The sun had barely risen when the ripple turned into a tidal wave.
Across North America, in cities and small towns alike, people were showing up to the selected 154 theaters in droves, asking for the movie with the missing kids in the woods.
Nobody expected it—especially not the managers manning the front desks or the operators at the 20th Century Fox distribution office in Los Angeles.
Lines outside multiplexes coiled around the buildings. Theaters had originally committed to only one screening per day in a single hall, most as a courtesy to the studio's modest push. But now, entire groups of college students, office coworkers, and families were piling into the lines. Word-of-mouth had ignited like wildfire. And they weren't just buying one ticket—they were buying five.
In a downtown theater in Chicago, the conductor squinted at the snake of customers still spilling into the lobby. It was barely ten in the morning. He picked up the phone in defeat.
"We're gonna need another screen," he muttered to his manager. "Like… yesterday."
The Monday Morning for Fox Distribution team executives was downright exhausting. It was mayhem. Phones were ringing nonstop. Operators were drenched in sweat, flanked by paper coffee cups and quickly scribbled theater numbers.
"Sir, we have demand from fifty new theaters in the Southeast region alone."
"Yes, sir. At least fifty. And growing."
"No, they will not wait until next Monday."
The moment the call ended, another came in.
"Twentieth Century Fox? I'm the person in charge of Emperor Cinemas. I want to add one hundred fifty more copies of The Blair Witch immediately."
"What? Next Monday?! I don't care what method you use—I must see at least fifty copies tonight. And I mean tonight."
Colette-Singer, the man in charge of domestic distribution, looked like he'd aged a year in a day. But despite the bags under his eyes and his hoarse voice, there was a mad spark in him.
"Get FedEx on the line," he barked. "We need overnight air shipments for every new print. Pull from the reserves we prepped for the West Coast only. L.A. and nearby markets get theirs now. Everyone else can wait—but not long."
He turned to his assistant. "Send the order to the printing house. One thousand more copies. They work through the night if they have to. And I want a copy of today's sales from every theater by midnight."
The assistant hesitated. "That's… very tight."
Colette-Singer narrowed his eyes. "I want a box office report on my desk before the sun comes up. This thing's going nuclear."
New York Suburbs
At a Regal cinema in Long Island, a young man slammed his fist on the ticket counter. "You've gotta be kidding me—I drove from Syosset! That's four theaters now!"
"I'm sorry, sir," the clerk said, offering a sheepish smile. "We're sold out. And tomorrow morning is already half full."
The man muttered a curse under his breath, then sighed and pulled out his wallet. "Fine. Three for tomorrow afternoon."
He'd remember next time—reserve in advance.
Late evening at Fox HQ
Colette-Singer finally sank into her leather chair, collar unbuttoned, her tie askew.
It wasn't exhaustion keeping her going now. It was adrenaline. The kind of buzz that only came once in a studio executive's lifetime—when a long-shot film exploded into legend overnight.
She picked up the phone, and without preamble, she said into the receiver, "Get me Mechanic. Now."
Her smile was dry, a little dangerous. "We've got a monster on our hands."
Monday Night — 20th Century Fox Headquarters, Executive Conference Room
The skyline of Los Angeles glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside the dimly lit boardroom, the buzz of the day had not yet faded. Phones had stopped ringing, the chaos of logistics was momentarily under control—but the room still pulsed with the tension of too much success, too quickly.
George Lucas sat at the end of the table, arms folded, looking more amused than surprised. His presence was casual, understated—but the weight of it filled the room.
Across from him, Colette-Singer sat with a sheen of sweat on her brow, nursing a third cup of black coffee. She looked like a woman who'd won a gold mine but had no clue how to carry all the gold out. Next to her sat Bill Mechanic, President and COO of Fox Filmed Entertainment, whose expression was unreadable—part pride, part pain.
"I just got off the phone with distribution," Colette began, voice hoarse from shouting all day. "They're begging for a thousand more prints. I've got theater chains threatening to pull other titles just to make room."
Lucas finally broke the silence with a light chuckle. "You're going to need more copies." Lucas then folded his hands, entirely unfazed. "Congratulations. You've got a bona fide phenomenon."
"No kidding," Colette grumbled. "We're getting torn to pieces out there."
"I had a theater in Glendale call three times today," Lucas said, bemused. "I have some relationship with him. They have a few theatres in the locality and wanted eight more prints before midnight. Apparently, their manager said there were kids trying to bribe employees at the door just to sneak in."
Bill Mechanic forced a laugh, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Colette leaned back with a tired groan. "They're calling it a miracle already. Off-season ticket sales like this? We haven't seen anything like it in... hell, maybe ever."
Lucas looked between the two executives. "So, why the long faces?"
Bill finally sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because it's the wrong damn miracle."
George raised a brow. "We underestimated it, by a huge margin" Bill said flatly. "We gave away backend points like we were handing out candy. Just Five percent of the box office to you, George. Not net. Gross."
Coleette added, "Let's not forget what needs to be shelled out to be given to Ben through the tiered box office contract we have signed."
Bill Mechanic groaned and nodded slowly. "Yeah. The contract that's about to haunt us."
Lucas's smile grew just a little. "Ah. So now we're getting to the part where you regret success."
Colette snorted. "It's not the success—it's whose success."
Lucas gave him a knowing smirk. "You didn't think it would hit thirty million."
"We didn't think it would hit ten," Colette added. Lucas raised a brow, feigning innocence. "We thought we were giving them a good headline. That's all. A million-dollar buyout, a few million in buzz, get our feet wet in horror for the quarter…"
"And now theaters are calling us, begging for more prints," Bill finished.
