The Salon Indien du Grand Café was dark and silent, the only sound being the soft hum of the projector as it spooled out its final reel. The audience had long since departed, leaving behind only a faint scent of cigarette smoke and stale air. But I remained, entranced by the flickering images on the screen.

The films were old newsreels, grainy and fuzzy, but they still captivated me with their glimpse into a forgotten era. As I watched, the projector suddenly jolted to life again, its beam of light dancing across the walls like a restless spirit. The images on the screen began to warp and distort, as if reality itself was bending and twisting to conform to some madman's vision.

I felt a presence behind me, but when I turned, there was no one there. The projector continued to whirl and whine, its light illuminating the darkened room in stark, eerie flashes. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went black. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that the screen was now a portal to some other realm, beckoning me with an otherworldly glow.