She creeps, mute, down the dark aisle, mirroring the killer in the movie. Her sweatshirt visibly tightens as her muscles tense, bulging under the paper-thin fabric.

The seat creaks in the style of a rusty horror movie door as she slowly descends into it, the springs screaming like the cries of murder victims. The exhausted old cushion groans, regardless of her featherweight form.

A sudden commotion bursts from the towering silver screen. In response, a shriek escapes her rasping throat like a gunshot in the still theater. Her whole body launches from the seat, her butter-drenched popcorn suddenly airborne from its tub.

She lands with the grace of a crash test dummy, limbs splaying in the seat. Her body sprawls, immobile and hushed, for only a moment. Then, tearing into the thick, fleshy silence, she shrieks again, this time with sudden unhinged, choppy laughter, her face muscles settling only a little afterwards.

“Not so bad after all,” she squeaks, despite her clawed hands raking deep into the armrests.