A man finds strangely familiar movies outside his door, someone pushes a rock up a hill, a dog chases its tail, and Wren takes things into their own hands. (CWs, minor spoilers: blood, death, brief mention of sex, some language, vomit, birds, dogs, derealization) TRANSCRIPT: WREN: The crowd at the Song Bird had vanished. The edges of the room faded into a misty gray. The woman I'd been talking to was gone. All that remained was the stage, awash in nightclub luminance. There was something standing on the stage. A kind of shapeless being. Its body was waving like a dead flag stirred by a subtle breeze. Harsh noise blared through the ashen bar. It seemed to be facing my direction despite its lack of features. I turned to run for the exit, but the door was no longer there: the back half of the dive bar now extended into an endless void. The jittering form reached out, and from its hand erupted streams of black ribbon. They curled around my feet with some force and bound my movement. I kicked and tore at them, but it was no use. They continued snaking up my legs. The shape on the stage bellowed again, a horn from the lighthouse of the damned, and the ribbons tugged hard at my feet, knocking me down and pulling me toward the thing. The strands were halfway up my torso, and quickly began restricting my arms as I clawed at the checkered linoleum floor. I was pulled halfway up the stage, wrapped nearly to my throat in tight black bands. The closer I got to the umbral figure, the harder it became to breathe. My chest tightened, and each breath felt like I was gulping down burning air. I felt a hot jolt run through my body. I wriggled furiously and knocked over the microphone stand. Feedback screeched through the ethereal room. Just as the ribbon was about to encroach on my lips and stifle my cries, something emerged from the gloom beyond the walls. It flew between the projector and lyrics splashed on the screen and for just an instant, it cast an avian silhouette against the wall: a huge feathered beast, wings flared and talons outstretched to strike. It slammed into the shadow on stage and tore through the strands confining me. No longer connected to my would-be abductor, they lost their mystic pull. I broke my arms free and tore through at the constraints around my feet. It wasn't until later--hunched over my stained coffee table with a mug of green tea, draped in a blanket and shaking--that I realized what had been wrapping me: magnetic ribbon, the kind used in video tapes. The giant raven stood on stage with its back to me, its foot on the slowly vanishing shadow monster. It struck me as odd that the thing had any form at all on which to step. But now was no time for wandering thoughts. I tried to call out, but my voice was hoarse and dry. The bird didn't move. WREN: "You saved me from...whatever that was. Can I repay your kind favor somehow?" The hulking corvid turned its head back to me. It had no beak, nor feathers on its face. Instead I saw pale skin, dark eyes, lips; upsettingly human. AVERY: "You already have," WREN: it replied in a voice that sounded uncannily like my own. And then the bar was back, and I was standing alone and disheveled in the middle of a vibrant dance floor. No bird, no shadow, no ribbon. Just me, alone among the crowd. I fled the bar and didn't look back. Though looking back now, I think I forgot to pay my tab. I should probably return soon and hope for a better experience. Now, let's take a look at the penultimate letter in Conway's backlog. It is addressed to a John Johnson at 123 Cool Street, Real City, Ohio. Right...seems like the only indication of where it came from is the stationary, labeled "Welcome to the Deerland Mall." I don't think I've heard of a Deerland, Ohio, nor its mall. Let's see what this letter has to offer. CONWAY: Let me tell you a story. An aspiring screenwriter and college dropout was working at an indie movie theater. Let's call him John. He worked the late shift, usually slow now that the old college town was starting to lose most of its college students. He used his free time in the projection room to work on his scripts. He had a friend, we'll say David, who said he was "in the biz," whatever that means. About once a week, David sent over some weird reel he'd gotten a hold of. Once the manager was off for the day and the crowds had all but gone home, John would set up the projector and screen whatever wild stuff David had found. Exploitation flicks, experimental genre stuff, early short films by famous directors. It wasn't always that exciting, though. Sometimes it was boring b-roll footage, or badly transferred home movies. Regardless, John would screen them and then he and David would talk about it the next day. One evening, deep into the greasy salty night, John nodded off while waiting for a delivery. It was only for a minute, but when he woke up, a film canister was there at the door to the projection room. John looked the