EIGHT
Where was she taking her? The two had been trudging through the woods for what felt like forever to Amber.
You’re not Amber, remember? she said to herself. It’s Jessica now. Play along!
You’re Jessica.
Jessica.
Jessica.
She kept tripping. She was losing the feeling in her feet, clumsily stumbling in the dark. Her fingers had grown so numb. The cold had seeped into her limbs and was now working its way into her bones, an insidious chill that permeated every inch of her body.
These costumes weren’t made for the cold. They were nothing but rags, really. She was shivering. The click-click-click of her own teeth chattering against one another filled her skull. She could see her breath spreading out before her with every exhale, short bursts of steam.
Not Nora.
Amber couldn’t make out Nora’s breath at all. It wasn’t fogging up before her, like her own breath was.
Nora hadn’t let go of Amber since she had first stepped into the woods. The woman’s grip only tightened, her bony fingers clamping around her wrist and pulling.
Amber had to pick up her pace, just to keep from losing her footing and falling on the ground. She was practically running now. Her shoulder felt like it was one tug away from popping out of its socket. She wanted to ask Nora why she was in such a hurry.
She wanted to ask, Where are we going? Shouldn’t we be heading the other way? Back to the church? Toward the crew? Toward Mom?
Nora hadn’t looked back. Hadn’t glanced over her shoulder at Amber—Jessica—for a while now. She seemed determined to drag the little girl deeper into the woods, where no one would find them. She was limping. One heel raked over the ground, scraping up leaves and pine needles in their wake. Amber hadn’t noticed it before. It seemed like Nora was unable to bend her right leg. Like her bones had locked. Or had lost their mobility. Now that they were rushing through the woods, the woman’s unsteady gait was unavoidable. Had she always had a limp?
The farther away from the lamps they walked, the thicker the shadows grew. Now there was no light, artificial or otherwise. The moon was barricaded behind a latticework of branches. Its beams barely reached through the dense canopy of pines overhead. What little light was able to find them cast the faintest glow over their bodies, but not much else. There was nothing Amber could see, nothing beyond the sloping torsos of pines, their boughs warping in the dark. She could hear the chirping of crickets, every snapping branch at her heels.
And Nora’s ragged breathing. Every inhale had a wet drag to it, like burlap ripping. Her exhales were only worse. The air would enter her chest with a sharp intake, rrrrrip, only to seep out through her lungs, her throat, her corroded flesh. It whistled out from her in far too many places.
But still…it wasn’t fogging up. Wasn’t clouding over in the air, like Amber’s was.
Pins and needles prickled the soft underside of her arm. She was losing the feeling below her shoulder. The flow of blood was no longer reaching her hand.
“You’re hurting me,” Amber said, tugging back.
Nora’s grip only tightened.
Pulling her forward.
Deeper into the woods.
Amber had never noticed it before, but as the wind blew through the surrounding pines, their needles rustled in a soft timbre. Not like the rustling of leaves. These needles bristled. It had a fainter resonance to it. Gentler. Amber closed her eyes, and for the briefest spell, she convinced herself she was actually at the beach, listening to the waves rushing over the shore.
Fingernails raked across Amber’s cheek.
Her eyes jolted open.
A low-hanging branch had brushed over her face, its needles scraping her skin.
“I want to go back. Please.”
There. She’d said it. The tone of her voice held no strength, though. No persistence. It was a whimper, a sound her mother abhorred. Whenever Amber talked in that voice, her mom would immediately respond in the exact same tone, only exaggerated to annoying effect.
Eeeeh, I’m hungry. I’m tired. I wanna go home.
Like a crybaby.
A big, fat, silly crybaby.
But Amber couldn’t help it. She was scared. Cold. And lost. She had no idea where they were anymore or how far they had gone. These woods felt endless. There were no contours, no dimension to this endless stretch of trees. It just kept going on and on. No hills, no clearings…
The pines suddenly opened.
Just like that. As if they had been listening to Amber’s thoughts.
A clearing.
The moon hung overhead, wrapped in a crown of quivering treetops. Nora stepped into the glade and immediately halted. She released Amber’s hand for the first time in an eternity. Amber brought her arm up and massaged her wrist. The feeling of her own cold skin sent shivers down her spine. She’d gone so numb, her own flesh didn’t feel like it was hers.
Nora stood in the center of the clearing.
At the very heart of it.
Amber had yet to step into the opening, unsure of what she should do. Was she supposed to follow Nora? Her head kept spinning. She felt dizzy, released from Nora’s grip.
That was when she noticed the upturned earth.
All the dirt. So much soil.
It looked as if someone had dug a hole in the ground.
No. Not dug in.
Dug out.
The ground had opened from below, the dirt forced up in jagged mounds at either side of this gaping chasm. Something had clawed its way out from the ground.
From the dirt.
Nora stared at Amber. Waiting. Almost as if she were expecting something from Amber. Wanting something of her. Yearning. So much yearning.
