Description
Rewind Video should have died with the rest of Briar Glen's strip mall. Instead, Eli Mercer's closing shift just ran very, very long.
Tonight, an unlabeled VHS tape appears in the returns bin. A man crawls out of the television wearing bad footage like a jacket. And the exit stops agreeing to be a door, which feels rude even before the screaming starts.
Now Eli and his best friend Cal are somewhere no map will admit to:
Hollowmarch.
Their only way forward is a black VHS tape that changes every time it's played. Each new machine sends them deeper into the wrong place: woods that laugh back, a summer camp where dawn is manufactured and attendance is mandatory, and a cheerful little mining town whose mascot really, really wants to be your friend.
Forever.
Their guide is Mae--a glitter-smeared survivor with a judgmental fox, excellent hair under terrible circumstances, and a strict policy against dying dramatically. Her advice?
Find the machine. Play the tape. Don't trust the tape. Run anyway.
Because every step out here is being recorded. Every escape gets studied. And somewhere behind the screens, something patient is editing them toward an ending it already likes.
For readers of Grady Hendrix, T. Kingfisher, and We Used to Live Here--analog horror with teeth, heart, cursed tapes, bad decisions, and a laugh track it recorded itself.
Rewind Video should have died with the rest of Briar Glen's strip mall. Instead, Eli Mercer's closing shift just ran very, very long.
Tonight, an unlabeled VHS tape appears in the returns bin. A man crawls out of the television wearing bad footage like a jacket. And the exit stops agreeing to be a door, which feels rude even before the screaming starts.
Now Eli and his best friend Cal are somewhere no map will admit to:
Hollowmarch.
Their only way forward is a black VHS tape that changes every time it's played. Each new machine sends them deeper into the wrong place: woods that laugh back, a summer camp where dawn is manufactured and attendance is mandatory, and a cheerful little mining town whose mascot really, really wants to be your friend.
Forever.
Their guide is Mae--a glitter-smeared survivor with a judgmental fox, excellent hair under terrible circumstances, and a strict policy against dying dramatically. Her advice?
Find the machine. Play the tape. Don't trust the tape. Run anyway.
Because every step out here is being recorded. Every escape gets studied. And somewhere behind the screens, something patient is editing them toward an ending it already likes.
For readers of Grady Hendrix, T. Kingfisher, and We Used to Live Here--analog horror with teeth, heart, cursed tapes, bad decisions, and a laugh track it recorded itself.