March 23, 2014 [It Follows]
I thought I heard something outside my bedroom door last night—indistinct and muffled, inconsequential. In the movie theater we howl our protest when the poor fool gets up to investigate that small tumbling thud. But I wasn't in a movie, so I knew it was better not to know. I lay there stone-still until all I could hear was my own tinnitus whining like wind over sand. The teens stand in a kind of line, just far enough from each other that they have to reach until they touch—and they touch, they don't know they're in a movie so they ignore our warnings and reach out and end up in a real dream, a fatal game of Tag—no, a dating game in a weird netherworld of naked moms and strange clamshell phones, some old grade-Z movie always on the TV, as though they're the only ones who know about the Blob or the furtive aliens at the edge of town. They hatch a scheme to trap the Thing with electricity, the standard strategy, but they're just kids and don't know how many vol