canister over. No shipping package, no label, no markings, just a clean metal disc. John loaded it up as usual. As the flickering quicksilver poured through the empty theater onto the screen, John was struck by something. He knew the star of this one. Not like in the way you "know" a celebrity, he really knew her. He couldn't see her face right away but he knew it was her: an ex of his he hadn't talked to in years. She wasn't an actor, never showed an interest in it to his knowledge, but there she was. She was winding down the aisles of a brightly lit grocery store. She picked up a box of fruit loops and put it in her cart. Then she was outside shivering, looking up at the full winter moon through cloudy breath. The moon was a bowl of cereal she ate for breakfast, then click clack off to work along the rumbling subway tunnels, click clack keyboards and phone calls, the touch of fur under palm, and then the reel stopped. There was no dialogue, no real characters, no theme or meaning he could really get at. The backgrounds and settings were all vague, almost abstract. But it all seemed a little familiar to John. He felt a wave of deja vu wash over him, a memory tingling in some lost corner of his mind trying to get his attention. The next day, John called David and asked him where he got the film. David had no idea what John was talking about. He didn't send any reels that week. John told David to hold off with the movies for now, just to see if any more of these unsourced films showed up. And show up they did. *** Saturday night somewhere in Pittsburgh. Interior of John's apartment. He's fast asleep in bed. We can hear his snoring as we pass through the open window. Tight shot of John's face, then crossfade into the dream. John is on a plane, middle seat surrounded by faceless strangers murmuring incomprehensible dialogue. "Watermelon, peas and carrots, lorem ipsum." He looks around the flying tin and sucks in the stale air. The window shade is open, cloudless dawn or dusk or the dead of night shimmers out of view. The plane cruises through thick rivulets of puffy clouds. John is terribly thirsty. He tries to signal for a flight attendant but his arm won't rise. He tries to talk but his voice comes out in a soft hiss. He screams, but his expletive barely moves past his lips before silently crashing to the floor. Then John is sitting in the terminal in Germany with a return flight in a week. But he's forgotten to call off work. He tries to call his boss, but the line won't connect. Wide shot of John's bedroom, he bolts upright and looks out the window. A plane blinks in the sky over the city. Scene. *** Sunday night came around and John was at the theater as usual. He was scribbling away in the moleskine notebook as the projector streamed a vision of another world on the screen. The click and whirr of the machine was a nice distraction, a good way to occupy the nagging part of his brain that always pulled at his attention. Just as he had started writing some snappy dialogue, there was a clank outside the projection room. He peeked outside, and in front of the door was another blank canister, the deliverer nowhere to be seen. There was no one in the audience, so no one would mind a quick change of scenery, right? The projector buzzed and spun the new reel. Light filtered through the 35mm print, spitting its magnified contents across the room. When the first image appeared, John's breath caught in his chest. He felt the creeping itch of panic in his throat like rising seawater. There was a plane, a crowd of people, an open window, a thirsty patron, a terminal. Exactly like John's dream, or what he could remember of it. That's when he realized why the first mysterious film was so familiar: it was a dream he'd had a few weeks back. Fragments of half-forgotten sights and sounds flashed in a jumbled collage in his mind. "Holy shit, is that Emily?" David asked as the two sat in the audience for a private late night screening of the first mysterious film. "I had no idea she could act. This is pretty good!" John was less enthused. "Sorry. It's so short though. Is that it?" John said that had to be it because that's all that was in his dream. "This is literally unbelievable. Like I don't believe what you're saying. Wait a week, and if another comes in, call me right away. We'll watch it together and I'll see if you're just messing with me." John had fitful sleep the following week. He couldn't focus on his writing. He was getting irritable and paranoid. Someone had to be watching him, right? How else would they know this stuff? Were they reading his journal? John woke up that sunday groggy and distracted. He couldn't remember his dream clearly, something about a street maybe. But come nightfall, another canister showed up at the projectionist's door. John set the reel spinning and David watched. In the film, David was in the middle of Hamburg, Germany, or rather what a young white guy in America w
