28-30

Chapter 28: Finding Inspiration

The wave of harsh criticism from film reviewers was hardly unexpected.

After all, the film’s rough, dizzying cinematography alone was enough to provoke scorn from most critics.

Add to that the deceptively simple storyline of The Blair Witch Project—once stripped of the realistic immersion provided by its real-world setting—and it’s no wonder critics found fault.

For many reviewers seeking “depth,” the narrative of The Blair Witch Project didn’t even qualify as a proper film.

Yet, no matter how much critics voiced their displeasure, the movie’s box office success remained impressive. Over a month since its release, it had grossed over $150 million. Negative reviews from critics and media outlets seemed to have little impact on its strong performance.

For horror movies, audiences are primarily drawn to the visceral thrills they provide, and The Blair Witch Project undoubtedly delivered on that front.

Even if critics dismissed the film, the sheer fear factor was enough to persuade viewers to part with their money.

Although many knew the movie was entirely fictional, how many films—aside from the rare few claiming to be based on true events—are truly different?

Of course, as The Blair Witch Project surpassed the $150 million milestone, the film’s potential had begun to wane. Weekly box office earnings dropped significantly, from $20 million to just over $10 million.

Many theaters had started replacing The Blair Witch Project with new releases.

Still, the film’s massive profits were undeniable.

From Universal Pictures’ perspective, as long as even a single theater continued screening the movie, it would remain a source of revenue.

...

"Don’t pay too much attention to what the critics are saying, Allen..."

“We all know The Blair Witch Project is a success.”

In New York, Universal Pictures.

Ron Meyer, Universal’s Vice President, made a point of being particularly cordial to the man behind the film’s success.

Speaking over the phone, Meyer adopted an uncharacteristically warm tone.

“In fact, Universal has already reached out to a few critics who are willing to write reviews praising The Blair Witch Project as a groundbreaking ‘mockumentary horror’ film that introduced an entirely new narrative style.”

Paying critics to write favorable reviews was a common practice for film studios, aimed at shaping public perception to support international releases and boost DVD sales.

“I’m not as fragile as you might think, Mr. Meyer,” Allen replied with a nonchAllent smile while driving down a seemingly endless highway.

“The goal of making The Blair Witch Project was never to please a bunch of self-important critics.”

Critics might hold some sway, but their opinions alone weren’t enough to determine a film’s success or failure.

Allen understood well that, with the rise of the internet and the democratization of movie reviews, the influence of professional critics would only diminish over time.

Even now, despite the scathing reviews, production companies were lining up to work with him, hoping he would direct their next project.

Hollywood, after all, was a capital-driven industry where money ruled supreme.

The box office triumph of The Blair Witch Project was enough to make any studio green with envy—even Warner Bros.

Ron Meyer knew this better than anyone, which is why he made the effort to personally check in with Allen.

Allen’s work on both The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Blair Witch Project had brought Universal greater profits than many of their other films combined. Any executive with an ounce of sense wouldn’t let him slip away to a competitor.

“It seems we see eye-to-eye on critics, Allen,” Meyer said, adopting a conspiratorial tone.

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Meyer cautiously broached another subject.

“If I’m not mistaken, Allen, you’re not in Los Angeles at the moment?”

“You’re right, Mr. Meyer,” Allen replied smoothly, offering the explanation he’d prepared in advance.

“After The Blair Witch Project, I’ve been struggling to come up with a solid script. So, I decided to leave Los Angeles for a while, hoping to find inspiration on the road.”

Allen’s reasoning was perfectly plausible, leaving Meyer with no grounds to question it.

On the contrary, the Universal VP expressed his full support, wishing Allen success in his creative pursuits.

“Well then, Allen, I hope your journey brings you the inspiration you’re looking for. May you create another brilliant script.”

“Oh, by the way,” Meyer added, “Universal has already started processing the revenue shares for The Blair Witch Project. While the international box office earnings are still being finalized, we’ve got preliminary figures for the domestic market. The funds will be transferred to your account soon. Congratulations, Allen—you’ve officially joined the ranks of Hollywood’s millionaire filmmakers.”