What was she supposed to say? What was going on here?
“I want…” Amber started, only for her breath to catch in her throat. “I want…”
What was she going to say? What did she want? What did she really want?
“I want to go home.”
There. She’d said it.
Home. That’s exactly what Amber wanted.
She wanted to go home.
Nora breathed in, dragging the air through her ragged lungs, and responded in a voice that sounded nothing like Nora Lambert at all.
“Home.”
NINE
A warm swell spread down the inside of Amber’s leg and instantly chilled within the open air. It only dawned on her that she had wet herself when she felt that her knees were dripping. She hadn’t even realized it was happening, what her own body was doing, how it had reacted to the sound of Nora’s scraping voice, until it was too late. Far too late. The rest of her body had gone completely rigid, her spine now ramrod straight—but everything housed within her bones, all the organs and squishy stuff coiled inside Amber, seemed to unspool all at once.
That wasn’t Nora Lambert. It had never been Nora Lambert.
This was someone else. Something else.
All this time.
The cemetery.
The walk through the woods.
Holding hands with it.
Talking to it.
Trusting it.
A low mewling sound escaped from Amber’s throat. She couldn’t stop herself from moaning. It was too much. All of this was too much. She was just a girl. Just a little girl.
A crybaby.
It was—
It—
Ella Louise Ford reached her hand out to Amber once more, repeating the word.
“Home…”
It sounded so wet. Much too wet. The word slipped over her shriveled tongue. The breath supporting its intonations was so sibilant.
Words shouldn’t sound that way. They should never sound so sodden.
Certainly not the word home.
>
But there was a yearning in Ella Louise. She was imploring with Amber. Entreating with the little girl to understand something that such a young girl couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Her own fragile fabric of reality refused to unravel and accept that the woman before her was dead. Long since dead. She had been in the ground for years now. Years. Rotting away. Waiting.
Ella Louise stepped forward, holding out her hand to Amber. “Home.”
There was love in that one word.
There was hope.
And dirt. So much dirt clogged in her windpipe.
Amber stepped back. She stepped away from the heap of scorched bones that belonged to Ella Louise Ford.
Ella’s neck cricked to her shoulder, like a curious dog tilting its head to one side. She didn’t understand this. Why would Jessica suddenly retreat like this? After they’d come so far…
“No,” Amber croaked, and took another step back. She was shaking her head, no, no, no, no, unable to stop herself. Tears wormed their way through the latex, ungluing the prosthetic appliances along her cheeks. The burns were already peeling free from her face. “Please…”
Ella Louise lumbered toward her. Her unhinged limbs swung at her sides, as if whatever corporeal force had been holding her together was now slowly losing its grip. Her movements were awkward, clumsy, like a tattered rag doll struggling to pick itself up and hold itself upright, all on its own. Each new step took more effort than the one before, looking as if it hurt to move.
But she kept coming closer. Closer. She refused to stop, no matter how much it pained her.
“Home…”
Amber took another step back.
And another.
“Don’t…” Amber’s foot found an uplifted root, sending her toppling backward. She felt as if she were suspended in the air, her free fall going on for an eternity, like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. She might fall forever, she thought, and never hit the ground.
When she landed on her backside, the sudden jolt electrified her lungs. The air rushed into her chest, sharp and cold, like a hundred pine needles piercing her diaphragm.
Amber screamed.
Amber screamed so loud, so abruptly, it echoed into the woods and never came back.
The woods woke. All the pines bristled at the sound of her voice.
And shivered.
What was left of Ella Louise Ford’s eyes only glared. There was hurt in them. Moments before, they had been full of love, of longing, but now—now they were cold, cracked porcelain.
Now they were dead.
Truly dead.
Amber turned herself over and clawed at the earth. Her fingernails dug into the dirt as she pulled herself back up, her legs thrusting her body off the ground and leaping into the air.
She was running. Running so fast.
Amber never looked back.
Couldn’t look back.
Not at her.
Not at—
“Home.” Amber heard the word once more just over her shoulder, as she raced into the dense canopy of pine trees. The word itself curled into her ear. She swore she felt the cold, decrepit breath that had sent the word along its merry way, through the air and into her mind.
She couldn’t stop herself from repeating the word over and over again in her head.
Home.
Home.
Home.
The pines seemed thicker now. More packed together. Amber felt the branches scrape over her face. Those needles, all those pine needles, clawing at her skin. Scraping her makeup away. Until they dug into her own flesh. Her real flesh.
She wouldn’t stop running. No matter what.
No matter what.
Just keep running. Run all the way home.
Home.
Home.
Home.
The word was in her head now, inescapable, echoing through her skull, an earworm curling through the lobe and burrowing into her brain and chewing within.
Leaves crackled behind her. There was a familiar dragging sound. Something heavy scraping over the ground. A foot. Ella Louise was following her, chasing her. Right behind her.
Amber picked up her pace. Her lungs were burning. The cold air had left her throat raw.
Run.
Run.
