guest holding up a gummy worm that seemed to writhe between their fingers before melting back into perfect stillness. Optical trick, energy displacement, or just kitsune flair. He smiled to himself. Of course she did.
“You just had to, didn’t you?” he murmured under his breath, amusement curling through his tone as his gaze settled back on her. She wasn’t even pretending to hide the little gleam in her eyes, that “who, me?” innocence he’d seen more times than he could count. Internally, he couldn’t help but admire that side of her. Kitsune tricks were an art form—part illusion, part instinct, part performance. She never went for humiliation; her pranks were about curiosity, surprise, that fine line between wonder and disbelief. And she never broke character.
He’d been on the receiving end enough times to know. Sometimes it was harmless—a doorway charm that swapped his reflection with a fox’s grin for a few seconds, or a gust of wind that mysteriously blew his notes everywhere. Other times, it was elaborate like voices whispering his name from his headphones mid-stream, the faint silhouette of a tail flicking behind him in his camera feed when there shouldn’t have been one. And maybe she’d tricked him into believing once that his coffee had developed sentience. (He still wasn’t entirely convinced it hadn’t.)
But honestly? He didn’t mind. It came with the territory of dating a Kitsune or maybe it was just Amaya. She could make mischief feel like art, like the world itself leaned in to play along with her though he wasn’t innocent either. That… is for another story. “Remind me to keep my distance from the candy,” he said softly, stepping a little closer. “And maybe to double-check my drink before you hand it to me.” The teasing lilt in his voice softened at the edges as his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. Mischief or not, he’d missed this and her.
Zion chuckled under his breath and drifted toward the rows of shelves. The soft creak of old floorboards mixed with the projector’s hum as his fingertips trailed over rows of plastic spines. There was something satisfying about the texture with the click of VHS cases, the glossy sheen of DVDs, the faint smell of cardboard and time. He scanned each label quickly, hunting for the tell-tale monster names he’d grown up with. Mothra. Gamera. King Ghidorah. And, of course, Godzilla. The one that started it all for him—late-night marathons on pixelated streams, commentary channels breaking down suitmation techniques, his own reaction video buried somewhere deep in his feed.
Nothing.
The shelves stared back, filled instead with slasher titles: Halloween, The Thing, The Blair Witch Project, It Follows, Hereditary. Entire walls dedicated to horror and suspense. Even the imported section was stacked with old J-horror staples and psychological thrillers. Not a single kaiju in sight. He sighed, amused more than disappointed. Figures a place like this would lean into the chills instead of the city-crushing thrills. “Guess no monsters leveling Tokyo tonight,” he murmured to himself. His fingers hovered over a tape marked The Ring, the Japanese version, before he smirked. “Well… maybe just the creepy ones.” Still, part of him was impressed. Every title was a love letter to a different era of fear with handwritten labels, imported releases, collector’s editions that hadn’t been printed in decades. He could respect that. Zion turned the Ring case over in his hands, studying the faded artwork before glancing back toward Amaya with a crooked smile.
“Hey,” he started, setting the tape carefully back on its shelf, “I’ve heard the reputation of Asian horror. It’s… different. The kind that gets under your skin instead of just jumping out at you.” He walked slowly down the aisle, fingers brushing the rows of plastic cases as he went. “Feels like they know how to play with the audience’s emotions with the pacing, silence, and dread. It’s not about how loud they can scare you, but how long it sticks afterward. American stuff tends to go for shock value; these movies just make you uneasy.”
He looked back over his shoulder toward her, one brow lifted with a quiet laugh. “Or maybe that’s just what I’ve gathered so far. I haven’t sat through all the classics. Too busy with space monsters and robot fights, you know?” Zion’s grin softened as he leaned his weight against the nearest shelf. The flickering amber light from a paper lantern traced across his jawline, catching the faint shimmer of the gold stitching in his haori. “Still,” he added, “I get why people love this stuff. The storytelling, the atmosphere… It’s like the film itself is alive.”
He gestured toward the projector’s glow, where static pulsed faintly over the crowd. “Kinda like this place.” Zion let his gaze wander again, taking in the warped light and the subtle distortions that passed through the air like ripples on film. The projector hissed faintly in the background, a reel catching for half a second before settling back into rhythm. Every few moments, the lighting seemed to shift just slightly. “Why do I get the feeling,” he said, half to himself, half to her, “that there’s more to this place than it seems?”
He glanced toward one of the far corners, where an old TV flickered with no signal. Static rolled across the screen, but for a blink, he could’ve sworn he saw movement in the reflection, a figure standing behind the counter that wasn’t Ilya. When he blinked again, it was gone.
“Is there…” he started, lowering his voice, “actual ghosts in here?” His tone carried the weight of curiosity more than fear, though his brows furrowed as he studied the flickering light above them. “Because if there are, the guy running the place earlier’s got to be one hell of a practical effects artist.” He chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, cold spots, flickering lights, weird static at all the right moments… either he’s a genius with ambiance, or we’ve officially stepped into the crossover episode between The Ring and Ghostbusters.”
