The theater was suffocating, its atmosphere thick with dread. The film on the screen flickered and wavered, the black-and-white image collapsing into a sea of distortion. Static hissed like an angry serpent, the sound coiling tighter and tighter until it struck with a deafening crack. The image twisted into chaos, a vortex of jagged shapes and warped noise, pulling the audience into its nightmarish grip.
A faint silhouette began to emerge from the screen, flickering like a dying flame. It moved haltingly, with jerks and spasms, its limbs contorting in ways that defied human anatomy. Whispers rose from the crowd—confusion, fear, disbelief—but they were cut short as the figure came into sharp focus.
Samara.
Her presence radiated malice, a force that seeped into every corner of the room. Her hair hung in a matted, dripping veil over her face, strands clinging to her clammy, marble-white skin. Her bony fingers twitched at her sides, the nails blackened and cracked, resembling jagged shards of onyx. Her dress clung to her slender frame, soaked and torn, the fabric seeming to writhe as though alive.
She crawled toward the surface of the screen, her movements unnaturally slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the hunt. Her hands pressed against the screen, and the glass-like barrier began to bulge outward, groaning under the strain. The light in the theater dimmed further, shadows creeping up the walls as though fleeing her presence.
Then the screen exploded.
It shattered outward in a blinding burst of light and sound, fragments raining down like shards of ice. Samara stepped through the void, her dripping form expanding with every step she took. She grew impossibly tall, her skeletal frame twisting and distorting until she filled the room, her head brushing the now-flexing ceiling of the theater. Her skin glistened with moisture, trails of black, viscous water dripping from her fingers and toes, leaving puddles that reeked of decay and brine.
Her feet were pale and clammy, their soles calloused and discolored as if they had been submerged in stagnant water for centuries. Wet, squelching sounds accompanied each step as the water pooling beneath her spread like a living thing, consuming the carpet and the aisles. Her long toes, ending in cracked, dirt-encrusted nails, flexed and curled with each movement, leaving faint impressions in the floor that oozed with black sludge.
The first victim tried to make a dash for the exit, but Samara was ready. She stepped forward with impossible speed, her foot slamming down in front of him, blocking his path. The ground trembled under her weight, the wet slap of her sole echoing through the room. He skidded to a halt, his face pale as he stared up at the towering specter. Her foot lifted slightly, the dripping sole casting a shadow over him, and with a sickening crunch, she brought it down.
The sound of his body breaking beneath her heel was wet and final. Blood and viscera seeped from under her foot, mixing with the black sludge. But it didn’t end there. As Samara shifted her weight, pulling her foot back, strands of torn flesh and muscle clung to her sole, dangling grotesquely as if she were peeling away the remnants of a life.
Someone else bolted toward the far wall, scrambling over seats in a blind panic. Samara turned her head, the movement swift and unnatural, her hair parting just enough to reveal the pits of darkness where her eyes should have been. Her arm shot out, impossibly long, her bony fingers wrapping around the struggling figure. She raised him high into the air, his screams echoing as her grip tightened.
Her lips curled into a mockery of a smile, revealing teeth like jagged shards of obsidian, black and glistening. Without hesitation, she opened her mouth wide—far wider than humanly possible—and dropped the man inside. His screams were cut short as her jaws snapped shut with a wet crunch, black liquid trickling from the corners of her mouth as she chewed slowly, savoring the moment.
The chaos intensified. People screamed, clawing at the locked doors, but no escape was possible. A woman tripped in the aisle, sobbing, as Samara’s foot came down on her. But instead of crushing her immediately, the clammy sole pressed her into the ground, trapping her against the wet surface.
She was alive, screaming, her hands scrabbling against the sticky, cold flesh of Samara’s foot. Others soon joined her as Samara stepped into the crowd, their bodies adhering to her dripping soles like insects caught in a spider’s web. They squirmed and cried out, but the suction of her skin and the crushing weight made escape impossible.
One man made the mistake of climbing onto the stage, hoping to hide in the folds of the torn curtain. But as he reached the edge of the screen, a tendril of Samara’s hair lashed out, wrapping around his leg like a living noose. He screamed as the hair pulled him into its endless depths, disappearing into the dark tangle of strands that writhed like snakes. His muffled cries echoed faintly before falling silent.
Samara’s hands were long and skeletal, her fingers twitching erratically as she moved. The skin on her knuckles was cracked and raw, oozing black fluid that dripped to the floor. She reached down and seized another victim, her nails biting deep into their flesh as she lifted them effortlessly. Their body convulsed in her grip, blood seeping from the punctures, before she tossed them aside like a discarded doll.
Every movement was deliberate, cruel. She stepped forward again, her massive foot slamming down on a cluster of people who had huddled together, praying for mercy. Their bodies crumpled beneath her weight, but not all were lucky enough to die immediately. The wet, sticky surface of her sole pulled at their skin and clothes as she moved, leaving some of them writhing, half-crushed, stuck to her foot as she took her next step.
The smell in the theater was unbearable—a nauseating mix of stagnant water, rotting flesh, and the acrid tang of fear-sweat. The walls seemed to sweat, droplets of black liquid trickling down like tears, as if the building itself were weeping for those trapped inside.
And then, as suddenly as she had come, Samara stopped.
Her towering form bent low, her hair cascading over the remaining survivors like a dark, suffocating curtain. She opened her mouth again, the sound that escaped an unholy combination of static, screams, and the deep groan of the grave itself.
One by one, the lights in the theater flickered and died, plunging the room into absolute darkness. Only the faint glow of the cursed screen remained, the distorted image of Samara retreating back into its depths. The survivors dared not breathe, their shattered minds unable to comprehend what they had just endured.
And then the screen went black.
The silence that followed was infinite, broken only by the faint, ominous drip of water.
Somewhere in the distance, a phone began to ring.
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