In a fictionalized Elkhart, a municipal repair worker maintains “occupancy indicators” in vacant houses after a hollow-core door plant closes. Every correct repair forces another preferred version of Mayflower into place.
truthful state: feature-length working cut exists · human review and repair underway · no release date announced
What scales the curse is more ordinary: care, repair, access, municipal records, and people who cannot tolerate becoming unnecessary. The horror does not pause civic life. Blood, cooler deposits, employee awards, inspections, and improperly loaded trucks can remain active concerns at the same time.
Randy—short for Random—wants Route Seven, its ceremonial master key, and an ordinary little house that nobody else values.
He believes advancement can be reverse-engineered through excellent work. But the Presence program has turned maintained properties into something more intimate and more dangerous than occupancy.
“A home that cannot refuse entry is not a home.”
Love does not create permanent authorization. Repair does not create a claim on the repaired thing. Completion can be another form of violence.
“I’m the repairman.”There is enough here to show the work honestly—and enough unfinished to refuse a premiere-shaped lie. The current cut is a technical proxy candidate for human watching and repair, not an artistically approved master.
Existence proves there is a film to finish. It does not prove that every scene works.
Contact sheets and automated checks can route attention. They cannot approve art.
A release happens after the film is watched and accepted—not when the website looks convincing.
The visual language is intentionally PS1-awkward, materially local, and built around municipal rooms, cheap doors, RV-industry surfaces, a 1996 Ford Ranger, and bodies that do not move like polished content. Authored roughness stays. Accidental failures get repaired.
Each door holds a different production promise. They cooperate, but none is allowed to impersonate another: screenplay is not picture, a render is not a performance verdict, a waveform is not a good mix, and a moodboard is not a movie.
Locked choices remain exact. Strong material can move. Open questions stay open.
Local surfaces, wrongness with purpose, and camera choices that clarify rather than cosmetically smooth.
Voices, score, foley, rooms, pauses, subtitles, and SDH carry the story even when the image is sparse.
Corey’s film with Blinka as an attributed co-writer and maker—not an invisible style filter.
We welcome thoughtful producers, festivals, horror press, animators, sound and picture collaborators, and funders who understand that support buys bounded work—not private access or creative control by engagement metric.