“Man, it’s been forever since I’ve seen these,” he said, scanning the shelves. “Physical media. You forget what it feels like to hold a story instead of scrolling to one.” He reached out, taking the ticket Amaya offered between his fingers. The paper felt thick, almost textured, with the faint scent of ink and something else — something older. His thumb brushed over the stamped lettering.
“MIDNIGHT REEL — TITLE: ???”
A small, amused huff escaped him. He turned the ticket over, expecting more. Nothing. Just the faint imprint of the ink bleeding through the other side. When Amaya spoke again, her voice pulled him back to the present. The mention of popcorn earned her an amused glance, and the suggestion of sharing earned a quiet smile that curved the corner of his mouth. “A large bowl sounds good,” he said, tone soft but playful. “As long as you don’t mind me stealing all the caramel pieces.”
He then caught the hint in her smile; it made his own widen. “Yeah, I know Chucky. Possessed doll, overalls, bad attitude. I’m not scared of him.” He leaned closer just enough for a low aside, “Though if he starts crawling out of one of those reels, I’m leaving you to exorcise him.” A small laugh escaped him before his gaze drifted again to the projector in the back. The soft hum of its reel filled the pauses between conversation like a heartbeat. He could already picture it: the lights dimming, the static hiss before the movie began, that brief breathless silence before the story started.
Zion didn’t even need to look directly to know who had caused the noise near the candy table. The squeals, the laughter, the half-panicked shuffle of guests. It had her fingerprints all over it. He turned his head just slightly, just enough to catch the tail end of the commotion: a guest holding up a gummy worm that seemed to writhe between their fingers before melting back into perfect stillness. Optical trick, energy displacement, or just kitsune flair. He smiled to himself. Of course she did.
“You just had to, didn’t you?” he murmured under his breath, amusement curling through his tone as his gaze settled back on her. She wasn’t even pretending to hide the little gleam in her eyes, that “who, me?” innocence he’d seen more times than he could count. Internally, he couldn’t help but admire that side of her. Kitsune tricks were an art form—part illusion, part instinct, part performance. She never went for humiliation; her pranks were about curiosity, surprise, that fine line between wonder and disbelief. And she never broke character.
He’d been on the receiving end enough times to know. Sometimes it was harmless—a doorway charm that swapped his reflection with a fox’s grin for a few seconds, or a gust of wind that mysteriously blew his notes everywhere. Other times, it was elaborate like voices whispering his name from his headphones mid-stream, the faint silhouette of a tail flicking behind him in his camera feed when there shouldn’t have been one. And maybe she’d tricked him into believing once that his coffee had developed sentience. (He still wasn’t entirely convinced it hadn’t.)
But honestly? He didn’t mind. It came with the territory of dating a Kitsune or maybe it was just Amaya. She could make mischief feel like art, like the world itself leaned in to play along with her though he wasn’t innocent either. That… is for another story. “Remind me to keep my distance from the candy,” he said softly, stepping a little closer. “And maybe to double-check my drink before you hand it to me.” The teasing lilt in his voice softened at the edges as his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. Mischief or not, he’d missed this and her.
Zion chuckled under his breath and drifted toward the rows of shelves. The soft creak of old floorboards mixed with the projector’s hum as his fingertips trailed over rows of plastic spines. There was something satisfying about the texture with the click of VHS cases, the glossy sheen of DVDs, the faint smell of cardboard and time. He scanned each label quickly, hunting for the tell-tale monster names he’d grown up with. Mothra. Gamera. King Ghidorah. And, of course, Godzilla. The one that started it all for him—late-night marathons on pixelated streams, commentary channels breaking down suitmation techniques, his own reaction video buried somewhere deep in his feed.
Nothing.
The shelves stared back, filled instead with slasher titles: Halloween, The Thing, The Blair Witch Project, It Follows, Hereditary. Entire walls dedicated to horror and suspense. Even the imported section was stacked with old J-horror staples and psychological thrillers. Not a single kaiju in sight. He sighed, amused more than disappointed. Figures a place like this would lean into the chills instead of the city-crushing thrills. “Guess no monsters leveling Tokyo tonight,” he murmured to himself. His fingers hovered over a tape marked The Ring, the Japanese version, before he smirked. “Well… maybe just the creepy ones.” Still, part of him was impressed. Every title was a love letter to a different era of fear with handwritten labels, imported releases, collector’s editions that hadn’t been printed in decades. He could respect that. Zion turned the Ring case over in his hands, studying the faded artwork before glancing back toward Amaya with a crooked smile.
“Hey,” he started, setting the tape carefully back on its shelf, “I’ve heard the reputation of Asian horror. It’s… different. The kind that gets under your skin instead of just jumping out at you.” He walked slowly down the aisle, fingers brushing the rows of plastic cases as he went. “Feels like they know how to play with the audience’s emotions with the pacing, silence, and dread. It’s not about how loud they can scare you, but how long it sticks afterward. American stuff tends to go for shock value; these movies just make you uneasy.”
