In the trailer, the cigarette smoke was thick, like an unshakable fog.
Quentin stared at the monitors, his eyes bloodshot after pulling two all-nighters back-to-back. He hadn't slept, his eyes veined with red, but his mind was buzzing with extreme excitement.
The security chief's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie: "Boss, Heather's mental state is reaching a breaking point. Are we seriously going through with the final step?"
Quentin didn't answer.
He silently picked up a sticky note, scribbled a few lines, and handed it to the technician standing nearby.
"Give this to Michael when the sun comes up."
The technician glanced at the note, hesitating, looking like he wanted to ask a question. Quentin just kept his gaze fixed on the monitor, his expression obscured by the smoke.
"Just do it."
He snubbed out his cigarette and picked up the walkie-talkie, his voice cold and flat:
"Alpha Team, prepare to execute 'Lullaby' protocol. Remember, only create panic—absolutely no physical contact. The moment they leave the tent, pull out immediately."
"Copy that."
Quentin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, like he was waiting for the curtain to rise on a grand premiere.
He knew what he was about to do would fundamentally change the history of horror cinema.
The screen flickered.
In the dark night, a small light glowed from the tent.
---
\[Recorded Footage]
In the darkness, all that could be heard were Heather and Michael's ragged breaths.
Suddenly,
"Pat."
A soft sound, like something wet, slapped against the tent's canvas.
Heather's eyes snapped open. She grabbed the camera beside her.
The lens shook violently, pointing at the tent wall.
In the moonlight, a blurred, small handprint was pressed onto the canvas from the outside.
It was like a child, on the outside, had gently touched their tent.
Michael let out a low, muffled whimper.
The camera subtly trembled, and Heather's breathing grew faster and faster.
Right after, a second, a third... more small handprints silently appeared all around the tent.
They crawled upward from the bottom, slowly ascending, like a group of unseen kids climbing onto their roof.
"No... no..." Heather's sob was desperately choked off.
Suddenly—a laugh echoed from deep in the forest.
It wasn't a person's laugh.
It was a distorted child's voice, like something coming from a broken music box.
The laughter bounced through the woods, sometimes near, sometimes far, its chilling innocence raising the hairs on their necks.
"Run!!"
Michael finally snapped, yelling, ripping open the tent zipper, and bolting outside.
Heather followed him into the darkness. The camera bounced erratically, showing nothing but blurred chaos, leaving only the sounds of panting and scrambling feet.
They sprinted through the woods. Branches scraped the lens, the ground was uneven, and their footsteps were a jumbled mess.
After running for what felt like forever, a dilapidated old house appeared in front of them.
"Get in! Hurry, get inside!"
They burst into the house.
The inside was damp and musty, and the walls were covered with strange red symbols.
"Joshua? Is that you?"
An echo came from upstairs.
"Joshua, is... is that you up there?"
Heather's voice was shaking as she stumbled upstairs, holding the camera.
"He's downstairs! I hear him!"
She immediately spun around and ran back down, heading for the basement.
Darkness consumed the lens.
When the picture returned, a person suddenly appeared in the frame.
It was Michael.
He was standing with his back to the camera, facing the corner, perfectly still.
"Mi... Michael?"
No response.
"Michael... what are you doing?"
He slowly tilted his head.
The movement was stiff, agonizingly slow, like a puppet being controlled by strings.
"Michael?"
His shoulders twitched slightly, like he was laughing, or maybe crying.
Then, his voice came out.
It was so low it was almost inaudible, like someone else was speaking from inside his throat:
"She's... right... behind... you."
Heather whipped around—
Darkness, a scream.
The camera crashed to the ground, and the image dissolved into static.
---
In the office, the lights were dim.
The static on the screen flashed and jumped.
Link leaned back in his chair, watching the footage, his expression calm.
Quentin sat next to him, wearing an unreadable smile.
Link reached out and pressed the pause button, freezing the image one second before Heather fell.
"Her expression is incredibly real," Link murmured.
Quentin nodded. "Almost terrifyingly real."
Link looked at him. "What did you write on that sticky note? What was he supposed to act out?"
Quentin chuckled. "I told Michael to look like he was possessed by the witch in the final scene. That's what would break Heather—that's how we'd get her most authentic reaction."
Link was silent for a few seconds, his tone soft. "She definitely broke."
"Yep," Quentin sighed, "and so did we, almost."
Link stood up, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of whiskey, and handed one over.
"And the three actors? Are they okay?"
"They're great. Right after they came out of the woods, they were a little dazed, couldn't tell the difference between reality and the script. They even admitted that while their brains knew it was fake, their bodies couldn't be fooled. By the last few days, they really started to wonder—was that woods haunted?"
"When we showed them all the props, the speakers, and the beat-up dolls, guess what? They laughed louder than anyone."
Quentin mimicked Heather's voice: "Especially the girl. She's a natural-born lunatic. The first thing she said after she recovered was—'Director, if you ever shoot something like this again, please call me up.'"
Link finally smiled and raised his glass.
"Even so, we pushed them to the limit and got the most authentic performance they had."
He emphasized every word.
"So, we can't let their effort go to waste. Five percent of the box office profits, split among the three of them. Then, sign them to a three-picture deal and turn them into real actors."
Quentin looked at him for a long time, then burst out laughing.
"You, you son of a gun... sometimes you really sound like a saint."
"Nah," Link shook his head, clinking glasses with him.
"I'm just a businessman who doesn't want to go to hell."
They shared a smile.
After a moment, Quentin spoke: "How about you? Are you all set?"
"Everything is according to plan," Link said calmly. "I gave the local police a heads-up; they know this is just a marketing stunt. All frantic calls will be ignored. The interviews with their family and friends have also been released—now, we just wait for your tape."
Quentin grinned, looking out at the city lights outside the window.
"This real-life fear, man, it's just so thrilling."
Link set down his glass and dialed Bender's number:
"Lawrence, get the PR department ready. Take that 'missing persons' flyer—the one from the UCLA bulletin board—and plaster it all over Los Angeles."
He hung up, turned, and walked to the window, his gaze reflecting the urban lights outside.
"The movie is done."
He let out a quiet breath, then added in a low voice:
"Now, let's get all of America to play this game with us."