Sunday, October 2nd, 2022
9:37 p.m.
In one of the many movie theaters scattered across Los Angeles sat Melanie Meyer, Blumhouse's Director of Acquisitions. She walked through the doors of the auditorium with a faint tiredness in her eyes. At thirty-nine, she had attended enough premieres in her life to recognize, before even sitting down, when a film wasn't going to move the needle for the studio.
Even so, there she was, about to watch Witching Hour, Blumhouse's latest release, which had opened just two days earlier on Friday, September 30th.
There were no inflated expectations within the studio. No one was dreaming of a new phenomenon like The Purge or Sinister, nor of multiplying their investment twentyfold.
The only thing they wanted was to avoid a catastrophic flop. With a five-million-dollar budget, as long as the film stayed above the profitability threshold, Blumhouse would be satisfied.
The Palm Springs Festival months earlier had already given them clear signals. Tepid reception, cautious comments, and even some outright negative reviews from critics and influencers they had invited.
With that background, the marketing department cut spending and media presence. No aggressive campaigns, no major events. A limited release in a thousand theaters was the most sensible approach. If it worked, they'd expand to 1,500. That was the bare minimum hope.
Melanie settled into her seat as the movie headed into the third act. Her colleague Daniel, from the distribution department, leaned toward her and whispered, "The audience is pretty quiet."
She nodded, it was obvious. When the credits finally rolled, the reaction was nonexistent. A few scattered, half-hearted claps.
Melanie clearly heard a comment two rows ahead: "Too many clichés, and the story doesn't hook you."
"Yeah," her coworker added, "I only came for Maika, but she was pretty weak in this one, still hot as hell though," he said with a laugh.
Another whisper from farther back, accompanied by a yawn: "Is it over already?"
Daniel exhaled. "The premiere felt better," he muttered as they stood up.
"Premieres always feel better," Melanie replied.
Last Thursday, on that red carpet full of lights, photographers, and forced smiles, the audience reaction had been moderate but polite. There had been applause, of course, but they were conditional applause: actors present, director present, industry guests, journalists, friends, and social obligations.
That kind of screening never revealed the truth.
The truth was in nights like this. In regular theaters. With regular people who pay for their ticket and say what they think without filters.
As they walked toward the exit, the two remained silent for a few moments. Crossing the bright hallway, Daniel ran a hand through his hair. "I don't think we're getting to fifteen hundred theaters."
"Unfortunately not," Melanie said, maintaining a calm tone. There was no anger in her voice, only a serene acceptance. Blumhouse was used to ups and downs.
With her experience, she could already see it: if Witching Hour managed to reach fifteen million dollars in its entire theatrical run, it would be almost a stroke of luck.
The most likely outcome was that it would remain in theaters for barely four to six weeks. Then it would go straight to streaming to see if they could at least recover costs and scrape together a minimal profit.
It would fall far short of the studio's recent hits, The Black Phone, for example. Just ten days earlier, on September 22nd, that film had finished its theatrical run with a global total of 161 million dollars: 90 domestic, 71 international. A genuine triumph for an 18-million-dollar budget.
As Melanie and Daniel continued toward the exit, they walked down the main hallway along with the other persons. But as they rounded the corner into the central lobby, they encountered an immediate contrast.
People were coming out of another auditorium, and Melanie noticed the poster next to its entrance: Paranormal Activity. The atmosphere around those people was entirely different. Nervous laughter, whispers, overlapping conversations.
She couldn't help but furrow her brow slightly. She managed to catch the animated exchange between two young guys:
"Bro, how is that movie supposed to cost twenty thousand dollars? No way!" said one, incredulous.
"I swear I looked it up beforehand," replied the other. "They shot it in the director's house and it turned out that good. A24 did it again."
Farther ahead, a young woman was talking to her boyfriend: "The girl who plays Katie is so good. I didn't know her. That final scene where she smiles with blood on her lips gave me chills."
"And that Owen…" her boyfriend added, "How can he have writing, producing, and starring credits? He looks younger than me! Maybe it's a marketing stunt?"
Melanie and Daniel stayed quiet, discreetly observing the stream of viewers leaving with visible excitement, some even stopping to take pictures with the movie's poster.
The two exchanged a look without saying a word. Paranormal Activity was an open wound for them.
Daniel had been the first to see it at Palm Springs. At first just out of curiosity, after all, it was the movie that had taken their 500-seat auditorium, so it made sense to take a peek and understand what was happening.
But he ended up surprised. He liked it far more than he expected. Enough to send Melanie, his boss, an immediate message warning her that there might be a business opportunity there.
