February 17, 1994
Ben's Apartment, Los Angeles
Ben Gosling leaned back from his drafting table, fingers smudged with graphite, a stack of hand-sketched storyboards at his side. He had just completed the full script and shot-by-shot breakdown of his next film—Saw—a brutal, tightly-wound psychological horror set almost entirely within a single room.
In Ben's new story, two strangers awaken chained in a decrepit bathroom. Between them lies a corpse, a tape recorder, and a cryptic set of instructions. A sadistic figure, known only as the Disciple, orchestrates a twisted moral game from the shadows, forcing his victims to make impossible choices—cutting through flesh, secrets, and sanity alike. The Disciple isn't just a villain; he's a fanatic servant of an ancient, evil god. His mask—a smooth, contorted face with twisted, painted sigils—was designed to haunt dreams and dominate merchandise racks. Unlike traditional killers, he doesn't chase his victims. He waits for them to destroy themselves.
It was lean. It was terrifying. And most importantly—it was ready.
Ben had thrown himself into the process with obsession. While The Blair Witch Project buzzed through news cycles and late-night shows, he barely glanced at the coverage. His first film, the one that should have meant everything, was now something distant—like a child who'd already left home and was making trouble at school.
Twentieth Century Fox, on the other hand, hadn't eased up for a second. They were pouring money into the campaign like oil on a wildfire. Missing person flyers, radio spots, rumors spreading like spores. Everyone from kids on the street to senators on talk shows had something to say about Blair Witch. And yet, Ben stayed focused.
Helen and Amanda were his lifelines to it all. Every few days, one of them would call to check in, their voices bouncing between fatigue and adrenaline.
Amanda's calls were breathless, buzzing with marketing numbers, media cycles, and how they had to bribe a morning host to cry on air. Helen's calls were calm and controlled, like a field general reporting clean progress. Always ending with, "We'll let you know when it's time."
Ben appreciated that. It let him stay in his world—at least for a while.
In the quiet moments between writing and drawing, he spent time with Naomi. They would curl up with coffee and storyboard pages spread between them, Naomi pointing out where she thought the Disciple should pause longer, or where blood might be too much too soon. They would laugh, argue, kiss, and dream a little. For a moment, it felt like life might allow both art and love to coexist.
Until the phone rang. It was Helen.
Her voice, as always, was measured. But Ben could detect it—the subtle lilt, the tiny lift of breath that meant something big had happened.
"We just got confirmation," she said. "The initial release is rolling out in 154 theaters. More than we expected for week one. And I've reserved four tickets for the early release tomorrow morning—just us. You, me, Amanda, and Naomi."
Ben leaned into the couch, trying to picture it. A public release, a real audience, people queuing up for a film they thought was real.
Helen continued, "I know we're not doing a premiere, it wouldn't fit the narrative. But still, it's your first film. You ought to see it with an audience."
"Thanks," he said. "Really."
"I'll pick everyone up," she added. "Be ready by eight."
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February 18, 1994 – Early Morning
A Remote Movie Theater, Edge of L.A.
The sun was barely up when Helen's car pulled into the dusty parking lot of a small, out-of-the-way theater. The location was chosen intentionally—Fox had instructed participating theaters to skew toward obscurity to preserve the illusion.
But even here, in the forgotten corners of suburbia, the crowd was impossible to miss.
A line curled around the corner. Hoodies, windbreakers, coffee cups clutched in gloved hands. People murmured, speculated, and leaned forward to catch sight of the poster through the glass doors: "Have You Seen These Students?"
Ben and crew pulled up slowly in Helen's Lexus, his window slightly down, the crisp February air curling in. As the car rounded the corner, the group fell silent.
The theater stood in the distance, unimpressive as always—except for the sea of people outside it.
Helen Solomon leaned forward from the back seat, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. "Is that a… line?"
Amanda Newhouse, seated beside her and sipping a macchiato, blinked. "Not just a line. That's a whole crowd. At 8 a.m. On a Friday."
