As soon as Mark Anderson arrived at Silverline Pictures, he went straight to Evelyn Parker’s office and told her about the red-haired man who had shown up at her house that morning.
Evelyn looked genuinely surprised.
“He really went there? Was he alone? Did he try anything with you?”
“Try anything with me?” Mark stared at her suspiciously.
“Wait a second. You didn’t ask me to stay at your house because you wanted me to take a beating for you, did you?” Evelyn went silent for a moment before rolling her eyes.
“Wow. I really didn’t think you were this kind of person.” Mark gave her an offended look.
“I only owe you twenty-four million dollars, and now you’re using me as a human shield?”
“Only twenty-four million?” Evelyn snapped.
“And I didn’t send anyone to beat you. I told you to stay there because Marshmallow needed someone to feed him, and I don’t even know that man personally.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe whatever you want.” Evelyn straightened in her chair and calmly changed the subject.
“Do you still want the marketing money?”
“Yes.”
Mark immediately pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Then give me your campaign plan first,” Evelyn said.
“There’s no need for some thirty-page presentation.
We’re talking about the first $700,000, so I can explain the strategy directly.” Mark leaned forward and continued, “That amount sounds large until you try to launch a movie nationwide.
A broad digital campaign across TikTok, YouTube, Instagram, streaming platforms, and paid entertainment sites can burn through it incredibly fast, especially if we start buying major creators and premium placements.”
Evelyn listened without interrupting as Mark continued.
“Traditional theatrical promotion is the same problem. If we try to compete city by city with major studio releases using outdoor media, theater partnerships, local publicity, and mass-market advertising, seven hundred thousand dollars disappears before anyone even recognizes the title. We don’t have enough money to overwhelm people with advertising, so trying to imitate a major studio would be stupid.”
Evelyn frowned slightly.
“So if you’re not planning a huge online campaign or a huge theatrical campaign, how exactly are you planning to promote the movie?”
“I didn’t say we avoid them completely.” Mark smiled.
“I’m saying we only spend where every dollar has the highest chance of reaching the right audience. Big studios can afford to show the same trailer to everyone until people remember it. We can’t, so we have to make the audience spread the movie for us.”
That caught Evelyn’s attention.
She leaned back in her chair and asked, “How?”
Mark stood, walked to the whiteboard beside her office wall, and picked up a marker.
“The first question in marketing is simple: who is most likely to buy the product? In our case, the answer is obvious—people who already love horror movies.”
He wrote HORROR AUDIENCE on the board and drew a circle around it.
“Once we identify them, we don’t need to know where they physically live before the campaign starts. What matters is knowing where they gather online.”
Evelyn immediately understood part of his point.
“Exactly.” Mark snapped his fingers.
“Horror fans gather in Reddit communities, Discord servers, dedicated forums, Letterboxd circles, YouTube channels, TikTok horror accounts, podcasts, and smaller fan communities. Someone who spends every week discussing slashers, creature features, supernatural movies, and classic horror is worth far more to us than a random viewer who happens to see one banner ad.”
Evelyn thought about it before saying, “Most communities don’t allow obvious advertising. If Silverline employees start posting promotional messages everywhere, moderators will remove them immediately.”
“Which is why we don’t do that.” Mark wrote another phrase on the board: ADVANCE SCREENINGS.
“We identify respected horror reviewers, active community members, small creators, podcast hosts, and people who are already genuinely part of those circles. Then we invite them to advance screenings and let them talk about what they actually experienced.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow.
Mark smiled.
“Imagine you’re active in a horror community and someone you’ve been talking movies with for three years suddenly posts, ‘I just saw an early screening of this shark movie called Jaws, and I’m never going swimming at night again.’ They aren’t pasting corporate copy or telling everyone to buy tickets. They’re describing an experience.”
Evelyn considered the scenario.
“I’d probably ask what happened in the movie.”
“Exactly. Then another regular says the sound design made them feel like something was moving under their seat, and someone else says the shark barely appears early on but the movie still terrified them. Suddenly you search the title.”
