The Northbend Theater sat behind the stadium, squeezed between the old laundromat and a cracked service alley nobody used after dark.
During games, you could barely see it.
The stadium lights swallowed everything behind
Nobody in Northbend really understood how the place stayed open.
Still, every month, there were concerts.
Horror movie marathons.
Local bands.
Midnight screenings attended by teenagers who were technically supposed to be home.
The owner, Mr. Vale, never asked for ID.
He barely spoke at all.
People said he used to be a projectionist there before the fire.
The fire nobody liked mentioning.
Especially because there were no records of it.
No articles. No reports. Nothing.
Yet everyone in Northbend somehow knew:
something happened inside the theater in 1988.