Amidst the warm wishes, Meyer subtly hinted at Universal’s vested interest in maintaining a good relationship.

“Thank you, Mr. Meyer. The film’s success wouldn’t have been possible without Universal’s support. I won’t forget that.”

After ending the call, Allen’s excited expression quickly faded, replaced by a composed demeanor.

*[Plot Value]: 28,620*

His eyes briefly lingered on the fragmented system panel, where the updated number brought a faint smile to his lips.

The success of The Blair Witch Project had brought Allen more than just financial rewards.

As the film exited theaters, its box office earnings were converted into Plot Value by the system, further bolstering his resources.

Returning his gaze to the dusty windshield, Allen focused on the faint outline of a small town on the horizon.

In his conversation with Meyer, there was one truth he hadn’t concealed: his trip was indeed about finding inspiration for a “new script.”

However, the “script” he had in mind was not quite the same as the one Meyer envisioned.

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 29: Missing Materials *

"I need a room."

"New Guy?"

In a remote town near the Devil's River region of Texas, a burly, bearded man named Bob stared at Allen as he entered the inn, his face showing a hint of surprise.

"Is there a problem?"

Hearing Bob’s comment, Allen frowned slightly, a trace of caution flashing in his mind.

When it comes to Texas’ most infamous stereotypes, aside from barbecue and poker, the "redneck" stands out.

The term "redneck" is a derogatory label in mainstream American media and culture for poor, uneducated, racist white people. These individuals harbor resentment against people of color, believing that minorities have taken jobs rightfully belonging to them—even when those jobs are entirely unrelated to their own lives.

But it doesn’t matter; if they believe it, it’s true.

With "redneck" ideology rampant in Texas, Allen began to consider whether he should find another inn or even leave this small town altogether if the bearded man was part of that crowd.

"No problem."

Fortunately, the worst-case scenario didn’t unfold.

In response to Allen’s inquiry, the bearded man shook his head and pulled a key with a room number tag from beneath the counter, handing it over.

"The rate is $30 per night, cash only."

"Also, no meals are provided, including breakfast. If you want food, John Charlie's at the end of the street is an option—just watch out for the occasional biker gang. Alternatively, I can bring you food for a $1 service fee per trip, not including the cost of the meal."

Taking the key, Allen ran his fingers over the scratches on the tag, then pulled a crumpled $100 bill from his pocket and handed it over.

"Two nights. Keep the rest for food."

"No problem."

Without hesitation, Bob snatched the bill and savored the pleasant feel of cash in his hand. A smile crossed his rough face as he even offered, "Need help carrying your luggage to the room?"

"No need."

Politely declining the offer, Allen turned and headed upstairs to his room.

Hearing the refusal, the bearded man shrugged indifferently and watched as Allen’s figure disappeared up the stairs.

*Creak—*

The inn’s aging floorboards groaned under Allen’s steps as he followed the room number on the key tag.

*Room 404.*

An ominous number in some cultures, though Americans typically don’t avoid it.

Sliding the key into the lock, a grating sound accompanied the door’s opening, revealing the room inside.

The space wasn’t large. A worn single bed with reasonably clean white sheets dominated the room. To the left was a tiny bathroom, and by the window stood a desk with a lamp. That was the extent of the furnishings.

For $30 a night, the room was certainly overpriced, but Allen wasn’t here for leisure.

Tossing his suitcase onto the bed, he strolled to the window and pulled out a wooden chair from beneath the desk, taking a seat.

As his thoughts flowed, the system's fragmented interface appeared before him.

His gaze fell on the more than 20,000 [Plot Points] displayed at the top of the system panel, and a flicker of excitement flashed in his eyes.

"Finally, I can craft a script with a bigger scene, rather than being confined to single scenarios."

With that thought, Allen opened the system's [Script Evolution] feature and began inputting the script he’d prepared along the way.

