Nothing.
Not the producers or the financiers. Most certainly not some kid. Some whining, crying, pleading little kid who couldn’t remember her fucking lines.
Didn’t she see how important this was? Couldn’t Amber understand how special she was? How she’d been chosen for this immense task? This awe-inspiring mission? She had been picked! Hand-selected over all the others…So many others. It was her that Jessica had wanted. The casting director had narrowed it down to three choices for Ketchum to mull over. Three headshots. Three freckle-nosed, sandy-blond-haired girls smiling up at him from their glossies.
Ketchum glanced at the first girl.
Flipped to the second.
When he first laid eyes on Amber, holding her headshot between his fingers, the faintest breath spread over the back of his neck.
Her.
A whisper. Barely even a breath.
Her.
Ketchum knew. He knew he’d found her.
Found his Jessica.
Didn’t that mean anything to her? Amber had been given the opportunity of a lifetime, the awesome responsibility to inhabit the role of Jessica. Bring her to life again. Tell her story.
Hadn’t he made it easy for her? The lines were so simple. A child could recite them. That was the whole goddamn point! He had written the script in a fever dream. It had poured out of him—so why couldn’t she just do her part and say the words the way they were meant to be said? The way they were intended to be heard?
“AMBER!”
Ketchum wasn’t thinking clearly. The low drone of a migraine thrummed through his skull. Or maybe it was a hangover. His thoughts weren’t his own anymore. Stumbling out here when he could be making his movie. The flashlights swept through the woods. Their beams reached in every direction, passing over the trees. Ketchum couldn’t tell if he was imagining it or not, but in his eyes, he saw that the flashlights were swaying in a figure-eight motion, arcing overhead and then circling back and doing it all over again.
Like searchlights. Spotlights. As if this were all a movie premiere.
His premiere.
Ketchum could see it now. See it very clearly. The woods receded, as if the branches themselves were a curtain parting. Splitting just for him. Showing him opening night.
The waving beams of a carbon arc lamp streaked through the sky, slicing at the air overhead. Brighter than the moon.
His limo pulled up before the theater. The red carpet was waiting for him. The moment he stepped out, he spotted the marquee. His name in lights. Next to Jessica’s.
The stars. The stars were all out tonight. For him. Him and his movie.
He had to find Amber. Find her and finish this.
Ketchum followed the spotlights. They kept sweeping through the air. It didn’t even seem as if they were coming from his flashlight anymore. They burned, burned with an intensity that led him along, deeper into the woods.
Ketchum walked down the red carpet. A mile’s worth of blood leading him into the picture house. His premiere was waiting for him. The show was about to start.
The applause. It was faint, at first. Soft, like waves. No, not waves—needles. Pine needles. They bristled all around him. Clapping just for him. The director is here! Bravo! Bravo!
When he stepped into the clearing, Ketchum expected to see every last seat in the theater filled. The tuxedos and gowns. The glitter. The house lights would dim and the film would begin.
But the clearing was empty.
Nothing but grass.
Where was he? The flashlight in his hand felt heavier than ever. He couldn’t hold on to it anymore. It slipped, slipped right through his fingers. It fell to the ground and didn’t make a sound.
The beam stretched across the clearing and found something pale. White petals. A flower wilting at the wrist.
A hand.
A girl’s hand. Rising out from the ground. The surrounding dirt appeared to have been disturbed very recently. Whatever was buried below hadn’t been there for long.
“Oh,” someone said. “Oh God…” A woman pushed past Ketchum and rushed forward. He didn’t see who it was, hadn’t realized he had company.
Nora. She dropped to her knees and began clawing at the ground. Her jeans were now covered in mud as she unearthed this pale flower. This limp body half buried in the ground.
“Is she dead?” Ketchum heard himself ask, even if he wasn’t entirely convinced he was the one asking the question.
Nora brought Amber’s body up to her chest. She swept the dirt from her face. Soil spilled out from her lips. One of the girl’s arms flopped to the ground. She wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. Her eyes remained shut, the dirt still pocketed within her sockets.
“Don’t worry,” Nora whispered. Not to Ketchum, but to Amber. “I’ve got you. I’m going to take you back home.” The heartbreak in her voice was quite palpable. Award worthy.
Ketchum’s chest locked. A clenched sensation took over his lungs, like a seizure, his own ribs gripping his heart.
Love. He loved Amber in that moment. Loved that fucking little witch girl with all his heart. For everything she had done to him, every little miserable torture she’d put him, his film, through—if she was dead, actually dead, it would have all been worth it. Completely and utterly worth it.
Amber Pendleton had just saved his movie. Everyone would want to see it now.
Everyone would know Jessica.
Bless you, Amber…
Bless you.
PART THREE
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID ON JESSICA’S GRAVE 1995
EXT. CEMETERY—LATER THAT NIGHT
CASS, TOMMY, DREW, JADA and KEVIN wander along the graves, flashlights out.
JADA
I don’t think we should be here, guys…I got a real bad feeling about this.
Kevin gets straight into Jada’s personal space, holding his flashlight up to his face.