He looked back over his shoulder toward her, one brow lifted with a quiet laugh. “Or maybe that’s just what I’ve gathered so far. I haven’t sat through all the classics. Too busy with space monsters and robot fights, you know?” Zion’s grin softened as he leaned his weight against the nearest shelf. The flickering amber light from a paper lantern traced across his jawline, catching the faint shimmer of the gold stitching in his haori. “Still,” he added, “I get why people love this stuff. The storytelling, the atmosphere… It’s like the film itself is alive.”
He gestured toward the projector’s glow, where static pulsed faintly over the crowd. “Kinda like this place.” Zion let his gaze wander again, taking in the warped light and the subtle distortions that passed through the air like ripples on film. The projector hissed faintly in the background, a reel catching for half a second before settling back into rhythm. Every few moments, the lighting seemed to shift just slightly. “Why do I get the feeling,” he said, half to himself, half to her, “that there’s more to this place than it seems?”
He glanced toward one of the far corners, where an old TV flickered with no signal. Static rolled across the screen, but for a blink, he could’ve sworn he saw movement in the reflection, a figure standing behind the counter that wasn’t Ilya. When he blinked again, it was gone.
“Is there…” he started, lowering his voice, “actual ghosts in here?” His tone carried the weight of curiosity more than fear, though his brows furrowed as he studied the flickering light above them. “Because if there are, the guy running the place earlier’s got to be one hell of a practical effects artist.” He chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, cold spots, flickering lights, weird static at all the right moments… either he’s a genius with ambiance, or we’ve officially stepped into the crossover episode between The Ring and Ghostbusters.”
The clock above the counter ticked toward midnight, its second hand stuttering as though even time itself hesitated in this place. The hum of the old projector softened to a low, rhythmic purr. Laughter and whispers faded one by one until the shop was filled with the kind of quiet that hummed between breaths. Behind the counter, Ilya leaned an elbow against the worn wood and tilted his head toward the glowing screen as the last reel wound down. A faint shimmer of static rolled across his shoulders, the subtle pulse of his ghost half surfacing. Maybe it was the energy of the night, or maybe the veil between worlds had grown too thin for him not to feel it pressing in.
"And that," he said, voice low but carrying easily through the room, "wraps up our midnight special, folks. Hope you enjoyed your little detour through the woods."
He straightened, glancing toward Amaya and Zion with a crooked smile. They still looked alive in that rare, post-event kind of way, like they’d walked through something strange and come out brighter for it. "You two," he added, sliding a small paper bag across the counter, "earned a treat for surviving the screening. Don’t worry. It’s the good kind of cursed. Probably."
His grin softened into something quieter, more thoughtful, as he looked out over the thinning crowd. One by one, guests drifted toward the door, their laughter mingling with the rustle of fog outside. Carved pumpkins flickered against the night, their glow painting the mist in warm orange and gold. "Scarecrow’ll go quiet again after tonight," he murmured, almost to himself. "But it’ll be here next year. It always is. Just follow the path, if you’re brave enough."
The overhead lights flickered once, then twice. The door creaked open as if the building itself was bidding farewell. Ilya raised a hand in a lazy salute, that same lopsided grin lingering. "Happy Halloween, and thanks for keeping the reels turning."
When the last guests stepped out into the mist and the door clicked shut, silence returned. The lights dimmed, the projector clicked off, and for a moment the shop was still. Then, faintly, the static hiss returned, soft, steady, like a whisper from another world promising that Scarecrow Video would flicker to life again when the season called for it.
"And that," he said, voice low but carrying easily through the room, "wraps up our midnight special, folks. Hope you enjoyed your little detour through the woods."
He straightened, glancing toward Amaya and Zion with a crooked smile. They still looked alive in that rare, post-event kind of way, like they’d walked through something strange and come out brighter for it. "You two," he added, sliding a small paper bag across the counter, "earned a treat for surviving the screening. Don’t worry. It’s the good kind of cursed. Probably."
His grin softened into something quieter, more thoughtful, as he looked out over the thinning crowd. One by one, guests drifted toward the door, their laughter mingling with the rustle of fog outside. Carved pumpkins flickered against the night, their glow painting the mist in warm orange and gold. "Scarecrow’ll go quiet again after tonight," he murmured, almost to himself. "But it’ll be here next year. It always is. Just follow the path, if you’re brave enough."
The overhead lights flickered once, then twice. The door creaked open as if the building itself was bidding farewell. Ilya raised a hand in a lazy salute, that same lopsided grin lingering. "Happy Halloween, and thanks for keeping the reels turning."
When the last guests stepped out into the mist and the door clicked shut, silence returned. The lights dimmed, the projector clicked off, and for a moment the shop was still. Then, faintly, the static hiss returned, soft, steady, like a whisper from another world promising that Scarecrow Video would flicker to life again when the season called for it.
Thank you Cynical for coming to my thread!
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