And again.
I’m so old now, Jessica. So tired. I can’t keep doing this. Year after year. Let me go. Please. I’m begging you.
Let me go, you goddamn bitch. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Forgive me. Forgive me.
Free me.
Please.
Please.
Jessica, can you hear me? I know you’re listening, damn it. Please. Please forgive me. Forgive our town. Forgive the people of Pilot’s Creek.
We were wrong. We were wrong to do what we did to you and your mother.
Please. Please forgive us. Forgive us all.
Lift this curse. Release us.
Release me.
PART TWO
DON’T TREAD ON JESSICA’S GRAVE 1971
EXT. GRAVEYARD—LATER THAT NIGHT
The full moon casts an eerie blue glow over the headstones. An owl hoots.
CASSANDRA, HOPPER, GEMINI, DAMASCUS, and MOONCHILD sit in a circle around Jessica Ford’s grave, holding one another’s hands. Candles are lit.
CLOSE ON Cassandra as she closes her eyes, ready to begin the séance.
CASSANDRA
We are speaking now to the spirit of Jessica Ford…We sense that you are with us, Jessica. We sense your presence. We sense that you cannot rest…
HOPPER
Yeah, lighten up, Jessica…Relax already.
MOONCHILD
Cut it out, Hopper. Be real.
CASSANDRA
Will you speak to us? Is there someone here you wish to communicate with? We are here to help. Will you tell us why you’re not at rest, Jessica? Why don’t you feel at peace? Why does your spirit remain here in this place?
DAMASCUS
I’m asking my spirit the same damn thing…
MOONCHILD
Knock it off!
BACK ON Cassandra, head weaving back and forth. Something strange is happening. Her eyes roll up into her skull, revealing nothing but pure white.
CASSANDRA
What happened? Tell us, dear spirit. Tell us and you will be free. Tell us. Tell us…
MOONCHILD
Cassandra!
HOPPER
What the hell—
Cassandra GROANS in a voice no longer her own. It’s a child’s voice…JESSICA.
CASSANDRA
(Possessed:)
Why have you woken me?
ONE
They looked just like her. All of them. Their faces, a harvest of apple cheeks. They had the same freckles as hers. Same soft lips framing milk-white teeth, each girl nibbling the tender flesh of her bottom lip. They were after a feeling. The sting without the blood.
How could there be so many of her? Amber counted two dozen at least. And that was just tallying the girls in the room right now. Who knew how many had auditioned already. There was no telling how many would occupy this very same seat after she abandoned it.
Just who exactly was Amber supposed to be today? She had already forgotten. The cattle calls were beginning to blur together in her mind. It was impossible to keep track.
A dead girl, that’s right.
No, a ghost.
Wait. A witch. That was what she was reading for. It was a witch.
A little witch girl.
Today’s auditions were taking place in some nondescript office building along the outskirts of Santa Monica. Whatever operation had used this space before had apparently gone under, leaving its gutted boardroom and empty cubicles behind. The waiting area was really nothing more than a hall lined with folding chairs on either side, swarming with girls. Yearning girls. All those searching eyes. Hazel. Cerulean. Slate. Moss.
Brimming with hope.
Every time the casting director’s assistant poked her head out from the boardroom, the coven of would-be witches all snapped their necks up at attention, the same look of desperation on their faces. Hoping to hear their name called next.
None of the girls made eye contact. Not with one another. That would be a big no-no. No one wants to see herself in the girl sitting next to her. Or sitting across from her. It feels like looking into a mirror at a reflection that’s ready to hiss back, I hate you.
These girls were in competition with one another, weren’t they?
A fight to the death?
They are not your friends, her mother insisted in the parking lot, her breath smelling like peat far too early in the morning. A single-malt bog. You’re not on a playdate. This isn’t a slumber party. You go in there and you show those sniveling little bitches what you’re made of.
The two never talked about it, not at all, but one time, when Amber was five or so, she found a stack of yellowing headshots in her mother’s closet. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be rummaging through her mother’s stuff, but she couldn’t help herself. The fresh face smiling up at Amber looked so familiar. It looked like hers. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. This young woman had to be in her teens. Much older than Amber. When she showed her mother what she’d found, asking if she knew who the pretty woman in the picture was, Mom only snatched the headshots from Amber’s hand and promptly tossed them into the trash. Every last photograph.
Amber had done plenty of cattle calls, but she always lost herself within the throng of girls in the waiting area, no matter where her mother dragged her. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes would roam over the dozens of girls who looked exactly like her, wondering who they were.
Today’s audition was no different.
She was no different.
She could feel it happening again. That swell of anxiety. The mounting panic. Nothing set her apart. There was nothing of hers, not her face or smile or hair, that she could call her own. There was no distinctive physical difference between her and the rest of them. She felt herself begin to fade, to blend in with the multitude of girls. It was hopeless. There was no possible way she’d get picked.
Amber could practically hear the collective din of every yearning girl’s thoughts. That silent prayer whispered under their breaths: Pick me pick me pick me pick me pick me—
She knew they were all whispering it because she was whispering it, too. Their thoughts were her thoughts.