*Script 3: “The Wolf Girl”*

*Plot Overview:*

Rumor has it that a strange girl, agile and crawling on all fours, haunts the Devil's River region of Texas. Locals call her the "Wolf Girl."

Legend says that after her mother mysteriously died at home, the newborn girl vanished without a trace.

Those who claim to have encountered the "Wolf Girl" report that she cannot speak and is highly aggressive, behaving just like a wolf. Locals believe she was taken and raised by wolves.

Over time, the legend of the "Wolf Girl" faded from memory.

On the outskirts of the Devil's River forest, in a hunter's cabin—

A sharp bark shattered the silence...

...

Back in his inn room, Allen’s thoughts swirled.

Soon, a complete script for the modern tale of "The Wolf Girl" materialized in the system.

"...vanishing into the depths of the forest under their gaze..."

As the final words appeared on the system panel, Allen let out a long sigh. The dense script content on the [Script Evolution] interface calmed his previously excited mood.

Opening his suitcase, he placed the prepared [Materials] on the desk in turn. Then, he issued a command to the system.

*[Material 1]: Wolf Fang Pendant—5000 [Plot Points]*

*[Material 2]: Rusty Handgun—5000 [Plot Points]*

*[Material 3]: Hat—1000 [Plot Points]*

Initially, Allen thought this script, like his previous "Weird Bar," would evolve smoothly.

However, a jagged message suddenly appeared at the bottom of the system's [Script Evolution] page.

*"Ding! Missing materials! Please provide additional materials matching the plot!"*

"Missing materials?"

Frowning instinctively, Allen’s gaze swept over the three [Materials] on the desk, finally settling on the hat.

In his script, the hat held significant symbolic meaning. But now, the system deemed it insufficient to support his description.

"This is just..."

Staring at the flashing message on the broken panel, Allen was momentarily speechless.

"You useless system. No flexibility at all. No wonder you’re so broken."

After a quick rant, Allen resigned himself to the fact that his complaints would have no effect on the system's half-functional state.

With no other options, he rummaged through his suitcase, hoping to find additional [Materials] to meet the system’s demands.

"Got it!"

After several minutes, he unearthed an old penny from the corner of his suitcase.

Examining the coin, Allen grabbed the handgun from the desk and began hammering the coin with its barrel.

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

Downstairs, the rhythmic pounding echoed through the building.

"This guy sure know how to have fun," Bob muttered to himself under his breath.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 30: The Strange Scar

*[Material 4]: Twisted Coin – 1500 [Plot Points]*

“Select Evolution Location 1 – Forests of the Devil’s River Region, Texas!”

“Select Evolution Location 2 – A Hospital in Texas!”

“Ding! Evolution location confirmed. A total of 17,500 [Plot Points] are required for this evolution. Proceed with evolution?”

Fortunately, after allocating the new [Material], the system didn’t throw any unexpected issues to trouble Allen further.

Seeing the query displayed on the data panel, he didn’t hesitate to confirm.

*[Evolution Begins]*

…

The evolution effect created by the investment of 17,500 [Plot Points] was undoubtedly immense.

With the ripple of the system’s intangible power—

In the Devil’s River region of Texas, deep within the forest near a remote border town, a small shadow streaked rapidly across the darkness.

At the forest's edge, the flicker of firelight illuminated a once-abandoned wooden cabin.

Beside the cabin, faint whimpers echoed from the doghouse.

Meanwhile, on a city street in Texas, an ambulance’s siren pierced through the air.

Inside a nearby hospital, various memories and data associated with the ambulance seemed to surface as well.

In the ambulance, a man groaned in agony. A deep, bloody claw mark marred his chest, the skin around the wound tinged with faint purple veins that continued to spread outward.

…

“What’s going on?”

Inside the speeding ambulance, a white paramedic looked at the groaning man on the stretcher and questioned his colleague.

“No idea,” the other paramedic replied, glancing briefly at the wound on the patient’s chest before offering an analysis.

