Chapter 77: Put Your Heart at Ease
Bella glanced around in astonishment—she wasn't imagining things. Everyone in the theater was glued to the screen, completely engrossed in the unfolding story. No one was willing to blink, let alone miss what came next.
She began to seriously question: Could this still be considered a low-budget thriller?
The film continued. On the TV in front of Chris, the old man finally revealed the truth behind the conspiracy.
Because aging, illness, and death were inevitable, they'd developed a "unique" way of survival: by transplanting the brains of white people into the stronger bodies of Black individuals, thus granting white people a form of continued life.
But the operation wasn't perfect. The original consciousness of the Black hosts remained—buried, but not erased. That's why some of them temporarily awakened under the stimulation of flashing lights.
Many of the elderly white residents in this town had actually been living for years in someone else's body.
Rose seduced the targets, the mother handled the hypnosis, and the father performed the surgeries. Afterward, the Black bodies were auctioned off like merchandise. Chris's body, it turned out, had already been "purchased" by the blind old man from earlier.
This family had truly streamlined their operations. Even the Black groundskeeper and housemaid were actually Rose's grandparents, their consciousnesses transferred into Black bodies. The reason the maid cried while smiling? Because her true self was still trapped inside.
And that camera flash—it could briefly return bodily control to the original consciousness. That's why the one Black man earlier had a violent outburst and told Chris to run. He was trying to save him.
Chris, watching all this from the chair he was strapped to, was overcome with emotion. He refused to sit there and wait for death. Then, suddenly, he noticed something—the chair he had scratched at earlier had tufts of cotton stuffing poking out.
Right on cue, the sound of the teacup clinking began again from the TV, attempting to trigger his hypnosis. Sure enough, Chris's eyes fluttered shut, and he appeared to sink back into darkness.
Meanwhile, the operating room was ready. Rose's brother entered to escort Chris. He loosened the straps, turned around to gather the tools—
And that's when Chris struck.
He sprang up, grabbed a nearby heavy object, and smashed it down onto the back of the brother's head. The man went down hard. As he struggled to get up, Chris struck again—this time making sure he stayed down.
In the theater, the audience erupted—not in fear, but in triumphant cheers. They weren't scared. They were rooting for Chris.
All the tension and eerie buildup finally had a release—visceral, bloody, and cathartic.
Onscreen, Chris pulled out two wads of cotton from his ears. That's how he'd resisted the hypnosis—he'd stuffed cotton from the chair into his ears to block out the sound.
Now his face was set with grim determination—it was time for revenge.
First, he impaled Rose's father with a mounted deer antler. Then he turned and killed her mother. Blood sprayed violently across the screen, even splashing the camera lens.
Upstairs, Rose sat oblivious—snacking, listening to music through her headphones, going through photos of new potential targets. She had no idea her entire family had just been slaughtered by her boyfriend.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Chris found a car and prepared to escape. But in his rush, he hit someone—the Black housemaid.
Seeing her unconscious on the ground, Chris was reminded of the pain of losing his own mother years ago. Compassion overwhelmed him. He picked her up and put her in the car.
But the sound of the engine startled Rose, who quickly grabbed a gun and gave chase—only to find the car already gone.
In the car, the maid suddenly awoke. She was actually Rose's grandmother, her mind transferred into the Black body through surgery.
Driven by rage, she attacked Chris, trying to take control of the wheel. They fought. The car swerved, crashing into a tree.
The impact killed the maid. Chris survived. Bloodied and battered, he stumbled out and kept moving, determined to get out of this nightmare.
Then Rose appeared—gun in hand. And with her came the groundskeeper—her grandfather, occupying a young Black man's body.
The grandfather tackled Chris. They wrestled violently on the ground.
In a flash of inspiration, Chris grabbed his camera. Click! He snapped a photo right in the man's face.
The flash reawakened the original consciousness of the Black man inside.
The groundskeeper suddenly stood, released Chris, and turned to Rose.
She, unaware of the change, handed him the shotgun without hesitation.
Without saying a word, the man took the weapon and immediately turned it on her—firing at point-blank range.
The shotgun blast hurled Rose backward in a gory spray, shocking the entire theater into another wave of gasps and applause. For a moment, race didn't matter—only justice.
