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The marquee outside the Hawkins Cinema was flickering and half-busted, like always. Big bold red letters read:
**NOW PLAYING – THE EVIL DEAD (R)**
**8:15 PM • 10:30 PM**
Eddie Munson, age fourteen and a half, stood across the street in a denim jacket that used to belong to his uncle and a pair of Converse that were coming apart at the toes. His jeans were torn at the knees—not because it was punk, but because he kept tripping over his own feet. His hair was just starting to grow out, curling awkwardly at the collar, and he’d recently started listening to a band called Iron Maiden that some older stoner in the school parking lot told him about.
He was electric with nerves.
“Rated R,” he muttered to himself, pacing behind the dumpster behind the gas station next to the theater. “No big deal. You’re practically fifteen. You’re taller than most of the freshman. They probably won’t even ask for ID.”
He was wrong.
The usher—a girl in her twenties with bubblegum pink lipstick and a nametag that said *CHERYL*—took one look at him and said, “No way. You need a parent, kid.”
Eddie tried to argue. He tried to say he was seventeen. He even tried to do the voice—his best "grown-up" voice, low and gravelly like one of those trucker guys who bought cigarettes from the vending machine in the bowling alley. It didn’t work.
“Come back in four years,” she said, popping her gum and sliding the ticket window shut.
That should’ve been the end of it. Most kids would’ve gone home.
But Eddie Munson wasn’t most kids.
Ten minutes later, he was crouched behind the side door where the delivery guy had gone in, sweating bullets and holding his breath. He waited. Watched. Counted down.
When the door finally creaked open again—just a crack—Eddie shoved his foot inside like a man about to rob a bank.
It worked.
Inside, the theater was dark, except for the red glow of EXIT signs and the flicker of the trailers on screen. He moved quick, head down, ducking into the far aisle and crawling into an empty seat in the back row. His heart was pounding loud enough to drown out the start of the film.
And then—
The woods. The creepy-ass cabin. That voice on the tape recorder.
Dead things in the basement. Tree branches that moved way too much.
Possession. Screaming. Blood that would not stop coming.
Eddie’s eyes were saucers. He clutched the armrests like they were the last thing keeping him tethered to reality.
Halfway through the film, some older teen near the front row threw up. For real. You could hear it. Someone else screamed, “Oh my God !” and bolted out of the room. Eddie just grinned—wide, unblinking, and full of terror.
He was scared out of his mind.
And loving every second of it.
When the credits rolled, Eddie didn’t move. Not for a long time. He was stuck somewhere between adrenaline and awe, still hearing the sound of that demonic laugh echo in his skull. Eventually, he slipped out the same way he came in, breath fogging in the October air, heart still hammering.
He didn’t go straight home.
Instead, he climbed the metal steps to the water tower just past the trailer park and sat on the top rung for a while, knees pulled to his chest, denim jacket tight around him. He stared out at the lights of Hawkins, listening to the wind.
He felt… different.
Like something had cracked open inside him. Something loud and hungry and weird. He wanted more—more horror, more metal, more of everything the world had to offer beyond middle school worksheets and being called a freak for drawing skeletons in the margins of his notebook.
This was his first real act of rebellion. A secret he wouldn’t tell anyone.
And it ruled.
The next day at school, he walked in with his head a little higher, hair wilder than it had any right to be. When someone in his class said horror movies were stupid, Eddie just smirked and leaned back in his chair.
“You have no idea,” he said, and started sketching a cabin , surrounded by twisted trees and screaming faces, right in the margins of his math book.
Epilogue:
1989 – Indianapolis Horror Con
Eddie Munson was twenty-two, proudly decked out in a denim vest with a brand new Evil Dead II shirt underneath. His hair was longer now—wild, curly, and untamed like the forest outside the Knowby cabin. He was clutching a VHS copy of The Evil Dead in one hand and his battered sketchbook in the other.
The line to meet Bruce Campbell was moving slow, but Eddie didn’t mind. He was practically vibrating with excitement, like the guy was a rockstar and not just—well, okay, the coolest horror actor who’d ever lived.
When it was finally his turn, Bruce looked up from behind the table, grinned that smarmy Ash grin, and said, “Hey there, champ. What do we got—first-timer, or seasoned Deadite?”
Eddie laughed. “Deadite since '81.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look that old.”
“Oh, I was fourteen when I saw it,” Eddie said, sliding the VHS across the table for a signature. “Snuck into the local Cinema. Lied to the usher, got kicked out. Came back around the side and snuck in through the delivery door. Scared the absolute shit out of me—and it was the best night of my life.”
Bruce leaned back in his chair, laughing. “You snuck into The Evil Dead when you were fourteen?”
“Swear on my grave,” Eddie said, hand to chest like a boy scout. “That movie rewired my brain. It’s the reason I started drawing creepy stuff, writing dumb horror comics, started playing guitar louder than anyone wanted me to. That night made me weird—and proud of it.”
Bruce grinned, already scribbling on the VHS cover. “Kid, you sound like half the people I meet—but you’ve got more style.”
He held up the tape, now signed:
To Eddie – Stay groovy, you glorious little weirdo.
—Bruce Campbell—
“Thanks, man,” Eddie said, eyes wide. “Seriously.”
Bruce winked. “Next time, don’t sneak in. I want the ticket sales.”
As Eddie walked away, grinning like a lunatic, he flipped open his sketchbook—still filled with haunted cabins, screaming woods, and now, a new page. One rough, loving sketch of Ash with his chainsaw hand held high.
He scrawled underneath in bold letters:
"Groovy."
And for Eddie Munson, that weird little rebel from Hawkins, it all made perfect sense.