That one and only wish.
Let me be The One…
What would it take to be chosen?
To be The One?
Mom had dressed her in her lime-green Jackie O pencil skirt, along with a matching plaid lime-green top with a high neck. Green tights. She had spotted five other Jackie Os in the waiting area already. Sorry, make that six. There were a couple Bardots. A few Mary Quants. Baby doll dresses. Turtlenecks and stockings. Even a few miniskirts. Miniskirts! She couldn’t believe her eyes! How could their mothers let them expose so much leg like that? They weren’t even ten!
Amber accidentally made eye contact with the girl sitting across from her. She was much prettier than Amber. Flaxen-blond hair, feathered just right. An eight-year-old Cheryl Tiegs.
Amber couldn’t help but stare at her. Get lost in her beauty. When Little Cheryl Tiegs realized she was being ogled by this inferior doppelgänger, she glared at Amber until the air between them curdled. Amber only sank deeper into her seat, drifting below the surface of this sea of look-alikes and drowning herself.
An elbow prodded her in the ribs. “Sit up straight,” Amber’s mother muttered. The casting director might be watching her at that very moment. Spying on her. Assessing Amber, here and now, as if sitting in the holding area were the real audition. The true test.
Amber clutched the mimeographed copy of her sides. She had trouble reading the bigger words by herself—and yet she knew the lines, as if they were an incantation. A magic spell to be whispered, repeated over and over again, that would summon up the very character of this littl
e witch girl from the ether—back from the dead—and possess Amber’s body.
She was ready to be inhabited by the role. A ripe vessel.
Take me, Amber offered in solemn submission. Take my body over the rest of these other girls. I am ready for you…I am The One.
Looking over the lines was unnecessary now. Amber knew them by heart.
By heart.
What a weird thing to say. Was this dialogue in her blood now? Circulating through her veins? It certainly felt like it. Amber had spent the entire night drilling lines with her mother. She knew the dialogue inside and out. Upside and down. Backward, forward. She dreamed the lines. Recited them in her sleep. Mom had seen to it. A part of their prep was for Mom to read a line at random, then Amber would respond, no matter where they were in the script.
The words of this little witch girl were now in her heart.
Flowing through her.
Whispers of dialogue had followed her into her dreams. She could’ve sworn that witch girl spoke to her. Communed with her from beyond the grave. What was it that she had said?
Come to me…
Where was that line in the script?
Come to me…
Amber hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep last night. Her nerves were so stretched, but it wasn’t because of the audition. She wanted the part, of course. Who didn’t? They all did. Every last girl. But who wanted it the most? What were they willing to give up?
To sacrifice?
No, Amber was nervous because of her mother. What she might do if Amber didn’t get the part. She had spotted a few envelopes on the nightstand that her mom had left unopened.
Each envelope had words stamped in angry red ink over the front. Words like FINAL NOTICE.
Mom was already on her second cigarette since they sat down in the waiting area, which Amber knew was a bad sign. Here it was, ten minutes after their scheduled call time. They had been running late. Always late. Their stucco bungalow was on the wrong side of the valley, far, far away from where all the auditions took place. The rush to get Amber dressed, get her fed, get her hair brushed, get her out of the house on time, the maneuvering through traffic, pinpointing the office building, finding parking, running to make it on time, always running, running, running.
Had her name already been called and they hadn’t been there to hear it?
Had they skipped over her?
Amber glanced down and saw her mother’s left leg juddering like a jackhammer. She had absolutely panicked at the sight of those alligator bags under Amber’s eyes. She broke out her own bottle of liquid concealer and, with her pinkie, dabbed at those gray shadows until they disappeared. There, Mom said. Those storm clouds are gone. Like they were never there.
All the mothers sat next to their daughters. There was more variation here, more distinction among the older women. Their daughters may have looked as if they had all come off the same assembly line, but the mothers had their own looks. Brow-skimming bangs. Feathered locks. Shimmery eyelids. Pearlescent cheeks. Bronzed skin. Glossy lips. Tanned and athletic, effortless and au naturel, utterly done up.
She was always curious about what united these stage mothers. They must have shared the same competitive edge. That same cut-throat ambition. These women hired acting coaches for their children. Sent them to audition classes in lieu of soccer practice or swimming lessons or anything fun. Who had the best vocal instructor here, Amber wondered? Who had worked with the director before? Who knew the casting director or one of the producers on the film?
There were just so many Ambers.
Like dolls, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking. That’s all I am. All any of us are.
A Little Miss Amber doll.
Batteries sold separately! Comes with three prerecorded messages. Just pull Amber’s string and she can repeat the dialogue from her sides, over and over again…
Hundreds, perhaps thousands of girls would read these exact same lines. That girl over there. And that girl over there. Her, over and over again. Her and her and her and her and…
Her.
They were all the same. She was the same.
A headshot.
A mimeograph, copied over and over and over again. Until the image itself began to degrade. Break down to hundreds of dots.
Amber couldn’t stop herself from seeing their faces, all their faces, deteriorate. They were distorting all around her. Dissolving.