But before anyone could fully process the moment, the groundskeeper raised the shotgun to his own chin and pulled the trigger.
"Ah!"
"What the fxxk?!"
"…!"
The audience was stunned—yet again.
The powerful shotgun blast obliterated the Black groundskeeper's head at point-blank range.
But unlike the previous bloody scenes meant to vent audience tension, this one genuinely shocked everyone in the theater.
Wayne always understood one key fact: This was an R-rated horror thriller. And to attract a broader audience, he had to give the film extra hooks.
What do American horror fans crave the most? "Killer amounts of ketchup," as they say—meaning gore, buckets of it. And horror fans in the U.S. are anything but a niche group.
Onscreen, the story approached its finale. Chris walked over to Rose, who lay on the ground, barely breathing. He crouched beside her. He had every chance to end her life right then and there—yet he didn't.
Wayne made a deliberate choice here. The film could be bloody and twisted, yes. But regardless of tone or genre, the protagonist had to remain fundamentally good.
Anyone who's studied the formula of successful Hollywood films would recognize this: whether it's a politically correct hero saving the world, or a more niche indie flick, the crowd favorites always center around a good-hearted lead.
The protagonist may kill, but it must be justified—usually as a response to being pushed by the antagonist.
Only this kind of character—one the general audience can empathize with—draws people into theaters and fills the box office.
In the final scene, a police car appeared, right on cue with Hollywood convention—after everything had already gone down.
Chris didn't rejoice. He looked at the bodies around him, dread sinking into his chest. He thought it was all over.
The police wouldn't believe him. They'd see a Black man standing among a pile of dead white bodies. They'd call it murder. All because of his skin color.
But then, the car door opened—and it wasn't a stranger who stepped out.
It was his best friend, the one who had been on the phone with him all along.
Chris finally let out a breath of relief, climbed into the car, and together they drove away—fleeing from the town once and for all.
The film ended. The enormous screen faded to black, and the credits began to roll. At the same time, the lights in the theater came back on.
Bella, like every other audience member, rose to her feet—applauding with fervor.
The sound of clapping filled the air, punctuated by loud cheers from young viewers.
Even though Wayne and his team had experienced something similar at the media screening, hearing it again still sent a thrill down their spines.
Producer John led the cast and crew to the front of the screen. Facing the passionate audience, they bowed in unison.
But the usual curtain call didn't settle the crowd. Normally, after a respectful round of applause, viewers would begin to exit.
Instead, hundreds of fans remained, shouting the names of the cast members they'd just seen onscreen, clapping even louder.
Excitement rippled through the whole team—especially the lead actors, who waved back enthusiastically. Will Smith, in particular, looked electrified, dancing on the spot and grinning ear to ear.
The applause went on for nearly five minutes. Only after the production team's third bow did the audience finally begin to leave—reluctantly.
Bella followed behind the exiting crowd, her eyes fixed on the young director standing at the front. This director had given her far more surprises than she had anticipated.
Since the middle of the film, she'd been thinking about one question: How did this low-budget horror flick manage to hold an entire theater so spellbound?
Now that it was over, she felt she understood.
Films tackling race issues were nothing new. In fact, there were plenty of them. But this one stood out for a simple reason: uniqueness.
No one had ever approached the topic from this angle before. It was fresh, engaging, and unsettling in the best way.
Beyond that, the film was packed with thoughtful detail—every scene meticulously placed, every symbol carefully planted.
Bella made up her mind right then and there. Once she got back, she'd start compiling everything. With a box office hit all but guaranteed, her editor would definitely give her front-page space.
While the lead cast headed to the premiere's press conference, Wayne and John sat down together in the theater lounge.
"Wayne," John said seriously, "Get Out officially opened this morning in 2,088 theaters across the U.S. That's significantly fewer than Far and Away, which debuted in over 2,500. We're at a disadvantage here."
John sounded worried. He was concerned that the film wouldn't live up to Warner Bros.' expectations. The company had been rolling out marketing efforts since filming wrapped.
While the film itself was low-budget, Warner had poured more money into promotion than production. If the movie underperformed, the blame might fall squarely on him.
Wayne looked calm.
"Put your heart at ease, John," he said with a confident smile.