The Film That Never Ends

Posted by u/ProjectionGuy94 – 4 months ago

I’ve been a projectionist for a decade.

Old-school — real film, not digital. I’ve worked in the same small-town theater since I was 23. There’s something peaceful about it: the hum of the machines, the rhythmic clatter of reels spinning, the flicker of light through celluloid. It’s like the heartbeat of the building.

But lately, the theater’s heartbeat feels wrong.

Reel 7

It started about two months ago when we ran a re-release of an old noir film.

Black-and-white, barely anyone showed up, but I still had to check the prints before each showing.

That’s when I noticed something off about Reel 7.

It doesn’t stop.

Every other reel ends cleanly — credits, cue mark, the usual. But Reel 7 just… keeps going.

After the credits, the footage shifts. The picture distorts, the grain thickens, and then it cuts to something else entirely.

Home video.

I swear, it’s grainy handheld footage of our staff.

The First Time I Saw It

The first time it happened, it showed one of our ushers — Tommy — asleep in the breakroom. You could tell it wasn’t security footage; it was handheld, moving slightly, like someone was filming him.

Then it cut to the parking lot outside. I saw myself walking to my car, checking my phone, unlocking the door. The timestamp on the bottom corner matched that same night.

No one should’ve been recording that.

No sound. Just the soft, constant hum of the projector.

I ejected the reel, ran it backward — but the same thing played again. Same shots, same moments.

When I asked the manager if we had any cameras installed recently, he said no. Our system hasn’t worked properly in years.

The Next Night

The next night, I decided to film it on my phone — proof that I wasn’t losing my mind.

After the credits, the film jittered again, and new footage appeared.

It was of a family eating dinner. Familiar wallpaper, familiar furniture. I realized it was my living room.

My wife. My son. Me.

Eating dinner.

And in the reflection of the kitchen window — a shape.

Someone holding a camera.

Destroying the Film

Last week, I snapped.

I took the reel out after closing, went out behind the dumpster, and poured lighter fluid on it. Watched it burn until the celluloid curled and melted.

For the first time in weeks, I slept through the night.

No flickering lights. No humming sounds in my head.

Then the next morning, when I came into the projection booth, there was a new film canister sitting on my desk.

No note. No tag. Just a plain white label.

Written in marker:

REEL 8.

What’s on It

I haven’t played it yet.

I keep thinking I hear the projector running when it’s unplugged — a faint mechanical whir from behind the door, like the film is waiting.

Sometimes, when I walk past the booth window, I see light flickering inside, even though the machines are off.

And last night, when I checked the office, the monitor for the old camera system was on.

Static.

Then, for just a second, an image flickered through.

It was me.

Standing in the projection booth.

Holding Reel 9.

[Update]

Posted by u/ProjectionGuy94 – 2 weeks ago

Hey, everyone. I wasn’t planning to post again, but I guess this is the kind of story that doesn’t let you walk away.

A few of you asked what was on Reel 8.

I wish I could tell you I never looked.

I tried to ignore it for a while. I really did.

But every night, I’d hear the booth running — even with the projectors off, power cut at the breaker. That slow, rhythmic clicking of film running through a gate. Sometimes I’d find strips of unspooled film in the hallway, like breadcrumbs.

They weren’t from our collection.

Each strip had frames that showed people I knew: the ticket girl, my manager, some of the regulars.

All of them asleep.

The Screening

Three nights ago, I gave in.

I locked the doors, shut off every light, and loaded Reel 8.

The picture started the same way — a few seconds of static, then footage of me in the booth, watching the film.

So I stopped the projector.

But the footage kept playing.

On the wall.

With the power switch off.

That’s when I realized it wasn’t projecting onto the wall — it was coming from inside it. Like the surface itself was alive, pulsing faintly with light.

Then it shifted.

I saw my apartment again. My bed.

Someone was standing beside it, holding a camera.

I shouted, threw the reel off the machine — but the film kept running. The reel hit the floor, unwinding fast, the film stretching across the booth like veins.

And in every single frame, my face looked back at me.

The Next Morning

When I came back for my shift the next day, the booth was spotless.

No film. No Reel 8.

But there was another canister sitting where I’d left my keys.

REEL 9.

The handwriting was the same.

Except this time, the label wasn’t written in marker.

It was etched — carved into the metal.

The Last Thing

I’ve been hearing the machines again, even when I’m home. There’s no film, but I can still feel the light flicker against my eyelids when I try to sleep. Like I’m inside a reel that never stops turning.

I asked the manager about the booth records, about who keeps leaving the reels. He looked confused. Said we haven’t used real film projectors in over fifteen years.

Said the booth’s been sealed since before I was hired.

If you ever work projection, and you find a reel labeled anything past “7”…

Don’t watch it.

Because I think once you do, it doesn’t end.

It just finds another frame to play inside.