Marjorie Hanks was the kind of woman who still owned a VCR. Not because she didn’t trust streaming, but because some of her favorite movies were never re-released. The worn black plastic of the tapes felt solid in her hands, and the whirring noise when she pressed play was a comfort.

One night, walking back from the grocery store, she spotted a cardboard box sitting on the curb outside an old duplex. Written in Sharpie on the side: FREE MOVIES. Inside were a dozen tapes, unmarked, no sleeves, no labels. She took the whole box.

That evening she slid the first tape in. The TV flickered, filling the living room with a harsh blue glow. At first it was only static, but soon the picture sharpened into something stranger: a man standing in a bare room with wallpaper the color of old nicotine. His face never turned to the camera. He just stood, breathing, while the sound hissed and popped.

Marjorie frowned and hit fast forward. The man was still there. Two hours passed on the tape, and he never moved.

When she ejected the tape, the static didn’t go away. Her television screen still hummed, still showed the man, frozen in that room. Except now… his head had turned. Just enough that she could see the wet gleam of his eyes.

The phone rang. She jumped, knocking the remote off the couch. She picked it up. Silence. Then a voice, raspy, almost swallowed by static:

The TV popped and went dark. Marjorie stood frozen in her quiet living room, clutching the phone. She turned toward the window, needing the calm sight of the streetlights outside. But the reflection in the glass didn’t show her living room anymore.

It showed the yellow room. And the man. Standing right behind her.

This is for up.