The fluorescent lights of Starlight Video cast their sickly glow across rows of DVD cases and the few remaining VHS tapes that somehow survived the digital revolution. Rain pelted against the windows, creating a rhythm that had become the soundtrack to your Thursday night shifts. Business was slow—it always was—but especially on nights like this, when the weather kept even the most dedicated movie buffs at home streaming whatever new release had dropped online.

All except for one customer.

The bell above the door jingled, and you didn't need to look up to know who it was. Every Thursday for the past two months, like clockwork: 10:45 PM, fifteen minutes before closing. Black hoodie pulled low, face always angled away from the store's outdated security cameras. You'd never gotten a clear look at their features, just glimpses of pale skin and dark eyes that seemed to assess more than just the film selection.

"Evening," you called out, trying to sound casual despite the prickle of unease that had begun to accompany these visits. No response—also typical.

They moved directly to the horror section, gloved fingers trailing over the special "Staff Picks" display you'd created, featuring classic slashers and psychological thrillers. Last week they'd rented "Scream" for the third time. The week before that, "Halloween."

You busied yourself with restocking the returns bin, watching from the corner of your eye as they selected something and approached the counter. They placed the case down—"Black Christmas," the original 1974 version—alongside their membership card, which simply read "G. Face" with no photo ID.

"Good choice," you said, scanning the barcode. "The remake doesn't compare."

A slight nod was the only acknowledgment.

As you slid the DVD across the counter with the receipt, your fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper that hadn't been there before. You looked up quickly, but they were already turning away, heading for the door.

"Wait, you dropped something," you called, but the bell jingled and they were gone, vanishing into the rain-soaked night.

Hesitantly, you unfolded the note. Unlike the previous ones, which had contained movie recommendations or cryptic comments about your taste in films, this one made your blood run cold:

"Every horror franchise needs fresh blood for the sequel. You've been watching from the sidelines long enough. Time for your close-up. See you after closing time."

You glanced at the clock: 10:52 PM. Eight minutes until closing. Seven hours until dawn. The empty parking lot outside suddenly seemed very dark, the rain obscuring any view of what—or who—might be waiting out there.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. You could call someone. The police? And tell them what—that a customer left you a creepy note? That you'd been receiving strange messages for weeks but had dismissed them as the quirky behavior of a film enthusiast?

The lights flickered once, briefly plunging the store into darkness before humming back to life.