Thirty minutes in, and the horror had stopped pretending.
The movie Summer picked—with the deceptively romantic title—had long since shown its teeth. What started with scenic vineyards and slow piano music now spiraled through sharp-angled shadows, demonic whispers, and a possessed child screaming backwards Latin.
Don had already lost count of how many times Samantha jumped, flinched, or outright squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to play it off, of course—her hands folded in her lap, shoulders squared like a soldier pretending not to hear gunfire.
But the way her fingers twitched every time the soundtrack dipped into silence? Dead giveaway.
Amanda had adjusted better. "Adjusted" being generous. She jumped once at a particularly gnarly exorcism scene, then immediately stood up, muttering something about "needing to pee" before walking off with her beer.
She came back without ever using the bathroom and opened her second can like it owed her an apology.
**Pssshht**