Mark drew several arrows branching outward from the original circle.
“You open Letterboxd and see people adding it to their watchlists. You check Reddit and find a discussion thread from another preview screening. A horror podcaster mentions it, a TikTok creator talks about being afraid of the ocean afterward, and now the same title is appearing everywhere you already spend time.”
Evelyn’s expression gradually changed.
Mark continued, “At that point, you no longer feel like Silverline is advertising to you. You feel like something is happening inside your own community and you’re missing it.”
“And if I finally buy a ticket and the movie is actually good…” Evelyn said slowly.
“You become the next person spreading it.”
Her eyes brightened.
“I’d probably tell friends, post my reaction, maybe write something online, and join the discussions.”
“Exactly.”
Mark turned back toward the board.
“That’s the point. Advertising creates awareness, but real word of mouth creates curiosity and trust. One horror fan convinces two friends, those people tell others, and suddenly the audience is doing part of the campaign for us because they actually want to talk about the movie.”
Evelyn stared at the growing diagram.
She had studied business and marketing herself, so she could immediately recognize the logic behind what Mark was describing.
Instead of trying to buy national awareness with insufficient money, he wanted to create concentrated enthusiasm inside communities where horror recommendations already spread naturally.
Mark underlined the phrase WORD OF MOUTH.
“This isn’t the same as manufacturing fake reviews. If the movie is bad, the whole strategy collapses because the same people will tell everyone it’s terrible. The reason this can work is because Jaws is good enough to survive people actually watching it.”
Evelyn nodded slowly.
“So you’re relying on the product itself.”
“That’s the foundation.” Mark capped the marker.
“You can buy attention for almost anything, but you can’t easily buy genuine enthusiasm. Viral marketing can explode because of something funny, controversial, or outrageous, but word-of-mouth marketing lasts because people believe the experience is worth recommending.”
He returned to her desk and rested both hands against the edge.
“My suggestion is to concentrate the first wave of spending on horror communities, preview screenings, smaller creators with credible audiences, specialized press, and carefully targeted digital ads. Don’t waste money trying to reach everyone.”
“We start concentrated there too.” Mark replied, “Instead of fighting major studio releases for the best daytime showtimes everywhere, we push late-night and evening horror screenings in a limited number of strong markets first. Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, and a few other major cities give us enough audience density to create visible sellouts if the movie catches on.”
Evelyn listened carefully.
“If those screenings perform and the audience starts talking, theaters have a reason to add more sessions.” Mark smiled confidently.
“Then we expand market by market instead of paying upfront to pretend we already have nationwide demand. Build the fire in a few places first, then let it spread.”
For several seconds, Evelyn simply watched him.
There was something unusually bright in Mark’s eyes whenever he talked seriously about movies or strategy.
The confidence, excitement, and certainty were dangerously familiar.
Finally, Evelyn sighed.
“You know, this is exactly how you convinced me last time.”
Mark’s expression stiffened.
“You stood in this office talking like you’d already figured out the entire film industry,” Evelyn continued.
“Then I gave you almost twenty-five million dollars and watched most of it disappear.”
Mark looked at her for a moment before smiling faintly.
“Then trust me one more time.”
Evelyn didn’t answer.
“This time,” Mark said more seriously, “I’ll earn it back for you. With interest.”
A faint smile appeared at the corner of Evelyn’s mouth before she quickly suppressed it.
She looked away and replied casually, “Fine. We’ll use your plan.”
Mark immediately pumped one fist.
“I knew you were reasonable. Generous, intelligent, kind—truly an outstanding studio president.”
“Enough.”
“Love you, boss.”
Mark blew an exaggerated kiss toward her.
Evelyn laughed despite herself, grabbed a folder from the desk, and raised it threateningly.
“Get out before I throw this at your head.”
“Haha! I’m going.”
Mark slipped through the office door before she could actually launch it.
Evelyn slowly lowered the folder and leaned back in her chair.
After several seconds, she rubbed her temples and muttered helplessly, “I’m going to let this guy talk me into bankruptcy.”
(End of Chapter 15)