Blockbuster's End | Creep Cache

My name’s Jake, and if you ask me, movie night died when streaming was born. Back then, you had to earn it—dig through dusty shelves, argue over what to rent, and hope your favorite movie wasn’t already gone. That’s what made it special.

For me, that magic lived inside the Blockbuster in Elm Hollow. It smelled like stale popcorn, had carpet that scratched your ankles, and lighting that buzzed like it was haunted. But every Friday night, it felt like home. Especially when I was there with my dad.

Elm Hollow’s always had stories—stuff people whisper about but pretend they don’t believe. Weird lights in the woods. That kid who vanished in the ’90s. The old mill fire. People say the town’s just old and creaky, but I don’t buy it. Elm Hollow feels… watched.

Even as a kid, I noticed things. The way the fog rolled in thicker than it should. The flicker in the corner of your eye that was never there when you turned to look. Blockbuster had that feeling, too—like something else was browsing the shelves right next to you.

So when our Blockbuster was finally closing, I couldn’t let it die quiet. I grabbed my friends—Mia, Leo, and Sam—and made one last trip. One last movie night.

But we didn’t just find a movie.

We found a disc that shouldn’t exist.

One that never wanted to be watched.

One that watched us back.