The flight was a blur. Thank God. I can’t even remember where we landed. I had carefully scheduled my complete med intake for all eight weeks of principal photography.
Eight weeks. That was downright unheard of for the original film. When we did it the first time, we barely had three weeks for the whole production, pickups and reshoots included.
Ketchum had to scramble to film as much coverage as he could with those last couple days without his Jessica, praying he’d gotten enough footage, realizing he hadn’t, forced to edit around the potholed plot holes in his own storyline and pray the critics didn’t call him out on it. But of course they did. Every review hammered Ketchum on the lapses in logic. The glaring inconsistencies. The downright contradictions in narrative. His ghost story without a ghost.
And yet, against all odds, the film had something…else. An otherness that no one, not even Ketchum, had accounted for at the time.
There was ambience.
There was tone.
A celluloid fog hung over nearly every angle. All those ponderous shots of nature. The countryside at dawn. The sun sinking into the surrounding trees. The granulated glow of the moon, seeping through the saturated 16mm. The glacial pace cast a spell over the viewer, which in truth was the effect of obnoxiously long takes to pad the running time.
Gradually, over time, there would be a reappraisal of Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave. Critics slowly came around to it. Not overnight, and definitely not all of them.
But some.
Enough.
Even Ebert took back his original assassination and rebranded Jessica as “a tone poem more than a horror movie. A ghost story where the ghosts aren’t in sheets and rattling chains but lingering within the very celluloid. The movie itself feels haunted.”
That ghost was coming back to haunt audiences again, thanks to Sergio. Thanks to…
I Know What You Did on Jessica’s Grave.
Imagine a ghost under a white sheet with holes cut out for its eyes, but instead of a blanket, it uses a movie screen.
I need to face that ghost. Head-on. Time to take back my story from Jessica before it’s too late. Before some other poor child succumbs to her family. If I can just keep it together long enough to make it through the shoot. That meant pacing myself. Doling out the benzodiazepine at an even clip. Not too much, not too little. Like Goldilocks, my treatment had to be just right.
The studio wanted to set up camp in Vancouver. They’d save a million in production costs if Canada could double as Small Town, USA, like every other film did these days.
But Sergio wasn’t having it. He demanded they shoot in Virginia. Right here in Pilot’s Creek. The balls on this boy! He could care less about tax incentives. He wanted to film where the original had filmed. Where the real story took place. For authenticity’s sake, he insisted.
Fifteen million. The budget for the original had been south of two hundred thousand dollars. Ketchum could have made almost a hundred movies with the budget for this remake.
Sergio convinced the studio they wouldn’t need to build anything. Pilot’s Creek was already here, just waiting for them. It was a production designer’s wet dream. Everything had already been constructed. The shuttered storefronts. The ramshackle houses. The dilapidated cemetery. The grave of Jessica Ford was wrapped in its rusted fence of soldered crosses. The Pilot’s Creek from the script had been reared into existence decades ago, impeccably weatherworn and aged to perfection, sinking into the soil with every passing day. Waiting.
The locals took in the crew with a resigned sense of complacency. Their most famous resident was buried below hundreds of pounds of cement. The only reason anyone ever talked about Pilot’s Creek was because of Jessica. If it weren’t for this town’s actions, their sins, nobody would know this flyspeck on the map even existed.
I wondered if they would remember me. If anyone would ever remember me.
How could they forget?
Production overtook Pilot’s Creek. The townspeople offered no resistance. Imagine a small army of electricians and C-list celebrities swooping in and ransacking this sleepy southern town. The rigs rolled up with their equipment like the circus had just arrived. To the people of Pilot’s Creek, it might as well have been a circus. There hadn’t been this much activity here since—
Not since—
I haven’t left the motel yet. Can’t.
Not just yet.
I need to pace my panic attacks. Baby steps. One hurdle at a time. Now that I’ve gotten over the flight, I have to settle in. A stint at the Henley Road Motel off Route 60 wasn’t the worst lodgings I’d ever found myself in. If I’m not mistaken, this was where we stayed the first time we filmed this movie. Same room. At least, I think I’m staying in the same room. They’ve all blurred together by now. We were given two adjoining rooms back then. Mom was supposed to stay next door, but most nights we slept in the same bed. Especially after filming a scary scene. Mom had to hold me through most of the night, until I finally drifted off to sleep.
Nothing has changed here. The rooms look exactly the same. The sun-sapped curtains still look like muscle tissue. I think they’d been red before. Now they’re a dull pulpy orange. Rotten meat hanging from the windows. Sheets of sinew.
Every so often, there comes a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my hotel door. Most of the time I won’t answer. But Sergio keeps knocking at night. He waits until it’s late. When he thinks nobody is listening. He’s even come up with a secret knock. Our own little code. Knock-swipe, knock-swipe, knock-knock-knock.
He stayed until dawn last night.
Talking about the movie.
His vision.
“Come with me to the cemetery tomorrow,” he begged. God, his eyes. His boyish eyes. Cobalt blue. Who was he even looking at? He was staring right at me, pleading with those baby blues, but who does he see? Who was that woman?
“I don’t think so…”
“Why not?”