Decomposing.
Amber glanced down at her own headshot and realized it was nothing but a skull now. Black-and-white bones. Her lips had peeled away, her flesh gone, leaving behind that toothy smile that took hours to perfect. Her body had been buried long ago. Decades in the ground by now. Nothing but a charred skeleton. And yet they still poured cement over her grave to ensure that her corpse never clawed through the earth. To keep her in the ground forever.
Amber blinked back. Back to the hallway.
Back to all the other girls.
Waiting. And waiting.
Nothing but a purgatory of yearning girls, whispering the same lines under their breath.
When were they going to call her name?
How long did she have to wait here?
Couldn’t they just put her out of her misery?
Nine years old.
Amber was only nine years old. Her mother was always telling casting directors that “Amber is very mature for her age,” and that they should consider her for older parts. What presence! What equipoise! But this wasn’t her choice. This was never her dream. It had always been what her mother wanted. The cattle calls and acting classes. All she wanted was soccer and ice cream and scribbling in her coloring books. She wanted to watch The Partridge Family and stay up late and not have to worry about saying the right thing or looking the right way or smiling. Always smiling. She couldn’t hold her lips together much longer. She wanted to rip them off.
Just call me already, she thought. Just call my name so I can say my lines and go home…
Just call me…
Call me…
Kill me…
Call me…
Kill me…
Amber had done three commercials. One was a national spot for a dish detergent. (“Wow! Where did all that dirt go? Thanks, Suds!”)
Another was for an embarrassing off-brand Yoo-hoo drink that tasted like chalk. (“Mmm-mmm! Scrumptulicious! Nutritious and delicious! Go ahead and drink…Chocolicious!”) Amber threw up all over the set after twelve takes of sipping too much of the awful stuff.
Then there was a local spot for a used-car dealership. (“Beep! Beep! Bring the whole family on down and take a ride!”) She liked that commercial the best because she got to dress up like a cowgirl, her sleeves adorned in pink fringe, and ride a pony all day, even if it wasn’t national.
But she’d never been in a movie before.
Never a feature.
You need to land this one, hon, Mom had said in the car, talking over her shoulder while Amber sat in the backseat, veering through traffic along the 405. They were already ten minutes late. Again. Get this part. You hear me? This one’s going to be your breakout, I can feel it. After the reviews roll in and the critics single you out, you can leave this god-awful schlock behind and play whatever part you want. You’ll have the pick of the litter, hon. Trust me. Are you listening, Amber? Amber? You go in there and nail this audition. Kill it for me, honey. Kill it.
Her tooth was loose. One of her upper central incisors. This was a problem. A major problem. Amber hadn’t told her mother because she knew she’d get angry. If she lost a tooth before shooting began, they could fire her. We didn’t hire a gap-toothed girl, the producers would say. But Amber couldn’t help but run her tongue along the loose tooth. She couldn’t stop herself from forcing the tip within the crevice of her gums, where it was most tender. She knew she was only making it
worse, making the tooth looser. But she couldn’t control herself. The root was raw, pain radiating out from her jaw. Worrying the nerve was the only feeling worth feeling right now. If she pushed at the tooth with her tongue, harder, just a little harder, Amber could feel the flesh flex and tear, the nerve ending separating, the very root ready to snap in—
“Amber Pendleton?”
Amber blinked back to the waiting area.
And smiled.
The casting director’s assistant held the door open for her. Amber’s mother was asked to wait outside, with all the other mothers, but she insisted on coming along. To observe. Her mother always made her more nervous. More anxious. Mom knew this, but she barged in anyway. Why was she being so pushy? Bickering with the assistant? Amber could feel her cheeks getting hotter. Was she blushing? Her mother’s voice was rising. Getting shriller. Saying something about this being a horror movie. The things that would be asked of Amber, demanded of her daughter. Somebody had to make sure she was safe. That Amber was protected. But the only protection Amber felt like she needed right now was from her mother.
Not that she’d ever say that.
Not out loud.
The room felt empty. Emptier than she had expected. Hollow. There wasn’t much furniture in here, even for such a wide-open space. Just a fold-out card table. The blinds were drawn, so no sunlight shone through. The dull thrum of fluorescents filled the room. Filled her skull. She felt the low-wattage throb in her jaw. In her loose tooth. The nerve ending picked up the electricity pulsing in the bulbs above, transmitting signals throughout the rest of her head.
Something in her lungs caught. A hitch in her chest. It felt like sandpaper in her windpipe. Was she choking? Was her throat constricting? She couldn’t breathe. The air wasn’t reaching her lungs anymore. Where had the oxygen gone? Was her face turning blue? Was she dying? Why wasn’t anybody noticing her asphyxiating? Why wasn’t anyone trying to save her?
The casting director hadn’t made eye contact with her yet. Hadn’t seen Amber. Hadn’t acknowledged her presence. She was scribbling something down on her yellow notepad. Making a note about the girl that had just auditioned before her. What if that girl already got the part? What if it was too late for Amber? Why was she even doing this? Why was she here?
The Remaking Page 3
