The Dream Eater

by Justine Norton-Kertson

***

Riley arrived on set twenty minutes early, heart thrumming with caffeine and nerves. The warehouse-turned-soundstage on the edge of Glendale didn’t look like much from the outside—just another slab of corrugated metal baking under the SoCal sun—but inside, it buzzed like the control deck of a starship. Which, Riley realized with a grin, was exactly what it was supposed to be.

“New blood?” someone called from across the main stage.

Riley turned to see a young woman in cargo pants and a headset striding toward them, a walkie clipped to her belt. She held out a hand. “Sam Park. I play Lieutenant Maren.”

“Riley. Production Assistant,” he said, shaking it. “First day.”

“Welcome to Starsail. You’re gonna love it. It’s like Star Trek had a fever dream on a shoestring budget. But in a good way.” Sam grinned wide, then leaned in conspiratorially. “And Matt? Total legend. Like, actual genius. He used to be in the studio system, but he left to make something real. Said the suits were cannibalizing creativity.”

Riley nodded, already starry-eyed. He’d read the stories—Matt Zachary’s dramatic exit from Paramount, his viral manifesto about reclaiming storytelling from corporate control, his promise to make space for the unheard and unseen. It was what had drawn Riley west in the first place.

Inside the production office, Matt’s voice echoed down the hallway before he appeared. “I used to write for all the popular science fiction shows. Now I’ve got two sound stages full of aliens, monsters, and spa-a-a-a-ce ships,” he said, voice wobbling like a cartoon caricature. 

Riley approached the office door and peeked inside. A silver-haired man paced the room talking to the bluetooth in his ear. He wore designer jeans and a perfectly aged leather jacket, and was flanked by a clipboard-carrying assistant. His desk was cluttered with the chaos of genius—script pages and storyboards, pencils and pens, empty cups and crumbled up napkins, and an ashtray full of broken and empty peanut shells.

“I can’t pay you right now because we’re scraping every penny together for our next shoot,” Matt continued. “But once you join the Starsail family, you can use my studio for free anytime you want!” 

He looked up and saw Riley. “Hey, I gotta go. Let’s talk later.” Matt tapped the phone bug in his ear and turned toward the door. “Ah, the new arrival!” His smile could’ve powered the set’s entire lighting grid. “Riley, right? We’ve been waiting for you. I’m Matt, and this is Taylor, my assistant. Come on, I’ll give you a tour of the studio. I’ve got two sound stages chock full of aliens, monsters—” 

“And spa-a-a-a-ace ships,” Riley interjected.

There was a long pause. Matt didn’t blink as he stared at the newbie. Riley could feel beads of sweat bubbling behind the pores on his forehead. His palms were already leaking.

Then suddenly—

“HA!” the strangely mechanical outburst startled Riley. “I like you kid. Come on, follow me.” Matt swept them down the hall, talking as he walked. “This show isn’t just about sci-fi. It’s about the future. About hope. About giving voice to people Hollywood ignores. We’re not making content here. We’re making legacy.”

Riley nodded, trying to keep pace and not look like he was vibrating out of his skin.

Matt paused by a window overlooking the set. Below, camera rigs hovered above a model of the Starbound Asterion bridge. Lights flared as a technician adjusted LED settings. A group of extras in alien prosthetics rehearsed quietly at stage right.

“See that?” Matt said, voice soft now. “None of them would be working if the studios had their way. Them and their dreams would be left to rot. But we don’t care. We want that weird. That truth. That voice. That’s what we feed on.”

Riley laughed nervously. “Feed on?”

Matt turned, smile sharpening just a little. “Creatively,” he said matter-of-factly. A moment later, he was laughing too, slapping Riley’s shoulder as if the tension had been his imagination all along. “You’re gonna be just fine here.”

Matt’s ear chirped. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” he said as he walked away.

Down on the stage, Sam waved and motioned Riley over. Riley exhaled, smiled, and hurried down the steps. It was going to be everything he dreamed.

Between takes, Sam gave Riley the tour Matt had promised. They navigated catwalks, dimly lit hallways, and soundproofed walls that seemed to hum with possibility. The Starsail set had the smell of sweat and hot lights, of plywood and imagination. Riley loved every bit of it.

“Watch your step,” Sam said as they passed under a lighting rig. “The floor panels aren’t always secured. Indie life, you know?”

They reached the script corner—what Sam called the cluster of desks where the writers huddled daily. That’s where Riley met Jordan Kim, fingers flying across her laptop, brow furrowed in a fierce kind of joy.