“I’ve still got to go over my lines and…”
“Bullshit. I wrote the script. You can say whatever you want to say.”
“I should probably rest while I still can…”
“Please. Please? I want to see Jessica’s grave with you. Don’t make me go there alone. I need you by my side. Jessica might get ticked if I show up alone, without you.”
“Fine,” I managed. “I’ll come.”
I should’ve said no. Should’ve resisted. Here it was, the next morning. I had less than an hour before his car would pull in and pick me up and take me to—
Take me—
I’ve kept the windows closed ever since I checked in, leaving the TV set on through the night to drown out whatever sounds might try seeping their way into my room.
I have been, how should I say this…hearing things. Things I don’t particularly care to be hearing. Things I know shouldn’t be there. I half imagined Mom was still in the room next to mine. If I had the same room, maybe she did, too. Maybe she was still there? Waiting for me?
A pair of internal doors connected our two rooms. When I opened mine, I knew I would be greeted by another door, locked from the other side, so I couldn’t open it and barge in. I never quite understood the reason for these doors, such useless doors that nobody really uses. When it had been me and Mom, we left them open, expanding our private space.
I had no idea who was next door now.
Over there.
I went ahead and pressed my ear against it. Listened in. I couldn’t be sure if I heard the sound of a TV from the other side or not. I thought I heard someone walking into the bathroom.
Turning on the faucet.
“Mom?” I called out. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I was thinking. It just came spilling out of me. My silly mouth. I immediately felt like an idiot, but the damage was done.
Just
as I pulled my ear back, away from the paneling, and was about to close the—
There was a knock.
Someone knocked on the internal door.
From the other side.
I leapt back. Staring at the door, I waited to see if the knock would come again.
But nothing.
Nothing.
The door opened.
The young woman from next door realized she had startled me. She had one of those overly emotive faces, where every sensation plays out in a dizzying array of fireworks. Her tan seeped into her lips until it bled across the vermillion border.
“Sorry, sorry.” She winced. “Didn’t mean to scare you—”
The woman cut herself off. She gasped, holding the pose. Her eyes widened as she began to fan her face with one hand, her mouth still hanging open. A squeal giddily built itself up within her throat. “Oh my God,” she screeched. “I am such a big fan! It is such a huge honor to be working with you, Miss Pendleton! Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave is one of my all-time faves…”
She took my hand in hers, both of hers, wrapping my fist into a protective cocoon of her own manicured fingers. She gave me a good tug into her hotel room before hugging me.
“We’re practically roomies! How insane is that?!”
I had absolutely no idea who this woman was. I lost myself in the disarray of her room. All the clothes strewn about and gutted luggage. There had to be a dozen suitcases open along the floor, their sequined insides spilling everywhere. How long had she been staying here?
“I haven’t been making too much noise, have I?” She asked, still hugging me. I hadn’t reciprocated, I realized, my arms held out at my sides as this woman kept squeezing.
She wouldn’t let go.
“No,” I finally said.
“Whew. Good. What a relief.” She released me and fell back onto her bed. “The producers rented some farmhouse for me, but as soon as I got there, I was all like, creeeeepsville. No, thanks. So…here I am.” She smiles, her irradiated teeth beaming back at me. “Here we are, roomie.”
I’m supposed to say something. I know I should say something.
But the words aren’t there.
“Oops. Sorry. I’m Jenna.” Her hand darts out, ready to take mine. “Jenna Handley.”
Jesus Christ, I think. She’s the Mouseketeer.
She’s in the goddamn movie.
Our final girl.
“Of course.” I manage a smile, taking her hand. “Of course. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m…Amber. Amber Pendleton.”
“I know who you are, obviously. Everyone knows who you are. You’re like…the guest of honor.” She snorts ever so daintily with that cute button nose, reminding me of Elizabeth Montgomery. A teen Tabitha. “It must be so crazy. Being back here. Doing this all over again.”
“You got that right.”
What does this Mouseketeer want from me? Are we going to have a slumber party now? Are we going to braid each other’s hair? Stay up all night talking about our crushes?
Are we going to watch horror movies together? Pop a video in the VCR and munch on popcorn in our pajamas and scare ourselves silly until we jump at the slightest sound outside?
Are we going to watch Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave?
What does she want from me?
“I was thinking of grabbing some breakfast. Takeout from the diner. But I, um, I haven’t figured out how to call out on my motel phone. Do you know how to reach the front desk?”
This girl has had everything done for her. Cooked for her. Cleaned for her.
Prescribed for her.
Maybe there’s a potential friendship blossoming here after all.
“Bet you’re already getting up to no good here, aren’t you?”
She looked genuinely concerned. “What do you mean?”
“No paparazzi in Pilot’s Creek, now, is there? Seems like you can have some fun. Let your hair down. Get wild and crazy with the farm boys.”
She avoids the insinuation. “It is such an honor to be working with you. You have no idea how many times I’ve watched and rewatched the original Jessica. Just to get into the right mind-set, you know? I feel like I really understand the story now.”
“Come on,” I press. “Don’t be coy. I’m talking about after the day’s done. Cutting loose. I bet you kids brought along a little something extra to help unwind…Right?”
