Including yours. Because you just imagined it.
Dr. Mira Vance, a specialist in perceptual anomalies, was the first to watch it alone. The footage began innocently: a static shot of a suburban living room, circa 1987. A floral couch. A dusty piano. Then, a girl in a red dress walked into the frame. She wasn't acting. She was crying. Her mouth moved, but the audio track was just a low, rhythmic hum—like a refrigerator dying.
The haunting didn’t begin until the third screening, this time in a proper 3D theater with polarized glasses. The audience of twelve signed up for what they thought was a "midnight oddity." Ten minutes in, the girl in the red dress stepped out of the screen.
In the final shot of the film—the one that plays on a loop in the condemned theater even now, powered by the city's forgotten electrical hum—the girl is no longer crying. She’s smiling. And behind her, reflected in the dusty piano’s surface, are the faces of everyone who ever sat in that audience.
And now, somewhere in a dark theater, a projector is warming up.
Not as a ghost. Not as a hologram. As a physical, breathing child who immediately vomited black 35mm film stock onto the carpet. She looked at the audience and whispered a single phrase in perfect unison with the theater’s failing speakers: "You've been watching me. Now I'm watching you."