“The 911 call just said someone was found injured by the roadside. Judging by the wound, it looks like he was attacked by a wild animal.”

“Well, that’s just rotten luck,” the white paramedic remarked casually.

“Actually, it’s the opposite. If he hadn’t been lucky enough to be found on the roadside, we wouldn’t even be here. A few more hours, and it wouldn’t be our problem anymore.”

Shrugging, the other paramedic expressed a different perspective.

“Maybe you’re right,” the white paramedic nodded in agreement.

Though once treated, the man would likely face exorbitant ambulance fees and medical bills, at least his life had been saved.

Turning to look at the rapidly receding scenery outside the ambulance, the white paramedic noticed that the previously groaning patient’s voice had begun to weaken. He immediately stood to prepare for emergency treatment.

“The patient’s condition seems to be deteriorating.”

Rolling up his sleeves, the paramedic gripped the ambulance’s safety handle as he cautiously approached the injured man. Just as he was about to examine the patient—

“Ah!”

In the next moment—

The man on the stretcher suddenly opened his tightly shut eyes, revealing pitch-black irises devoid of whites. Screaming horrifically, he lunged at the white paramedic.

“F*** you…”

The man unleashed a stream of profanities as his erratic movements startled the paramedic into a cold sweat.

Fortunately, the paramedic, experienced in handling unpredictable situations, reacted quickly.

As the man lunged, the paramedic instinctively raised his arm to block the attack. His colleague immediately stepped in to help restrain the crazed man, strapping him back onto the stretcher. They then opened the medical kit and administered a sedative, injecting it into the man’s body.

“Are you okay?”

With the sedative taking effect, the struggling patient soon fell unconscious. Breathing heavily, the paramedic who had administered the injection turned to check on his shaken colleague.

“I’m fine,” the white paramedic replied, shaking his head. He glanced at his arm, which bore scratches from the man’s nails. Dismissing it as minor, he rolled down his sleeve and didn’t give it another thought.

However, what he failed to notice was the faint purple veins spreading from the wound on his arm the moment he lowered it.

…

“Woof! Woof! Woof woof! Woof woof woof!”

Back in the Devil’s River region, near the forest’s edge—

The sharp barking of a dog shattered the stillness of the night.

“Quiet, Peter!”

A raspy voice barked from inside the wooden cabin.

Old Johnson, holding a shotgun, appeared at the door. His brows furrowed as his cloudy eyes glinted with caution.

Raising the barrel of the shotgun, he pointed it in the direction of the barking hound, alert and wary.

Having spent half his life in the forest, the seasoned hunter knew better than most the dangers that lurked within.

Clutching his shotgun tightly, Johnson cautiously approached the hound named Peter. He crouched low, gently patting the dog’s head to calm its agitation.

“Quiet, Peter, quiet,” he repeated soothingly, keeping his gaze fixed on the dark forest beyond.

His instincts as an experienced hunter warned him of a lurking danger deep within the woods.

After a moment of hesitation, Johnson untied the leash from Peter’s collar. With one hand firmly gripping the dog’s back to maintain control, he used his other hand to retrieve a flashlight from his pocket. Fixing it onto the shotgun, he switched it on, the faint beam illuminating the ground ahead.

Taking a deep breath, Johnson released Peter and whispered, “Go, Peter. Let’s see what’s brave enough to approach our territory.”

Unleashed and spurred by the command, Peter bolted toward the source of the disturbance, barking furiously.

Johnson followed closely, his shotgun at the ready.

From years of experience, he suspected that the disturbance detected by Peter might be caused by a bear cub wandering near the cabin.

It was the season when bears, having awakened from hibernation, were hungriest.

If the cabin were discovered, a bear wouldn’t hesitate to attack in search of food.

To ensure his safety, Johnson resolved to strike first and eliminate the potential threat.

After all, leaving a beast like that roaming near his home was nothing short of gambling with his life.

Though old, Johnson wasn’t ready to give up living just yet.

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