Collette-Singer leaned back in her chair. "Let me break it down. Five percent of the gross box office… to you. Flat."
"Correct." Lucas didn't blink.
"And up to twenty percent—tiered—goes to the kid. If this crosses a hundred fifty million, we're handing him a check most of our directors would kill for on their fifth film."
Lucas's expression didn't change. "Seems fair."
Bill didn't argue—because he knew there was no argument. The deal had been signed. The ink was dry. And now The Blair Witch Project was printing money.
Colette grumbled, "It's just absurd. We greenlit this like it was a novelty. A million-dollar pickup. No big investment. Just a placeholder in the release calendar. And now—"
"Now," Lucas interrupted, "you've got lines wrapping around blocks. You've got empty seats in every other movie except this one. And every news outlet in the country will be running ghost stories by the weekend. You're living every distributor's dream."
"But at what cost?" Colette muttered.
"Five percent to me," Lucas said mildly, "and whatever ladder payout you signed with Ben."
Colette grumbled, "The most miserable part is that we have kept the tiered percentage capping at 20%"
Bill Mechanic rubbed his temples. "That's what's killing me. That kid walked into the room with two bulldogs as agents—Amanda Newhouse and Helen Solomon. I thought we were dealing with a clever amateur. But those two? They don't negotiate. They siege."
"Ah! Helen Solomon, my favorite niece.. A bit too cunning that one." Lucas supplied, almost too helpfully.
Colette let out a weak laugh. "I swear Amanda knew our distribution matrix better than our own finance guys. And Helen—God, she ran circles around legal. Even convinced us to send those damn actors to Africa."
"Right," Bill muttered. "They're not just clever. They're dangerous. The Newhouse girl is a shark in heels. And Helen—she negotiated the talent vanishing act like a magician. Now everyone thinks the kids in the film really are missing."
"Still gone, I hope?" Lucas asked.
Bill nodded. "They will be back in March second week."
Lucas grinned. "Then the illusion holds. That's why the public's going wild. You didn't just release a film. You planted a mystery."
Colette gave a dry laugh. "We gave them the contract. They gave us a psychological phenomenon."
"And we gave you Lucas a whopping five percent to ensure Fox doesn't play with numbers." Bill muttered.
Lucas leaned back, calm as ever. "Let's not forget I vouched for the kid. You needed a hit. Now you've got one. Be happy about it."
Colette slumped in her seat. "I should've known when Gosling kept his poker face all through the negotiation. He knew. He knew this would blow up."
Bill stared out the window. "He's not just a director. He's playing four moves ahead. And he's got an empire forming around him."
Lucas stood, fixing his blazer with calm satisfaction. "Well. You've got your miracle. You've got your money. You've got your box office history in the making."
"And he's got twenty percent," Colette muttered.
Lucas headed for the door. "Then maybe next time, don't underestimate a fox with two lionesses at his side."
He stopped just before leaving and added, "And when Ben brings you his next script—Saw, I think it was—you better hope he wants to work with you again."
Then he left, whistling faintly to himself as the echo of his footsteps faded down the hallway.
Colette grimaced. "Oh, I am happy. I'm just afraid of what they'll ask for next."
Bill nodded. "If they bring another project—especially that horror follow-up Gosling mentioned—there's no way we're getting it without a bidding war."
Colette slumped in his chair. "God help us."
George Lucas was already halfway to the door when he looked back over his shoulder. "Don't worry. He's not the devil. Just a fox… in a henhouse."
Then he was gone.
Monday night had finally gone still, the adrenaline of the weekend giving way to a deep, lingering glow of accomplishment. Helen stood alone on the balcony outside her office at Star Talent Brokerage, phone still warm in her hand.
The call from George Lucas had been brief but sincere—classic George. No posturing, just clarity. Recognition. And beneath it all, an understanding: the old guard acknowledging the rise of something new.
Inside, Amanda was still going through faxes and press clippings, highlighter in one hand, a glass of celebratory champagne in the other.
Helen stepped back inside, letting the door click softly behind her. She caught Amanda's eye.
"He wants to meet Ben again," she said with a smile. "Asked me to bring him by sometime soon."
Amanda arched an eyebrow. "Did he say why?"
Helen chuckled. "He said we 'need to meet once again.' But you know George—he sees the long game. Right now, Fox owes him. But he thinks he owes us. And probably wants to see what Ben's cooking next."
Amanda leaned back in her chair, sipping the champagne. "He'll love the Saw concept. Especially once he sees Naomi in costume. You can tell he misses the energy of original ideas."
Helen walked over and picked up a newspaper off the cluttered desk. The front-page headline screamed: 'Blair Witch' Opens a New Chapter in Horror—Audiences Bewildered and Obsessed.
"I think he just loves that someone from USC shook the whole damn system in a weekend."
Amanda smirked. "And cashed a check doing it."
Helen gave her a look—playful, but pointed. "Lucas gets five percent. Do you have any idea what that's going to look like by the end of the month?"
Amanda tapped her glass thoughtfully. "Enough to build another Skywalker Ranch, probably."
"And he deserves every cent," Helen said, with a trace of admiration. "For backing us when no one else would."
Then she added, "We should send him a bottle. Maybe two."
Amanda's grin widened. "Already did. With a handwritten note from Ben. And yes, it was legible."
Helen laughed, genuinely delighted. "Good. That's good."
A long pause passed between them, thick with mutual pride. Then, Amanda asked, "Should we tell Ben now or wait until morning?"
Helen turned toward the windows, watching the glitter of L.A. stretch into the horizon. "Let him sleep. He earned it."