When Melanie finally watched it, she sensed the potential too. She scheduled a meeting with Owen and his brother, who was a lawyer. Even David, their department head, attended. That didn't happen often.
And in that meeting, the unthinkable happened. Blumhouse offered terms they almost never offered:
-A theatrical release with an 8% post-theatrical box office cut for Owen.
-A marketing investment between $400,000 and $600,000.
-And partial retention of the intellectual property. Usually, they always kept the IP for future sequels. But this time, they were willing to compromise even on that.
By Blumhouse standards, it was an anomaly, a clear sign that Melanie truly believed in the film. The initial plan had been to buy Paranormal Activity outright for a fixed amount of up to $400,000.
A price that almost sounded absurd considering the film had cost Owen just $20,000 to make. Any rookie filmmaker would have accepted that offer with a grin from ear to ear.
But Owen didn't smile. He didn't even show the slightest hint of excitement at being offered $400,000 for his film. He refused with a professional calm that threw both Melanie and her boss off balance.
His brother made it clear that the film was not for sale. The only thing they were looking for was a distribution deal where Owen could receive a percentage of the box office and remain the owner of the IP. The film was already finished, it had already been well-received at a festival, and the trailer on YouTube was close to reaching half a million views.
James had been straightforward: "We're offering you a business opportunity."
And he was right. That's why they changed the deal and ended up offering that 8% post-theatrical cut. But in the end, it wasn't enough. Owen informed them that he had another offer and that he would decide after reviewing and comparing both proposals.
In the end, he accepted the offer from the other studio, which turned out to be none other than A24. So it was obvious they must have given him a higher percentage, a more flexible deal, or a more ambitious release plan.
Daniel glanced at Melanie. "Do you regret it?" he asked cautiously.
Melanie let out a faint, sad smile, almost resigned. "I'd be lying if I said no. Paranormal Activity is about to hit fifty million… it's probably already passed it by now."
Daniel nodded slowly and repeated, "Fifty million is insane…"
The words lingered in the air, but both knew that, in the context of horror cinema, that number wasn't something that scared Blumhouse. On the contrary, they were used to big figures. The Black Phone made 161 million. Insidious reached 91. Sinister hit 82. And the list went on.
It wasn't the number that unsettled them. It was the context. Because Paranormal Activity hadn't cost 16 million like The Black Phone, nor 10, nor 5, not even 1 million.
Its real budget had been 20,000 dollars.
That meant the film was multiplying its cost by 2,500 times. A profit margin that made no logical sense, yet it was happening right in front of their eyes, and in front of the entire industry.
It was the same kind of phenomenon that The Blair Witch Project achieved in 1999, but even more extreme, because Blair Witch cost 60,000. Owen's film was three times cheaper.
Melanie knew she wasn't the only one regretting it. David, her direct superior, must also be doing the math silently.
And Jason Blum, the big boss, would definitely be having feelings about it. Losing a $20,000 film that could have made you over $50 million, that was the kind of mistake that stung for a long time.
As she kept thinking about it, she couldn't help but wonder the same thing everyone at the studio was surely asking themselves: What would've happened if Owen had agreed to work with them?
Let's say, for whatever reason, Owen had accepted that 8% post-theatrical cut that Blumhouse offered during the meeting. Suppose A24 didn't exist in the equation or hadn't shown interest.
They would have invested between $400,000 and $600,000 in marketing, especially after seeing the strong Palm Springs performance and the growing social-media buzz.
And right now, with Paranormal Activity reaching 50 million, the math would look like this:
-50M total
-25M kept by theaters
-25M for the studio + the creator
-92% to Blumhouse, 8% to Owen
Meaning Blumhouse would be receiving 23 million dollars, minus roughly 600,000 in marketing costs.
22.4 million in profit in barely four weeks. Maybe a bit less, since they don't self-distribute and would need to give a slice of the pie to the distributor.
But it would still be an extremely high profit for the very low risk they took and the minimal work they did, since the film arrived fully finished and already tested at a prestigious festival.
Owen would already have nearly 2 million just from that 8%, becoming a millionaire at twenty years old.
And that wasn't even over. The film will continue to be shown, and even more so now with its international premiere, so it will continue to grow.
Just imagining it gave Melanie a knot in her stomach. An uncomfortable sense of a missed opportunity.
Had they managed to secure that film, Blumhouse would be celebrating its biggest financial triumph of the year, surpassing even The Black Phone, and probably any other title planned for 2022.
Melanie inhaled slowly. Reality hurt.
It hurt especially because they had met with Owen, they had offered him an unusually generous deal by the studio's standards… and still, they were rejected.
