The warehouse sits quietly, nestled in the glamor and glitz of the Hollywood Hills. A worn-down, rusted, chain-link fence lined with barbed wire is all that separates the modern world from the priceless contents of the old, wooden building.
Within the warehouse's walls lie hundreds of reels of motion picture film and dozens of film props. Sealed in crates, these films have lain silent... unused for years.
Picture if you will an ordinary warehouse situated in the premier real estate of Hollywood. Uninteresting to say the least. Yet, within the walls of this warehouse are reels of film that have entertained people for ages. My name is ***CENSORED***. I am a writer of one of these films, ***CENSORED*** I also told other stories. Stories that terrify even to this day. Tales that told of a ***CENSORED***, one rooted in the pinnacle of man's imagination. However, let me assure you, dear viewer, that the story that is occurring right now in the walls of this warehouse is anything but fiction. It exists in our own four dimensions, and can only be explained by the freak events of a seemingly ordinary night. I warn you, reader, if you are to venture into this warehouse, then you ought to be prepared for all that you will see, for behind its doors is no ***CENSORED*** simply the strange events that happen every so often in human history.
The security guard paid to watch over the warehouse sleeps silently in his booth outside of the warehouse. The television next to his feet, raised high on his desk, flickers on and off, as the signal from the antenna waivers.
A worn down, 1980's pickup truck pulls into the pathway next to the security checkpoint. The front, right wheel rolls into a puddle as rain rhythmically falls on the windshield. The two men in the front seat of the truck sit, smoking cigarettes, contemplating their actions.
"Ready?" Says the man in the driver's seat.
"Ready." His companion mutters.
A portrait of two men. Species: 21st century human. Their names are unimportant, however for the purposes of this tale they will be called "Rob" and "Matt." These two men, like all men of their day and age, are seeking for wealth. Not wealth of life, love, or spirit; but, rather, wealth in the economic sense. Yet, despite their best intentions, their actions of this evening will precipitate an unexplainable series of events that will affect both the films inside the warehouse, and the world outside of it.
The men slide ski-masks over their faces. The man in the driver's seat rolls down his window and, with a flick of his fingers, sends his cigarette onto the rain-covered pavement. He heaves a revolver out of his jacket pocket and opens the door of the pickup.
As he gets out of the truck, the rain pitter-patters on his head.
He glances left and right as he approaches the door to the security checkpoint. With a well placed strike of his elbow, the glass in the door slides off of the glue holding it in place. The man jams his hand into the sarcophagal chamber. He pats the backside of the door with his hand and feels the door handle. He opens the door and slips inside the small room with the security guard. Gripping the pistol in his hand tightly, he delivers a sharp blow with the butt of the gun to the back of the security guard's head.