Chapter 76: The Unseen Pull
On screen, as Rose had promised, her parents greeted Chris with over-the-top hospitality. Her father proudly showed off his family history, led Chris on a tour of the house, and even took him to the backyard basketball court. But as the day wore on, strange things began to happen.
First, Chris noticed the nanny's unsettling smile—too wide, too frozen. Then the gardener's expression: empty, almost mechanical. A sense of unease crept into Chris's mind.
Watching this, Bella in the audience sat up straighter. The nanny's grinning face flashed on screen again—this time full-frame—and Bella shivered. A forced, eerie smile that sent a chill through the theater.
At the family dinner table, Rose's mother tapped her spoon against her teacup. Chris, uneasy, mimicked the gesture with his own knuckles on the table. Suddenly, Rose's father cocked an eyebrow.
"You seem restless, son," he said. "Is that a smoking habit? Not a healthy one." He paused, then added lightly, "My wife's a hypnotist—maybe she can help you."
Chris politely declined. Their hospitality felt unnatural, forced—he couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong.
After clearing their plates, the black nanny returned to the table. She offered Chris a final, chilling smile—her eyes oddly glassy. The moment hung in the air, silent and suffocating.
Bella felt her heart pound. The film's slow-building tension was paying off: she and hundreds of fellow moviegoers jumped in unison at the sudden, silent terror.
In American horror, jump scares often rely on blood and gore. Audiences are so accustomed to splattered entrails that true psychological horror—subtle lighting, dissonant music, small unsettling details—can be even more terrifying. Here, after a lengthy, calm buildup, that silent, grinning face cut like a knife.
Back in the film, night has fallen. Chris, unable to sleep, steps into the hallway for a cigarette. From the shadows, he sees the gardener sprinting toward him, then vanish around a corner with preternatural speed. His pulse spiking, Chris spins back—and there at the window stands the nanny again, pressed against the glass, her frozen grin leering at him.
"Ah!" he shouts, stumbling back.
Screams surface across the theater:
"F--- off!"
"Oh my God!"
"Holy s----!"
Even seasoned horror fans can't help but jar at such a sudden shock. At that moment, the entire auditorium quivers with collective fright.
Chris rushes back to his bedroom—only to be called inside by Rose's mother. She beckons him to sit with her, her tone calm, almost clinical. She explains that her hypnosis relies on a single fixation—a repeated sensory cue to deepen suggestion. Then she asks about his mother.
Chris stiffens, unwilling to speak. But Rose's mother lifts her spoon and taps the cup once more. Mesmerized, Chris finds himself responding—conjuring painful childhood memories of his mother's death. He relives the grief with the same helpless gestures of his youth, tears streaming down his face.
Rose's mother watches him impassively. She has asked all her questions. With cold precision, she slips away—leaving Chris alone in his spiraling darkness.
Chris felt as if he were being sucked into a black hole. He tried to resist, but his body was completely paralyzed.
When he awoke, he stared at the bed in confusion—had it all just been a dream? But after chatting with the Black groundskeeper, who confirmed seeing him with Rose's mother the night before, Chris realized: it had been real. So what exactly was Rose's mother—this so-called therapist—trying to do to him?
"Your film has this eerie kind of magic," Bella murmured to herself in the darkened theater, "it pulls people in without them even realizing it."
And it wasn't just her. Bella looked around and saw the same expression on everyone's face—intense focus. Not a single whisper. The massive theater was utterly silent.
The film moved into its second act. Elderly townsfolk arrived at Rose's house, supposedly to meet Chris. Just as Rose had said, everyone seemed incredibly warm, even embracing the Black gardener. At first glance, they appeared to be the most progressive white folks Chris had ever met.
Rose told Chris the gathering was a welcome party just for him. But the crowd—all elderly white men and women—praised his physique a little too eagerly. They eyed him like butchers evaluating meat at the market. Some even reached out to touch his arms, admiring the "tone." One couple even commented that Black skin had become fashionable.
Chris didn't sense any malice, but their smiles and eyes made his skin crawl. This wasn't how regular white folks interacted with Black men, not even friendly ones.
Then, for a moment, he felt relief—another Black man at the party. Chris approached, ready to connect. But the man's gaze was empty, his speech too formal, his posture too stiff—nothing about him felt normal. A white woman, easily thirty years his senior, walked up and wrapped herself around his arm. His wife, she said.
Chris raised his fist for a friendly dap—a greeting between Black men. But the man responded with a handshake... as if he had no idea what the fist meant. His mannerisms were completely off—he may have had Black skin, but nothing else about him felt Black.
Unsettled, Chris headed upstairs to get away for a bit. But he noticed something strange: the guests stopped their conversations, watching him as he walked away.
What happened next made his stomach turn.
Someone had unplugged his phone charger. He suspected the maid. After telling Rose, the maid herself came to apologize. She was smiling—and crying. At the same time.
The theater erupted in a hushed gasp.
That smile—bright and hollow, with tears silently rolling down her cheeks—made everyone deeply uncomfortable.
Chris avoided the maid and stepped outside to get air. That's when he saw the same Black man again, engaged in loud, animated conversation with a group of white partygoers. Curious, Chris pulled out his camera and snapped a photo.
He forgot to turn off the flash.
Immediately, the man's face went blank. A trail of blood trickled from his nose. Then he lunged at Chris, grabbed his shirt, and screamed:
"GET OUT! GET THE HELL OUT WHILE YOU CAN!"
Security rushed in to restrain him. Rose's father quickly explained the man had epilepsy, triggered by the camera flash. Chris didn't buy it. He knew that wasn't a seizure.
He pulled Rose aside in the woods and shared his suspicions. But she dismissed them. Her father was a neurosurgeon—if he said it was epilepsy, then it must be.
The pace of the film picked up sharply, leaving no room for second-guessing. Bella, like every other viewer, was fully immersed. She wasn't just watching a movie anymore—she was living it.
Chris was sure something was deeply wrong—not just with Rose's family, but with the entire town. He told her he wanted to leave. Rose, though clearly unhappy, reluctantly agreed.
While they packed, something horrifying unfolded back at the party: a silent auction. Guests held up cards while Rose's father stood beside a portrait of Chris. Chris was the item being sold. The winning bid came from a blind old man.
Back at the house, Chris had no idea he'd just been bought. He called his best friend and described the strange man from the party. His friend instantly recognized him as someone who had been reported missing for months. And based on Chris's description—his strange behavior, new clothing, and eerie politeness—his friend warned him: Get out. Now.
"Run. Just run!"
In the theater, murmurs turned to gasps. Some viewers even shouted at the screen:
"Chris, get out of there!"
"Run, dude!"
The film's tension was unbearable.
Chris tried. He called Rose to pack up and leave with him. But when they went downstairs, her entire family stood at the door, blocking the way out.
Too late.
Chris lunged toward Rose's brother, trying to fight his way out. But just as he did, Rose's mother tapped her spoon against the teacup again—and Chris crumpled to the floor, as if bewitched.
Darkness swallowed his mind once more.
When he woke up, he was tied to a chair. His hands and feet were bound. No matter how hard he struggled, it was useless.
Then, the television flicked on.
A pre-recorded video began to play. An old white man stared out from the screen and began calmly explaining the twisted truth behind everything.
Bella's breath caught.
She looked around the theater again. It was unreal. Every person in the crowd—every single one—was riveted, utterly focused. Not a whisper. Not a phone. Not even idle fidgeting.
As a journalist, Bella knew better than anyone: no film was ever universally liked. Every audience had a handful of disinterested people. Always. But not this time.
This was a miracle.