The beauty of The Blair Witch Project is that it entrusts the viewer to create the film’s scariest moments. The filmmakers venture that our own psyche could create a much scarier monster than they ever could. That our depraved and worried minds could conjure a deity so bad that it’s best left locked away for internal reflection five hours later when the room is darkest and we lay awake—is that the silhouette of a hoodie left on a chair or the encroaching grip of the Blair Witch herself? It’s always just a hoodie, but one of the unique effects of watching a good horror movie such as The Blair Witch Project is the transformation of our immediate surroundings into a place far more sinister.

Undoubtedly, other genres of movies also elicit a psychological response. A sappy romance flick can make you sick with nostalgia for a summer fling, and a fast-paced thriller can make you press a little harder on the gas. The difference with other genres is that the feelings don’t linger, but a top-tier horror film can leave you uneasy even in your most comfortable spaces. It invades our trust in the world, making us second guess the fictional nature of monsters. The living room is now an empty basement, the hum of the fridge is the moan of a hidden demon. You feel vulnerable in your own bed, as the eyes scan for a disturbance in the space that will likely never change.

Cortisol levels will flatline when we turn on the lights or blind ourselves with a phone screen. Shaking off this false reality after a scary movie is always a relief, but nonetheless, we always enjoy the ride. Sure, this is dramatic, but horror is the genre that puts pressure on my chest, makes it hard to breathe, but in the best way. The Blair Witch Project is one of the movies that activates this part of my brain. It's flint on steel in the specific part of the mind that triggers fear, which most people actively avoid on a daily basis.

One of the reasons that the film works is because it centers around three main subjects, and a trio of lead characters is a perfect fit for horror. It's a pyramid structure; the foundation is strong, but if one character is lost, the totality changes, and it becomes more intimate as the two remaining characters have to lean on each other to keep standing. There can no longer be a bystander character when there are only two in the room. The movie is authentic in the progression of emotions between the characters, and how they interact when fight-or-flight is activated. For example, when Mike admits to kicking the map into the creek, losing the only tool that could potentially help them escape their current maze. Heather and Josh are enraged, the desperation and anger can be heard within the cracks of their voice. They are equally upset and confused, trying to process why Mike would do it, deep down knowing that the map was likely never going to save them in the first place. They forgive and forget, but the betrayal lingers and sets a new tone to the film.

The film’s cannonball into despair plays out like a four course meal. Pre-Dinner Drinks are reflected in the build up. High spirits, motive driven, the characters clink the glasses and sip in joy, impending doom not yet on the pallet. They relax in the motel room after a solid first day of shooting, swigging whiskey and smoking cigarettes, enjoying that special feeling of creating something with friends. The Appetizer is when we, the viewer, get the first taste of the evening’s atmosphere. This is served in the form of a false glimpse of the monster, a sound we can't quite make out—we get a hint, but undoubtedly, also an appetite for something more. The first night in the tent is claustrophobic, but warm as the crew try to make out the usual unnerving sounds of being outside but to no avail, chalking it up to an obvious response of wind or curious wildlife. But something is off, and their trust in societal truth is slowly coming undone. We can only look away or cover our ears for so long. Obviously, the Main Course is when the waiter pulls the platter lid off, revealing the ripping hot pig head that’s been steaming underneath. This is when there’s finally consequence, when there is no going back to the “before.” It’s Bon Appetit during the accidental destruction of the Witch’s little monuments, when they’ve gone around in circles a few too many times to explain, or when the pulled teeth are placed nicely in a weaved wooden locket. (Who knew the Blair Witch liked art and crafts so much?) Every night gets darker and the hours get longer, as they drive deeper into the woods, a false hope in an abandoned home is our final destination for the evening. The Dessert is how we're left feeling after the movie ends—the sweetest part is the reflection, the confusion, and the false assumption that we have it all figured out. The post-Blair-Witch fog is like a food coma for our fragile little minds. It’s uncomfortable, but when it goes away, we talk about how great the whole meal ended up being, and are often hungry for more. Chef’s kiss.

As a faux documentary, the film has an excuse to lay the groundwork at the beginning, giving us enough lore to be interested but not enough for it to be a hand-hold into the world of the Blair Witch. The implementation of documentary film editing and raw footage is not overused, and it eventually leads to some of the best shots in the movie. For instance, the scene when the viewer is forehead-to-forehead with Heather, her breath laying a thin layer of condensation on the lens, as her BPM’s elevate during tense moments. We, the camera, must surrender to whichever way the character chooses to point us, sometimes in a direct line of threat, exposed outside the tent, and dangled out like a little treat, waiting for some grimacing monster to take a cheeky nibble.

The denial in the movies is the scariest part; when the character’s mind refuses to process the horror it has seen as true. All three characters, in a way, go through the stages of grief. What begins as denial leads to terror, and that terror leads to rage at the resistance to the unbelievable. Eventually leading to the scariest part of all, acceptance of one's doomed fate, that the scary shadow is actually a monster. When the impossible is standing right in front of them, and there is no explanation for it, rationality is no longer the last line of defense. I get shivers when they make their first loop and end up where they started. There is now no possibility of escape in their narrative, and the resignation is palpable. As the viewer, we are now within the realm of the antagonist, and can only hope that the trio makes it long enough to keep revealing where they end up within their cage.

I love the Blair Witch and her spooky little games, but specifically the original 1999 masterpiece. The reason it was all fun in the first place was the immersive nature of the fake documentary. Just like Heather, Josh, and Mike, I had to squint my eyes at a grainy screen to make out a possible figure, or turn my head slightly to listen to some distant sound. It’s a viewer’s personal investigation into something that probably doesn’t exist, but maybe does. To this day, I still go back again wondering what those three really saw, and if maybe, I still could see for myself.

As an avid yearly viewer of the Blair Witch Project, I am still happily surprised how continually fresh the 78-minute-runtime feels to me. When the new feels like the old, the immersion is a non-starter — but when the old feels continuously new, that same pie you eat every year at Thanksgiving somehow feels like the first time you finally got a slice all to yourself.

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