“This is Riley,” Sam announced. “New P.A., handpicked by Matt himself.”

Jordan looked up, her expression brightening. “Welcome to the trenches.”

“I love it already,” Riley said, and he meant it.

Jordan grinned and shook Riley’s hand. “It’s chaos, but it’s ours. Know what I mean?”

Riley nodded.

From behind them, a gruff voice cut through: “Chaos is just order in indie clothing.”

They turned to find Alex Rivera adjusting a camera rig, salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a low knot, arms inked with faded tattoos that hinted at a younger, wilder career once upon a time.

“Alex is our DP,” Sam explained. “He’s been around. Studios. Big stuff. But he left it all for us little guys. Top notch cinematographer.”

Alex gave a noncommittal grunt and didn’t look up. “Left it because monsters like Matt make better promises.”

Jordan winced. “Don’t mind him. He’s allergic to optimism.”

“Or just immune to bullshit,” Alex muttered.

Riley wasn’t sure what to say, so he just smiled awkwardly and nodded. But later, as he fetched coffee for the crew, the words stuck. Monsters like Matt. Meant as a joke, probably.

Probably.

That afternoon, Matt gave another speech. The entire cast and crew gathered on the bridge set, surrounded by blinking lights and panels made of painted foamcore and repurposed LED strips. He paced slowly, the overhead lights casting dramatic shadows on his aged and artificially tanned face. 

“We’re not just telling stories here,” Matt said. “We’re reclaiming the right to dream. This is a ship. Not just on screen—but right here. In this space. A vessel we build with our hands and our hearts. No suits. No billion-dollar chains. Just us. Together. As a family.”

The room erupted in applause. Riley clapped, swept up in the passion and the purity of it all. Then he glanced at Alex, standing in the shadows, arms folded. He wasn’t clapping.

After the meeting, Riley lingered behind. His chest still buzzed. It felt like being on the edge of something important. Something magical.

Jordan came up beside him. “Not bad for a guy who lives on coffee and metaphors, huh?”

“I mean… it was inspiring.”

“Yeah,” Jordan paused. “Just… don’t forget to keep your own dream somewhere safe.”

Riley did a double-take and looked at Jordan, puzzled.

Jordan’s smile was tired. “You’ll see.” She walked away, leaving Riley alone on the bridge, surrounded by stars that didn’t shine, on a set that suddenly felt a little colder than before.

***

Riley walked onto the soundstage a week later, and the first thing he noticed was Jordan's eyes. They were dimmer than before, somehow. Less present. It was a subtle change—no slouch in posture, no dramatic outburst. But where once Jordan had spark, now there was static.

“You okay?” Riley asked.

Jordan blinked slowly. “Just tired. Long rewrite session with Matt yesterday.”

“You mean mentoring?”

Jordan nodded, but something about the movement felt sluggish. “Yeah. Sure.” She tapped at her keyboard, fingers fumbling where they used to fly. Riley lingered, watching the cursor blink on a blank page, then walked away with a cold twist in his gut.

Later that day, Riley spotted Sam between takes. He was sitting alone, costume still half-zipped, staring at nothing in particular. The crew bustled around him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Hey,” Riley said, crouching beside him. “You good?”

Sam looked up slowly. His smile was there, but pale.

“Yeah. Just zoning out.”

“You’ve been off all day.”

Sam hesitated. “Matt said it’s normal. He calls it a ‘creative cooldown.’ Said I was burning too hot and needed to center.”

“Is that… a thing?”

Sam chuckled, but it was dry, humorless. “I don’t know. But it sounded smart.”

Riley nodded, unconvinced. “Want to grab a drink after wrap?”

Sam shook his head. “Think I’m just gonna go lie down. Probably just run lines and catch up on sleep.”

That night, Riley stayed late to return some props to storage. The set was quiet—just the distant hum of the ventilation system and the occasional clatter of a cooling light rig. As he turned the corner toward the prop room, he saw something that made his breath hitch.

Matt was standing in the shadows of a side corridor, his hand lightly resting on the shoulder of a young grip named Evan. They weren’t talking. Matt leaned in, their foreheads almost touching.

And something—something glowed faintly between them.

A thin thread of light, barely visible, stretched from Evan’s chest to Matt’s mouth.

Riley froze.

Matt inhaled slowly. The light followed, drawn into him like vapor. Evan’s body sagged as if a string had been cut. Matt let him down gently, like a stage actor helping a scene partner to the floor. Then he stood straight, rolled his shoulders back, and stretched his neck. A satisfied gleam shone in his eyes like a black hole.