Naomi Watts leaned toward the windshield, her eyes wide. "That's... wild. Are those missing person flyers taped to the glass?"
Amanda, riding shotgun, glanced back at Ben. "Not bad for something we weren't even supposed to advertise publicly."
Ben let out a slow breath. "Fox went all in on the viral angle. Guess it worked."
Helen shook her head. "Worked? Ben, look at that crowd. You've got people lining up like it's The Godfather"
Ben pulled Helen's Lexus into a spot near the entrance and turned off the ignition.
Ben looked at Helen through the rearview mirror, and found her in contemplation, her brow furrowed with mock seriousness. "As the director, investor, and screenwriter of the film, shouldn't you at least pretend to care about the release?"
Ben looked at her with a faint smile, his tone dry. "I care. I just... have something new on my mind these days."
He glanced at Naomi, who smiled and nudged his arm.
Amanda exhaled dramatically, shaking her head. "You're lucky you have us watching your back. If this flops, it's not your past life they'll be laughing at—it's your current one."
The group stepped out of the car and joined the crowd. The energy was palpable. Nervous. Electric. Not the vibe of a typical moviegoing morning—this felt like an event. A séance.
The parking lot was half mud, half cracked asphalt, with weeds poking through the concrete like they wanted to witness the phenomenon too. The Parkway Theater sat at the edge of a strip mall that hadn't seen real foot traffic in years. But today, there was a crowd.
Roughly over sixty people were already lined up, huddled in jackets, flannel shirts, and oversized college sweaters. Some held cardboard coffee cups, others flipped through tabloids or clutched the morning edition of the Los Angeles Times with the grainy still from the mysterious "found footage" on its cover.
At the front of the line stood a trio of film school students from Pasadena—nervous, grinning, and quietly debating whether the footage was real.
"I'm telling you," one of them whispered, "I heard the college students who filmed this are actually missing. Like gone. No press, no appearances, nothing."
His friend, sporting a Nirvana hoodie and a Sony camcorder around his neck, leaned in. "That's what makes it genius. It doesn't matter if it's real or not—people believe it. That's the whole trick."
A pair of high school girls nearby, both wearing scrunchies and oversized jean jackets, clutched flyers with the missing student faces printed on them. One pointed toward the theater doors.
"They put one of those flyers inside the glass by the box office window. Look at the names. That's not a movie title. That's a police notice."
Behind them, a dad with his ten-year-old son looked uncomfortable. "Are we even sure this is appropriate?" he muttered to his wife.
She shrugged. "It's on Fox. Can't be that bad."
A guy in a trench coat shuffled along the line, handing out photocopies of a homemade zine titled The Blair Witch Is Real. His breath fogged in the cold air. On the cover was a crude map of the Black Hills Forest with red Xs marked across it.
People took it. People read it.
A group of college students showed up with handheld recorders. "We're doing a reaction video," one of them said. "We'll get first impressions as people come out. Like... what if someone screams and runs out early?"
Someone laughed nervously.
A woman wearing a long, rust-colored coat tapped her foot anxiously, a copy of TV Guide folded in her hands with the special on Blair Witch circled three times. "They only aired it four times in the evening this past week," she said to the couple next to her. "And I missed every single one. I'm not missing this. I want answers."
Someone further back in the line pulled a blanket tighter and muttered, "What if there aren't answers?"
The line kept growing. The sun, still low in the sky, cast long shadows across the parking lot. Inside, a bored teenager behind the ticket window flipped the "Closed" sign to "Open" and picked up the radio to call his manager.
"You're not gonna believe this," he said. "There's a line all the way around the block. For that witch movie."
The manager didn't believe it until he saw it himself five minutes later. His cigarette slipped out of his mouth when he stepped outside.
"What the hell is this?" he muttered.
"Folk horror," one kid said, not even looking up from his flyer.
And then, like a switch flipping, the doors opened. And the crowd moved.
As the first tickets were scanned, a woman said softly to her friend, "It's just a movie, right?"
Her friend didn't answer.
