Four high school students encounter an evil spirit. Thoroughly cliched and hopelessly derivative.
Growing up, nothing Mikhail did was ever right. Not according to his father, anyway. A career army man, he was disgusted by the quiet, passive nature of his son.
One of Mikhail’s most vivid memories was when his father made him play on the town’s Little League team. Mikhail had no abilities whatsoever, nor did he care. But his father, having wished for a red-blooded, athletic son who could play sports and shoot guns, was furious at the sight of the pale, thin boy staring dumbly at the pitcher with his dark-circled eyes. Mikhail’s only skill seemed to be avoiding the ball.
So his father took matters into his own hands. One evening, they lost the game because some of the players were on vacation with their families and the coach was forced to have Mikhail play. They would have lost anyway, but Mikhail was an easy scapegoat. His father drove them home in silence. Mikhail stared out the window at the houses, mailboxes, hedges, and white picket fences streaking past them. It was the first time in his life that he noticed the boring sameness in everything.
His father rudely swung into the driveway and slammed on the brakes. “Go stand by the garage!” he barked. Mikhail complied. Yet even his obedience angered his father.
He grabbed one of the baseballs he had bought for practice and threw it at Mikhail, who curled up and flinched as the baseball hit him. “Maybe if you know what it’s like to get hit by one, you won’t be so damn afraid of it!” The lesson in corporal punishment didn’t end outside the garage that night.
Mikhail’s father achieved his purpose—Mikhail wasn’t scared anymore.