If they had never heard of the film until it blew up at the box office, the frustration would've been smaller. But having had it so close, having seen its potential, and now watching it break the box office under another studio that was a painful blow.
Melanie said goodbye to Daniel in the parking lot with a tired gesture.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
"Rest well."
"You too."
She got into her car, started the engine, and drove home as the city sank into the night. When she walked inside, her husband was already in the living room, looking at something on his tablet. He looked up when he heard the door.
"The kids are already asleep," he said with a soft smile.
"Thanks… and sorry for coming home so late," Melanie replied, taking off her jacket. "We stayed longer at the office than planned. It was Witching Hour's first weekend and I wanted to watch a regular screening, with real audiences, to gauge the reaction."
Her husband set the tablet aside. "And? How was the crowd?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer.
Melanie let out a sigh. "Bad. Very bad. On top of that, Paranormal Activity probably beat us this weekend and by a wide margin. And Smile opened around the same time too, it has better reviews and it's generating much better word of mouth. The outlook for Witching Hour couldn't be more discouraging."
Her husband walked over and hugged her gently.
"Not every movie can be a hit," he said in a reassuring tone. "It doesn't mean you did a bad job. Sometimes things just don't line up."
Melanie rested her forehead against his shoulder, grateful for the moment. "I know, but it still stings."
"It can sting, sure, but remember Blumhouse doesn't end here. They still have Halloween Ends. That one's going to be big. It's their heavy hitter this year."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. It comes out right before Halloween. Hopefully it performs well."
Halloween Ends had a budget of 33 million. It was Blumhouse's big bet for the year. A stumble would be tough, even though The Black Phone had given them solid profits and some breathing room.
Her husband gave a faint smile. "Jason Blum rarely misses in October. You'll see, they'll do fine."
"You're probably right," she answered with a small smile.
They made tea in the kitchen. At that hour, the whole house was wrapped in silence. Only the soft whistle of the kettle and the ticking clock accompanied their conversation. They talked about the kids, about school, about a family gathering they still needed to plan, until Melanie went to her office to check a few things.
Past midnight, it was officially Monday. Melanie turned on her computer, switched on the desk lamp, and opened the box office website, checking Witching Hour. What she read made her exhale softly:
September 30 — $1,600,000 — 1,000 theaters
October 1 — $2,000,000 — 1,000 theaters
October 2 — $1,100,000 — 1,000 theaters
Opening Weekend Total: $4,700,000
Sunday's performance had been far too weak. The drop from Saturday to Sunday was too steep for a horror opening. Instead of showing signs of growth, it was showing early exhaustion.
Melanie already knew what it meant. Witching Hour was in real trouble, far more than expected.
She opened Rotten Tomatoes. The score was stuck at 61%. A lukewarm "fresh," which in practice was a death sentence.
She checked some highlighted reviews, both from specialized critics and general audiences:
[Maika Monroe feels disengaged, and the script doesn't help.]
[It works in moments, but it feels derivative, without its own identity.]
[A very standard story, therefore forgettable. I expected much more from Blumhouse after The Black Phone.]
[Bad. I can't help comparing it to Paranormal Activity. I watched both: one made with a minimal budget that manages tension and creativity… and this one cost five million? Seriously? They could've done far better.]
Melanie closed her eyes for a couple of seconds. None of that helped. Then she opened the studio's internal projections, confidential documents updated according to observed trends.
The outlook was bleak. October was packed with competition:
-Paranormal Activity → growing more every day, even in its fourth weekend, supported by word of mouth, the international rollout, and viral traction.
-Smile → released the same weekend, crushing the box office with a 22.6M debut and excellent reviews.
-Halloween Ends → coming October 14th, set to steal theaters, screens, and advertising spots without mercy.
With that scenario, the final projections for Witching Hour were twelve to thirteen million worldwide.
Melanie rested a hand against her forehead. It was even worse than what she had calculated a few hours earlier. If the film reached those numbers, it wouldn't recover its costs theatrically.
The only reason Witching Hour wouldn't be a complete disaster was because of: streaming sales, international licensing, and secondary rights.
She sighed and returned to the box office page, this time to check the numbers for Paranormal Activity.
The figures appeared:
Paranormal Activity — Fifth Weekend
Friday: 2.1M
Saturday: 2.9M
Sunday: 2.0M
Weekend Total: 7.0M (domestic only)
Melanie blinked. Sustained growth like that was extremely unusual for a film in its fifth weekend. It made more than Witching Hour did on opening weekend.
But that wasn't all. The film had launched internationally: in the United Kingdom and Ireland on September 29th, four days earlier.