KEVIN
(Perfect Night of the Living Dead impersonation:)
“They’re coming to get you, Barbara…”
TOMMY
Dude. Cut that shit out. This isn’t another one of your stupid horror movies…
KEVIN
Case in point: It’s always the dumb macho jock waving around his johnson who ends up meeting a grisly fate first.
Mark my words, Tommy…You’re toast.
TOMMY
Your mouth is gonna meet my fist if you don’t can it, comprende?
Cass suddenly HALTS, her attention fixed on JESSICA FORD’S GRAVE. We know it’s her grave because it’s surrounded by a fence of rusted metal CRUCIFIXES.
DREW
Holy shit. It’s really her…Jessica Ford! I thought she was just an urban legend.
CASS
She’s real. The legend is real. And it’s almost twelve…They say, at exactly four minutes after midnight, you can see the spirit of Jessica Ford wandering along her grave, yearning to be reunited with her long-lost mother. But whatever you do, no matter how much she begs…never, ever, take hold of her hand. If you do…
KEVIN
…What? What happens?
CASS
She’ll drag you down into the ground. Into her grave. Forever.
TOMMY
As if. Come on, Cass…Nobody really believes that BS.
CASS
Oh yeah? Tell that to Jessica. In three minutes, you can meet her for your…Wait. Did you see that? Think I just saw someone. Behind the headstone. Oh. Oh God—
ONE
There are so many of them.
So many faces. Pale skinned. Larval-complexioned. They haven’t seen the sun in days. Maybe months. Hiding in the shadows. Lurking in whatever subterranean space they call home.
/> Their mother’s basements.
Their sex dungeons.
Their tombs.
They’ve seen me now. Oh God, their eyes. All those hollow eyes…Looking right at me. Staring. Not even blinking. Any of them. Gray eyes. So wide. Glassed over. Gummed up in something phlegmy, like oysters. Nothing but pearls of gray snot floating in each socket.
Now that they know I’m here—She’s here! She’s here!—they’ve all grown giddier. More agitated. I’ve stirred them up. Just my mere presence is enough to rouse them. The scent of me gets them excited. A charge of dead electricity ignites their dull eyes as they shuffle up closer.
Closer…
Closer…
There’s no escaping them now. It’s too late to run. To hide.
I’m trapped.
Just go away go away just please make them all go away—
They keep coming. Lumbering up to me, one right after another.
Closer…
Closer.
A horde. A mindless, shambling horde. Mostly men. Always men.
Where do they all come from?
Why are they here?
What do they want from me? Ogling me with those dead stares. Those mucosal, oyster eyes. Please I can’t do this I can’t do this don’t make me do this I can’t I can’t I just can’t—
There have to be a hundred of them. Maybe more. I’ve lost count. I can’t see the end of the line. Just when I think they’re gone, that it’s finally, finally over, I look up and see more.
And more.
More.
All of them reaching out for me. Trying to touch me. Grab me. Those hands. Their fingernails gnawed through. Raw pink cuticles.
Always bring antibacterial hand sanitizer, I’ve learned. Stock up. Never leave home without it. I always have a little bottle in my fanny pack, ready to pull out before I embark upon shaking these hands by the hundreds. Strangers’ hands. Greasy little sausage fingers. All of them reaching out for me. Taking hold. Squeezing. Warm cold cuts slipping and sliding across my skin. Never take a whiff of your fingers after a con because it’ll smell worse than a deli counter after the power’s gone out during a heat wave. I’d swear one of these fans slipped me a bologna sandwich when I wasn’t looking.
“It’s, uh…It’s an honor, Miss Pendleton.”
I smile. Have to smile. But inside I’m screaming. One long, drawn out, internal yet eternal shriek.
“Could you make it out to John, please?”
I smile. Nod. Yes, of course.
To John. My #1 fan.
I can’t keep my hand from shaking.
Don’t fall apart on me. Not now. You can do this. It’s almost over.
Only one more hour to go.
My contract said I’d only have to sign from noon until three, but that doesn’t stop the line from stretching on and on and on. If you cut them off, if you send your fans home without signing their VHS box covers or their posters or their T-shirts or their own flesh, if you don’t give them exactly what they want…they will haunt you. Come back to you. Accost you. Word gets out that you’re difficult. That you’re a genre prima donna. And then you have nothing. Nothing. And I’m already dangerously close to rock bottom. Most actresses bring their boyfriends to help set up their booths. Me, I had to park my Volvo thirty blocks away from the convention center just so I wouldn’t have to pay eighty bucks in a lot, schlepping my headshots the whole way here. I’m thirty-three years old—fine, thirty-four—and nobody’s carrying my swag for me. No significant other on hand to help arrange the booth, deal with the bank, keep the line moving smoothly. Nobody makes sure the fans don’t slow things down with too much small talk. Just get their autograph and go. Next. It’s just me, setting up and signing, signing, signing until the line finally goes away.
Until they all go away.
Sign and smile.
Smile…
The pen trembles. I can hardly read my own handwriting anymore. It doesn’t even look like my name, so abstract to me now. Every letter has a serrated edge to it, like the jagged line on a heart-rate monitor from someone in the midst of a coronary, spiking and plummeting.