Run—
The very last thing Amber heard before running straight into the trunk of a conifer and smashing her face, shattering her nose and blacking out completely, was Ella Louise calling her—
Home.
TEN
It was nearing three in the morning. Production had halted over two hours ago. Two, going on three goddamn hours. The crew had all dropped what they were doing to look for—
“Amber?”
The gaffer should’ve been setting up the final shot for the night, but no, instead he was searching the cemetery along with the rest of his team. When no one could find her hiding behind any of the tombstones, the cast and crew all took to the woods, weaving through the trees with their flashlights like some motley search party. The master electrician. The grip. The wardrobe assistant. Makeup. His DP. Even Nora was out here, fucking saint that she was. She wasn’t even on the call sheet for tonight’s shoot, and yet here she was, on set to show her support to her succubus of a co-star. She’d grabbed a flashlight along with everybody else, calling out for—
“Amber?”
They’d never make their shot list now. Thrown right out the window. All the scenes he was supposed to shoot tonight, all those pages—up in smoke. Burned to a crisp. Sabotaged by—
“Amber?”
She was ruining everything. Ruining his movie. This girl was going to deep-six the whole fucking film before he could finish it. Before he could show the world and tell Jessica’s story.
Ketchum was close to finishing the film.
So close.
He could feel it. It was a similar sensation to swimming underwater and racing back up to the surface just when the oxygen in your lungs begins to burn. The surface is so close, so close you can see it, yet the rest of your body can’t wait and is beginning to revolt. The back of your throat. Your chest. Your ribs.
All his body wanted was air…
To breathe.
He was just tired. So tired. He hadn’t slept in days. Probably weeks by now. It certainly felt that way. He hadn’t gotten a solid night’s rest since shooting started. Not since coming back to Pilot’s Creek. The pine needles always bristled in his ear, like static from a television set. He’d wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if he’d left the TV on. Whenever he made his way back to his hotel room after an endless day of shooting and he’d crash in bed and close his eyes, that rustling sound washed over his eardrums, like a wire brush stroking over a snare, keeping him awake.
Just a couple more days of production left. Just a few more rolls in the can and the film would be complete. Nothing else mattered. Not anymore.
He’d come so far. Just another day, two days, and he’d have all the footage he needed.
Now he just needed to find—
“Amber?”
Just needed—
“Aaaaammmmbeeerrrrrrrr?” He might as well have been howling at the moon—wherever it had gone. His dull inflection came back to him as others called the girl’s name.
“Aaaam…”
“…berrrr…”
“Aaaam…”
“…berrrr…”
Her name didn’t sound real anymore. The letters had already lost their elasticity. Their aural shape. How many times had he called out for her? His voice was so hoarse. There was no concern left. No tender intonation that would compel this bratty kid to come crawling out from whatever hidey-hole she was curled up in.
Hiding from him, he just knew it. The little witch.
“Amber?”
&nbs
p; Perhaps he was some fairy-tale beast. An ogre prowling the forest for Little Red Child Actress. He couldn’t keep the anger from rising in his throat. Taking over. But what else was left of him? Look at what she’d done. Production had halted. Shooting had halted. The crew had completely abandoned their posts. The cast’s costumes were all covered in shit. They’d need to be retouched by hair and makeup, but by then the sun would be coming up. And for what? Because some cunt couldn’t remember her lines.
The deeper into the woods he went, the more that grim, singular revelation took root.
It’s already over. Done. It’s all ruined.
His movie was ruined.
Most of the film was in the can. Could he shoot around her? Film the rest of Nora’s scenes without her? He could slip a costume on a PA and shoot her from over the shoulder. Make it look like Jessica from behind. He could cobble some B-roll together and fill out the last few scenes.
What other choice did he have? What other options did she leave him?
“Amber!”
Of course he wanted to find her. Find her first. Find her before her vexing wench of a mother stumbled upon her. The two had been walking side by side for a while. As the director, the captain of this sinking ship, he had to console her, swearing up and down that they’d find her daughter. Ms. Pendleton had been blubbering on and on about something or other. The words simply weren’t there for him. He wasn’t listening to her, not anymore. Not since they’d entered the woods. He’d held her hand for a while in some half-assed conciliatory gesture. There, there, Ms. Pendleton, we’ll find your daughter, don’t you worry, she has to be out here somewhere…But she clenched his wrist, digging her lacquered fingernails into his skin. There was a pearly shine to her manicure, even out here in the moonless woods. Whenever his flashlight caught her nails, the beam illuminated them like teeth. A big white smile. Biting his hand.
Ketchum eventually broke away from her. Left her behind. She was slowing him down. Dragging him down. He picked up his pace until the sound of her steps faded into the trees.
Because let’s be honest with ourselves here, Ketchum mused. Of course he wanted to find Amber—not because he wanted to be the one to rescue her. He wanted to strangle her. Squeeze the life right out of her. Nothing was going to get in the way of him telling his story.
The Remaking Page 9