International gross (UK + Ireland): 6.0M
Combined with its domestic total: 50.6M
She sat in silence, staring at the number. Blumhouse had let one of the biggest horror successes of the decade slip through their fingers. They had literally had the person responsible sitting right in front of them. A twenty-year-old kid.
"Owen Ashford…" Melanie murmured.
She had looked him up a little, just enough to understand who he was without crossing into obsessive territory. Owen had attended USC.
USC's acting program was one of the most respected in the country. She didn't dig too deeply, but from what she could gather, Owen left the university earlier this year. The reason? She wasn't sure, probably to pursue his own projects.
Ever since he left the university, everything had taken off for him. He revealed his talent as a screenwriter, a talent that, in Melanie's eyes, had nothing to envy compared to his acting range. Paranormal Activity was surprisingly solid considering its minimal resources. Paperman, The Black Hole, all of them displayed a technical and narrative execution well above average.
He managed to get representation, and that landed him a role in The Hunger Games, playing Sejuani, a secondary character, yes, but an important one.
There was no way to see him in that role yet before the film's release, but the mere fact of securing a part like that already showed he wasn't relying solely on his own projects to get cast.
Now he had a leading role at A24, in a romantic drama. His career was skyrocketing at an unusually fast pace.
Acting, screenwriting, and also business vision. He didn't sell his film, he negotiated a deal, and that deal was turning him into a millionaire. If they had offered him 8% and he rejected it, that meant A24 offered him more. So at a minimum, he was already earning over two million from Paranormal Activity.
Driven by a mix of professionalism and personal curiosity, Melanie had tried to investigate a bit more about his life. Nothing exhaustive, but enough to sketch a profile.
The boy's social-media accounts had only begun posting content when he released his first works.
Before that, nothing. It was as if he had deleted everything he once had. It would be strange for someone his age not to have posted anything before, so it was logical to assume he wiped his old presence himself. Digging a bit deeper through public records, she found information about the Ashford family:
-James Ashford, his 28-year-old older brother. The same one who acted as his lawyer during the meeting with Blumhouse. Graduated with honors from USC and employed at Latham & Watkins, one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the world.
-Sarah Ashford, his 16-year-old younger sister. She acted in One-Minute Time Machine, a short film written by Owen that already had 9.6 million views in just over two weeks. The growth was explosive.
-Edward Ashford, the father. Chief Financial Officer (CFO) of a company, although there wasn't much more public information beyond that.
It was evident that Owen came from a wealthy Los Angeles family. That's why, thinking back to the meeting, Melanie understood his reaction better when Blumhouse offered him $400,000.
For most first-time filmmakers, that amount would be overwhelming, the kind of money that changes lives, erases debts, or transforms a family's financial situation.
But for someone raised in a privileged environment, with financial security and a top-tier education, it was simply another number in the negotiation, not a lifeline.
His story didn't fully align with the romanticized version some media outlets were beginning to build: the tale of the young filmmaker "who risked everything he had" to make a twenty-thousand-dollar movie.
The epic narrative forming around him, the one claiming Owen had gambled everything, emptied his savings, and risked his last penny to fulfill his dream, was not as true as it sounded.
It didn't diminish his talent, nor did it take away merit from his vision or the film's massive success, but when that information eventually came out, it would change the public perception.
It was inevitable.
Melanie sighed. The tab with Paranormal Activity's numbers was still open, but her mind had already drifted elsewhere. Thinking of Owen meant thinking of Second Take Films, his channel, his brand.
She opened a new tab and went to YouTube.
She typed: Second Take Films.
The first result was the most recent video, titled:
Lights Out — Short Film
It was 2:57 minutes long. She clicked it, and when she saw the view count, she shook her head in disbelief.
22,538,282 views
Almost twenty-three million. Uploaded on September 23rd. Melanie hovered the cursor over the paused video, simply staring at the numbers as if trying to decipher how such a thing was possible.
When everyone thought One-Minute Time Machine would be the last short film on the channel for a while, and considering that one already had nearly ten million views, another one appeared. Out of nowhere.
And not an improvised one: a horror short, filmed with the same aesthetic precision as the rest of the channel, starring his girlfriend, Sophie Thatcher. In barely ten days, it had amassed more than 22 million views.
Melanie let out a short, almost disbelieving exhale.
Owen didn't just have talent. He had timing. He took advantage of the moment perfectly: Paranormal Activity dominating in theaters and his short film starring his sister going viral on YouTube.
"This guy isn't improvising anything," Melanie murmured as she shut down her computer. Enough for today, it was time to sleep. Monday had already begun, and the routine would start all over again.
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