Riley stepped back too fast and knocked over a mop bucket.

The crash echoed.

Matt turned.

Their eyes met.

Riley’s stomach dropped.

But then Matt smiled—warm, easy, just like always. “Burning the midnight oil, eh Riley?”

Riley nodded, voice caught in his throat. “Yeah. Just… returning a few props.”

Matt’s smile lingered. “That’s dedication. I like that. I like you. You’ve got a future here kid. I’m making my dream come true, and we can make your dreams come true too.”

Then he abruptly turned and walked away, whistling softly as he meandered into the night.

Riley didn’t move until the sound faded completely.

The next morning, Evan was gone. “Family emergency,” Taylor said flatly during call. “Had to fly home.”

No one questioned it. Except Riley.

He found Alex during lunch and told him everything.

Alex didn’t blink. “I figured,” he said.

“You… what?”

“I’ve seen it before,” he said quietly, eyes scanning the lot like someone expecting to be watched. “Not like this exactly, but close enough. Producers who suck up everything around them. Talent. Energy. Fire. He’s just more literal about it.”

Riley stared at Alex. “Literal? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

“You saw it for yourself.”

“You knew! And you stayed?”

Alex leaned against a stack of crates, arms crossed, gaze as far away as the stars. “I didn’t know. Not really. But I suspected. And I stayed because I needed the work. I wanted to make movies. And I wanted to see if I was right. Sometimes I hate being right.”

“But if he’s… doing something like this—”

“You think anyone would believe you?” Alex cut in. “Matt’s the golden god of Hollywood’s indie rebellion. You accuse him of stealing dreams, he and his cult of sycophants will laugh you out of the industry.”

Riley’s hands clenched at his sides. “But he’s hurting people.”

“I know,” Alex said softly. “And that’s why you need proof. Not just accusations”

Riley didn’t sleep that night, and the next day he went in early. Instead of heading straight to set, he crept toward Matt’s office. The door was locked, but he waited until Matt’s assistant left to pick up the morning coffee, then slipped in behind her.

The office was sterile and curated—nothing like the passionate chaos of the set. Shelves of awards. Stacks of headshots, each one with handwritten notes in Matt’s angular scrawl. Some were crossed out. Others were circled. Some had been burned at the edges and pinned to the corkboard like trophies.

Riley flipped through a drawer, then another. Nothing. But then he noticed something on the bookshelf nearby. One book, just one in the single row of tomes, didn’t have a title. Riley walked over and pulled the book down. He opened the cover to find Matt’s journal. Inside were meticulous entries—names, dates, “mentorship” notes. But instead of script revisions or feedback, each entry ended in a single phrase:

“Burned bright. Burned clean.”

Riley’s pulse spiked. He fumbled through the pages, taking photos with his phone. When he finished, he slipped out the door as quietly as he’d come.

At lunch, he found Taylor sitting alone, organizing call sheets.

“I need to show you something,” Riley whispered.

Taylor raised an eyebrow, but followed Riley into a quiet sound booth. Riley handed over his phone. Taylor scanned the photos slowly, her brow furrowing with each swipe.

“This… this could be anything,” she said, voice low.

“Come on. You know what this is.”

“Did you show Alex?”

“Not yet. But you’ve seen them change after being alone with him. Evan. Jordan. Sam.”

Taylor’s mouth pressed into a line. She didn’t deny it. “I owe him everything,” she said finally. “He gave me a career when no one else would.”

“And what did he take?” That question sat between them in the silence.

Taylor looked up at Riley. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Riley looked down at his shoes. “But I’m not letting him do it to anyone else.”

Later that night, Sam knocked on Riley’s trailer door.

His face was pale, his hands shaking.

“I need help,” he said. “I can’t remember my lines. I can’t even remember why I came out here. I look in the mirror and I see someone who wanted something, but I can’t remember what it was.”

Riley yanked him inside and shut the door.

That was the moment the fear transformed into resolve.

Matt wasn’t just feeding. He was erasing. Burning people down to their shells. And Riley knew exactly what he had to do next.

He was going to set a trap.

***

Riley sat in his trailer with the lights off. The glow of his laptop screen illuminated his face. The cursor blinked at the bottom of the page. Above it: a monologue. Strange, surreal, full of symbols. It wasn’t a script for Starsail. It was something else. A dream built from the raw material of his fears.

He wrote it for Matt.