As the line for The Blair Witch Project continued to snake along the side of the building, the group lingered outside the car for a moment, watching in awe. People were huddled in coats, holding coffee, murmuring excitedly about "the missing kids" and "the tape that aired on Fox." Some even clutched grainy photocopies of the mock missing posters.
Ben let out a low whistle. "Looks like the publicity worked."
Helen, arms folded, surveyed the scene with a measured nod. "It seems the publicity effect is better than expected. Credit where it's due—Fox really went all in. News Corp's muscle is showing."
Amanda tugged her coat tighter, smirking. "Yeah, don't forget my family's contributions!"
Naomi, amused, elbowed Ben lightly. "They're lining up for your movie. First film. First crowd. Amazing Response. How do you feel?"
Ben shrugged, trying to suppress a grin. "Relieved that it won't be a loss. And weirdly detached. I've been so buried in the script making for my next project Saw that I forgot this is real."
Helen sighed softly, her tone thoughtful. "It's just a shame only a hundred fifty theaters picked it up for the first week. With this kind of buzz, we could've gone wider."
As Ben looked at the people around him, he also realized Fox had been too cautious. The buzz was beyond ready. They could have gone wide right now. 1,200 screens, easy.
Ben turned to her, calm but assured. "Helen, a hundred fifty theaters is already a huge win. Most indie horror flicks would kill for a dozen. And this is before opening weekend even starts."
Amanda nodded. "And it's on-demand screening, remember? These theaters didn't commit because they had to. They wanted to."
But then again, maybe the slow burn was the point. Plus, there is no internet. Let the fear settle in gradually. Let the myth take root before the truth ever dares to follow.
Naomi smiled. "And if the line's like this here… I can't imagine what it's like in L.A."
Helen folded her arms and muttered, "Still… we need the heat to last. If it fizzles out after the opening weekend—"
Ben cut in gently. "I checked the list of films being released this month. Nothing else in the genre. No major studio horror. We're uncontested. We've got the field to ourselves."
Amanda raised an eyebrow. "You're doing box office scouting now?"
Ben chuckled. "Just trying to stay ahead."
Naomi glanced at the crowd, then leaned toward Amanda and said, "You know… on the bright side, Ben checked yesterday with me that we've got a clean window until mid-June."
Amanda tilted her head. "What's in June?"
"The Lion King." Ben gave a knowing look. "Once that drops, every kid in America will be dragging their parents into the theater. But until then, no big studio juggernauts. No box office killers."
Helen chimed in, crossing her arms. "Which means we've got time. Good time. No superhero, no disaster flicks, not even a romance drama people care about."
Naomi's eyes widened. "So we could actually ride this thing out for months?"
Ben hesitated. "Well… maybe not months. Let's be real—this kind of viral lightning doesn't last forever. The buzz around Blair Witch is intense, but it's also fragile."
Amanda nodded. "We burn bright, we burn fast."
"Exactly." Ben said. "It's a phenomenon, not a franchise. Once people find out it's staged, or once the media gets tired of it, the hysteria dies. That's the only thing I regret. It just won't have legs like a Disney film or a summer blockbuster."
"But it doesn't need to," Helen said firmly. "It just needs to make its mark. One big, indelible mark."
Naomi nodded, "It all depends on how much Fox is determined to protect the exposure of fraud as long as possible."
"You can't call it fraud" Ben remarked, "this is a horror mockumentary, okay!"
Naomi grinned at him. "You're secretly enjoying this, admit it."
Ben held up both hands. "Alright. Maybe a little. But I'll enjoy it more when the crowd would be for Saw rather than a marketing gimmick like this."
Helen rolled her eyes, but with a smile. "It's nice to see you know why this worked, Mr. Gosling."
They began walking toward the theater. The buzz of the crowd grew louder as people turned to look, unaware that the director, producer, and architect of the chaos was walking quietly among them.
Whatever happened next—Ben knew one thing for sure.
Whether it had legs or not, The Blair Witch Project was about to leave its footprint—and the theater was packed to feel it.