Tonight, I’m watching a film on my computer screen. It's a found footage horror film with a great concept: the film is presented as a faux-documentary about the attempt to discover the identity of the mysterious creators of a sinister batch of viral non-fiction horror videos, similar to those examined in Chapter .

A man on my computer screen sits in front of a computer, his colleague standing behind him. ‘Go ahead, press play,’ the colleague says.

A title card appears on my screen, exactly as it does on the screen inside the film. It tells me: This is a snuff video. You actually see this girl commit suicide on camera. It is one of the most gruesome acts of violence ever captured on video.

On screen, the film cuts to a graveyard in the daytime. Blue-tinged and wintry. The camera pans across the headstones, coming to rest on a young woman off in the distance. The camera reframes, then zooms in as she walks towards the camera, oblivious to the fact she is being filmed. She wears what looks like a wedding dress and appears forlorn and distressed. She stops suddenly, clutching her wrists (Figure 10.1).

Another title card appears: You can see her veins ripped out of her wrists.

The title card fades away. The shot returns to the graveyard, and the woman.

Sitting at my computer, I realise I am mirroring the man in the narrative: we are both watching this video simultaneously. Although I can no longer see him, I am an echo of him. There is something potent in this interplay. We both know nothing about this woman. We know nothing of this cemetery. We know nothing of why she may be committing suicide, if that is even what she is doing. We know nothing, and yet …

My body is like a twisted rope, ever tightening. I feel as though I am being inexorably drawn into the image. The woman on screen continues to clutch her hands together, and lowers her head. The moment swells, distends, as I wait for what comes next.