In less than a week, that videotape from the Black Mountain forest went from an urban legend to a nationwide media firestorm.
CNN. The New York Times. The Washington Post.
Every outlet that had once mocked it as "internet nonsense" suddenly piled on.
Reporters flooded into the quiet little town in Maryland, cornering the elderly Sheriff Wade in his office. Cameras and microphones were shoved so close they were practically in his face.
"Sheriff! Are the disappearances real?"
"Why hasn't the police released any updates?"
Wade just sipped his coffee and calmly repeated the same line over and over:
"No comment. Until we receive a formal missing persons report, we will not respond to online rumors."
That single phrase—no comment—only poured gasoline on the fire.
The entire country was asking the same question:
Where were those three students?
At the peak of the frenzy, Link played his final card.
An anonymous account claiming to be a "former crew member" dropped a bombshell on a Usenet newsgroup:
> Stop guessing. The complete footage left behind by the missing students will be shown at a private screening in Los Angeles.
> Editor: Quentin Tarantino.
Hollywood exploded.
Pangu Pictures' official statement was even more provocative.
They never called it a movie. Instead, they very seriously labeled it:
> "A documentary assembled from recovered materials."
Suddenly, everyone was confused.
Was this an art screening—or an evidence briefing?
Even the invitations were unconventional.
No gold-embossed cards. Just a manila envelope stamped in red:
CONFIDENTIAL: EVIDENCE
Inside was a flyer designed to look like a police bulletin, printed in stark block letters:
> Time: During the AFI Film Festival
> Location: The Old Hollywood Theater (over a century old, rumored to be haunted)
No explanations. No hype.
An ambush on Hollywood's old rules had officially begun.
—
The night of the screening.
There was no red carpet. No champagne.
Only nonstop camera flashes outside the theater.
Film critics, studio executives, and journalists crammed the lobby until it was impossible to move.
Inside, the atmosphere didn't feel like a premiere.
It felt like a funeral.
Link and Band sat in a second-floor box, looking down at the crowd below.
Band's palms were soaked with sweat.
Link, by contrast, looked terrifyingly calm.
The lights went out.
No opening credits. No studio logo.
After a few seconds of static, the screen jumped straight into shaky DV footage.
For the first twenty minutes, the audience was visibly restless.
Whispers rippled through the room.
"So this is Tarantino's new movie? Is he messing with us?"
"The image quality is worse than my home security cam."
But when night fell on screen—when the three protagonists heard that first child's laugh outside the tent—
The theater went dead silent.
That shaky camera no longer felt amateurish.
It felt suffocatingly real.
The audience wasn't watching anymore.
They were trapped in that pitch-black forest with the characters.
A female reporter went pale, clamping a hand over her mouth.
In the front row, a producer's sweat trickled down from his temples.
No one dared make a sound.
When the final image froze on Heather's face—smeared with tears and snot—
And her bloodcurdling scream cut off abruptly as the screen went black—
The entire theater fell into a deathly stillness.
Fifteen seconds passed.
No applause.
No voices.
Just breathing—and a few suppressed sobs.
When the lights came back on, people looked dazed.
That wasn't the expression of someone who had just finished a movie.
It was the look of someone who had just witnessed a crime.
Then Quentin Tarantino was invited onto the stage.
He had barely lifted the microphone when a Variety reporter stood up, trembling:
"Mr. Tarantino… I don't want to ask about the film. I just want to know—
are the three students still alive?"
The question hit like a bomb.
The room instantly erupted.
Tarantino didn't answer. He just smiled—that familiar, slightly unhinged grin.
The crowd lost it.
Reporters surged toward the stage. Producers whipped out their brick-sized cell phones, shouting into them. Order in the theater collapsed in seconds.
—
Meanwhile, upstairs in the theater manager's office.
The thick door shut out the chaos below.
Band's phone kept ringing nonstop. His voice shook with excitement:
"Harvey! He's offering five million!"
"Spielberg's assistant is here—they're asking about our distribution plan!"
"Sony just called too! They said we can name our terms!"
Link didn't move.
He stood by the window, looking down at the crowd—those once untouchable movie moguls, now just ordinary people driven by fear.
"Lawrence," he said calmly, ice in his voice.
"Tell them Pangu Pictures will handle the first week of distribution ourselves."
Band froze. "Independent distribution? We don't have the manpower—"
"Starting next Friday," Link interrupted,
"we screen only in twenty-seven theaters—Los Angeles and New York."
He turned around, his tone firm.
"Anyone who wants to partner with us can wait.
After they see the first week's box office,
then we'll talk."
A faint smile crept onto his lips, cold light flashing in his eyes.
He knew it.
This business of fear—
Was only just beginning.