She looks like a tangerine chihuahua to me. The slope of her broad forehead. Her saucer eyes seem just a little bit too big for the rest of her head, growing wider. “What d’you mean?”
“That squeaky-clean image isn’t so spotless, is it?” I sit next to her at the edge of her bed. She has to have a little something buried at the bottom of one of these suitcases. “Your secret’s safe. I won’t tell a soul. Did you bring some party favors with you?”
I should’ve noticed the gold crucifix wrapped around her neck. My mind lapsed back to all the crosses wrapped around Jessica’s grave as Jenna Handley, virgin megastar, Miss Purity Power, Miss Abstinence absent-mindedly touched her own with her fingers. Clutching it. To give her strength.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Pendleton,” she says.
Very evenly, I might add.
I heard the lock to her inner door click the second she closed it behind me, sealing me out.
The rest of the cast looked so young. So innocent, even though I bet they fucked like bunnies. Even their skin looked as fresh as newly fallen snow. A homogenized wholesomeness. So soft. They looked so familiar to me, even if I could never pin down where I would have seen them before. They came from that show. Or that other thing. You know the show I’m talking about. We’ve all seen it. They were born into show business, acting since they were babies. They felt unreal. Like they weren’t actually real. Test tube stars. They had been genetically bred to optimize their performance abilities.
The plasticine efficiency of this new generation of child star unnerved me. I can’t imagine what their mothers were like. Did they even have stage mothers anymore? Or were they all raised in some laboratory for actors?
Stepford children. All of them. And here I was, the Old Guard. My presence on set was as the torchbearer. My good-luck charm, Sergio called me, sounding an awful lot like he meant to say keepsake.
Let’s be honest with ourselves here, shall we? My part is a trumped-up cameo. I know that. Jenna Handley knows that. The rest of the cast knows that. It’s no big secret. My screen time would be relegated to the pre-credits teaser and then at the very end. I’m here to establish the backstory. I’d pop up at the film’s terrifying climax, rising out from the grave.
My involvement in the project is supposed to put the fans at ease. Let them all know their film is in good hands. A fan’s hands, just like them.
Their sweating, slithering hands.
Have no fear, dear fans, the studio wanted to say through me, your movie is not some callous cash-in. We’re taking this remake extremely seriously. Fear not, we’re handling your Jessica with care. See who we’ve got? It’s none other than the original Jessica Ford herself…
The one, the only…Amber Pendleton! How’s that for stunt casting?!
Just a joke. I was nothing but a joke.
I didn’t deserve this part. It’s not like I had gotten it because I was right for the role. I hadn’t nailed the audition. I nailed the director, for fuck’s sake.
But the story needed me. Or maybe I just needed this story.
I needed Jessica.
EIGHT
Horror is dead. The fans have been griping about it for years. Nothing but the same canned slasher narratives told over and over again. Sequels are all direct-to-video now. Even I knew these pale imitations had squeezed whatever last drops of blood their franchises had left. The killers all punned. The fans were fatig
ued. Critics didn’t review these movies anymore. The studios never held press screenings anyhow, knowing they’d be eviscerated. How many times could these films bring the same supernatural serial killer back from the dead, just to slash through another batch of stock characters, only for the final girl to save the day and start the process over again?
Mix, repeat.
Mix, repeat.
Mix…
But Sergio worships these sequels. Even the god-awful ones. Particularly the god-awful ones! He studies them as if they’re masterworks. He can quote them, line for line. He wrote his senior thesis paper on Friday the 13th: A New Beginning. He doesn’t make a value judgment over high or low art. To him, these movies are everything. He’s a fan.
A fan a fan Jesus Christ he was a fan…
Horror is dead? Long live horror!
Viva la Jessica!
The studio couldn’t care less about I Know What You Did on Jessica’s Grave. They let Sergio do whatever he wanted. As long as he came in on time, on budget, they wouldn’t even bother watching the dailies. What was fifteen million to them? Just a drop in the bucket. That was barely the equivalent of the catering budget for one of their action flicks.
But Sergio is obsessed with his remake. His rendition of Jessica. His love letter to her. He needs it to be perfect. It’s vital to him that the DNA of the original Jessica remain intact.
“The soul of Jessica is still there,” Sergio says, sitting next to me in the back of his rental car, “because you’ll be there. You are the lifeblood of this project, Amber. You are my movie.”
This was wrong of me. Being with him. Sleeping with the director, Christ. Such a cliché.
I am his muse, he says.
His muse.
When was the last time I inspired anything out of anyone?
No more hippies. Cassandra and Moonbeam or whatever the hell her name was have been replaced by a group of erudite teens who were raised on a steady diet of horror films. These kids speak in a lingo steeped in Fangoria. A horror patois. They know all there is to know about serial killers and creepy ghost kids because they’ve seen every last slasher film there is to see. They’re genre savants. They still do all the stupid-kid-stuff stupid kids did in horror movies, of course. The toking up. The premarital sex. But when these idiots do these very idiotic things, they comment on the fact that they’re doing them, referencing them while doing them. These characters can somehow critique the very movie they’re in.
The Remaking Page 15