Each word was bait soaked in the magic of memory. His childhood bedroom cluttered with DVD box sets and dog-eared screenwriting books. The first time he saw a science fiction movie and dreamed of the stars. The auditions he never got. The constant rejections. The obsession. The hope. The ache. God, that fucking ache.

It was beautiful. Prose dipped in poison.

Let him feed on this.

The next morning, Riley approached Matt during a location scout. His smile was automatic but tight, his eyes scanning Riley with quiet suspicion.

“I wrote something,” Riley said, offering the printed pages. “A piece. Inspired by what you said about the soul of indie work. I thought you might want to read it. I’d love feedback from a legendary writer like you.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, suspicion giving way. He took the pages and read the first few lines. He paused, intrigued. 

“This is…” His voice dropped. “Raw. Very raw.”

“Thank you.” Riley nodded. “You saying that means the world to me. That monologue is everything I’ve got. Everything I ever wanted.”

Matt looked up from the page, gaze sharpening. “You’d be willing to share this? All of it?”

“Yes, of course,” Riley said. “Please, take it.”

Later that night, Matt invited Riley to his office.

Taylor met Riley just outside the door, blocking their path.

“You sure?” she asked.

Riley nodded. “If it doesn’t work, at least you have the journal.”

Taylor stepped aside. “Good luck.”

Inside, Matt stood by the window, bathed in the amber glow of a single desk lamp. The pages of Riley’s monologue sat on the table. Matt gestured toward the chair across from him.

“Close the door,” he said.

Riley obeyed, heartbeat steady.

“I knew you were special, Riley” Matt murmured. “Some dreams are too rich to waste. I’ll make this quick. You won’t feel a thing.”

Suddenly, Matt reached out. Riley didn’t flinch. Matt’s fingers brushed his temples—and the dream began to pour out Riley. But this time, it didn’t flow easily. This time, it burned.

Matt inhaled, and the monologue entered him like breath—except it wasn’t breath. It was jagged. Shattered glass disguised as stardust. It caught in his throat, sank into his mind, crawled behind his eyes.

His smile faltered. “You—” he rasped, stumbling back. “What… what is this?”

“You wanted a dream,” Riley said quietly. “That one’s mine.”

Matt clutched at his head, gasping. “No. No, this isn’t pure. This is broken. This is fear. Regret. Doubt.”

“Exactly,” Riley said. “It’s the whole thing.”

Matt staggered, his face twisting. “But, I thought… your admiration for me and my ongoing career… How could you? How could you?” he screamed. Gone was the smooth confidence. His skin peeled into alternating patches of human and something far worse—slick, sinewed, ancient. Its voice splintered into two three tones, one too high, one mid-range, and one impossibly low and guttural, demonic.

“You don’t get it,” he growled. “I gave them hope. I AM hope. Without me, they would have nothing.”

“Wrong!” Riley shouted, surprised by his own sudden boldness. “They gave you everything,” He stepped closer. “And you hollowed them out like, like worthless fucking shells.” Riley grabbed the ash tray from Matt’s desk and hurled it at the wall, peanut shells scattering everywhere.

Matt dropped to his knees. Glowing threads of light spilled from his mouth—twisting, lunging, screaming fragments of other people’s dreams. Jordan’s script. Sam’s smooth laughter. Even Evan’s simple hope of paying rent with honest work. The room filled with their echoes.

The light turned black.

Matt screamed.

Then silence.

He collapsed in a heap, steaming, eyes open but unseeing.

Riley waited.

No movement.

No tricks.

He was gone.

Riley stepped outside where Taylor waited in the shadowed hallway. Alex was there now as well.

“It worked?” Taylor asked, her voice shaking.

Riley nodded. “He’s done.”

Alex folded over, head between his knees, then moved down into a squat. His eyes were wide and unblinking. Taylor leaned against the wall and let out a huge breath she must have been holding in for years. Her eyes were glassy with relief and grief. 

“I should’ve stopped him sooner,” Taylor whispered.

“He was slick— a con artist and a grifter. He preyed on our dreams and our desperation. That motherfucker had us all fooled.” 

“Not me.” Alex looked up with pain in his eyes. “I knew. I fucking knew it. And I didn’t do shit except gripe and complain.”

Riley put a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “But you helped stop him now. Both of you. That’s what matters.”

Alex sighed. “And what happens to the show?”

Riley looked down the hallway toward the stage. The bridge of the Starbound Asterion sat in eerie stillness, lights still blinking, as if waiting for someone to call action.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But whatever comes next—it’s ours.”