There, I say to myself. You did it. You got through it. One more autograph down. Only…
Fifty-seven more minutes to go.
Fifty-six.
Fifty-five.
Fifty-four.
Klonopin is a godsend. Those tranqs get me straight through the day. To all you up-and-coming scream queenies out there, a little word of advice: Get a prescription for that, ASAP, if you know what’s good for yourself. My medications have evolved over the years, going back to you-know-when, thanks to Mom and her own half-assed stabs at salvaging my childhood. What little was left of it. Wasn’t until I began foraging through the pharmaceutical sphere on my own, somewhere around, oh, say, twelve, that I came upon klonnies. Pop a couple K-pins and the line of fans loses its edge. I try to make sure I’m finished with my photo-opping for the day before taking one. No panels or any speaking engagements, because those benzies will knock you out. K-ooh. Makes your mouth all mushy. Your tongue’s suddenly a hundred pounds heavier. At first, I figured I was speaking coherently. I could even hear the words coming in loud and clear in my own ear…But to the fans, the convention organizers, my fellow panelists, I was nothing but a mealymouthed mess. Just a faux-Gucci-clad cow chewing her tongue in front of everyone.
Now I only take half a Klonopin before beginning my signings. Otherwise I might not remember what I said and to whom I said it. Too many black holes to fall through. The second half I save, as a treat for myself, at the end of the day. When it’s all over. Finally over. When I want to forget.
Not to mention the doxepin for depression. The diazepam for dozing off during all the sleepless nights. The Ritalin for cutting through the fog. And the ergotamine for migraines.
I’d be remiss if my travel nips were left off the list, along with a half gallon of coffee and Lord knows how many cigarettes to get me through the rest of the day. To keep me balanced.
Keep me sane.
Next in line is a family of three. They shuffle up, beaming, prodding their daughter up to my table. She’s just a girl.
Just a child.
“Hi, Miss Pendleton,” her father says. “It’s such an honor to meet you…”
“Huge honor,” her mother adds. Both parents have stuffed themselves into a T-shirt screen-printed with a different horror movie. Movies I’ve never heard of. That I’ll never, ever subject myself to. Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things and Don’t Torture a Duckling.
But their daughter. Good God, they’ve dressed their daughter up to look like me.
Just like Jessica.
Scorched skin. Burnt cheeks. Hair in calcinated clumps, a sea urchin of cinders. Her dress has been spray-painted with black spots, masquerading as ash. It’s a pale comparison to the actual costume I wore. The makeup is nowhere near as authentic. One close look and I can see where the prosthetics are glued onto her cheeks. The fake burn on her forehead is peeling off, revealing her real skin. That tender pink. She silently stares back at me, unsure what to say.
The girl can’t be any older than nine, for Christ’s sake.
She’s just a child.
Just a child.
She didn’t ask for this. Nobody that age ever asks for this type of abuse. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be dressed up in this crappy costume—but her parents, Christ, her own flesh and blood, thought it would be a gas to subject their kid to this fanatical act of public humiliation. To mortify her in front of everyone for their own perverted pleasure.
I can’t stop staring at her.
Like looking in a mirror. A mirror of me as a—
girl
I’m losing the soft focus of my surroundings. That cozy cushion in my cranium. T
he Klonopin is ebbing. The edges of everything are starting to sharpen again. Knives in my temples.
I’m looking into a mirror, at my reflection, but I have to remind myself that the image of me staring back isn’t me…
It’s Jessica.
Her dad clears his throat. “We’ve watched Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave together, uh…I don’t know how many times.” He chuckles as he says it, too. He’s so nervous, he can’t help but bray. Nobody mistakes Jessica for a classic. It’s niche at best. Niche within niche. On a scale of one to ten—one being Shriek of the Mutilated and ten being The Exorcist—the scrappy obscurity I have found myself imprisoned within lands somewhere in the three to four range.
But it has its followers. And they are legion. Devoted to the very end. Whenever I ask why, and believe me, I’m always asking why—Why this movie? Why me?—the answer from the fans is always some variation of the same refrain: It just spoke to me, you know? It felt real.
What I can’t help but hear, in my head, whether these fans say it or not, is:
There’s a ghost in there. Somewhere in the movie…You can just feel it.
Can’t you feel it? Feel her? Inside the movie?
Inside you?
This father is still talking to me. I have to snap back. Pay attention. Smile. “I’ve watched it probably, like a hundred times,” he says, “by myself, but now we all watch it. The whole fam.”
“Oh.” What else can I say? I smile, feigning gratitude, but I’m already calculating the years in my head. These parents had to be in their early twenties. Maybe younger. They must have had their daughter when they were still in their teens. Seventeen? Sixteen? Jesus, fifteen?
Kids having kids.
“I first watched it when I was five,” the mom adds. “So we figured it was about time to watch it with her.”
Her.
This poor girl is trapped between her mom and dad, gripping her mother’s hand. She won’t let go. I’m stuck sitting behind my table, so I’m eye-to-eye with her, staring at this poor rendition of Jessica. She’s in a costume she doesn’t want to wear, pretending to be someone she doesn’t want to be.
The Remaking Page 10
