“What do you recommend?”
“Recommend?” It’s clear she doesn’t like the word one bit, tasting it in her mouth before spitting it back out. “Don’t matter much to me. Order what you want.”
“How about a coffee for starters?”
Her back is already to me as she mutters, “Suits me just fine.”
I turn to the old man again, just to make sure the fogey is still there. That I didn’t make him up. Sure enough, he hasn’t moved. At all. He still remains in the same position as before, hands still buried below the table, still hovering above that cup of coffee. Nowhere near drinking it. His clothes hang a little too loose for his frame, as if he’s shrunk down a size since first purchasing them. Or maybe he raided the Salvation Army for them. They look like hand-me-down attire. Moth-eaten flannel shirt, wrinkled collar, a missing button or two.
A scarecrow.
That’s what he reminds me of. This man’s spine must be a broomstick. His lopsided head is a pillowcase stuffed with straw, ready to tumble off his own wooden neck.
There’s no way that could be a man.
The waitress ambles back with a half-empty pot and pours me a cup. I watch the grit swirl around the bottom of the glass urn. Not the freshest brew. I take a sip and manage to swallow it. Somehow. Tastes burnt. Rancid acid flushes my stomach. This pot has probably been sitting on the burner since this morning when she first opened, scorching the flavor out.
“Anything else?”
Time to slip into action. “I was thinking about going on one of these ghost girl tours…Which one do you recommend?”
“All the same, if you’re asking me.” She leans one hip against the counter, plucking another pencil from her hair. What happened to the last one? “You hungry or is coffee gonna be all?”
I smile, fighting back the black acid rising up from my stomach. “Guess it must get pretty grating, huh? All these tourists swooping in. Snapping pictures of witches and whatnot. I bet you’ve seen your fill of strange folks flocking around town.”
“Way of the world, I reckon.”
“Yes, well, if the world has witches in it…But you don’t believe in witches, do you?”
The waitress doesn’t respond. Only stares back with a dull expression that’s enough of a retort to my inquiry. She looks tired. Not because of her shift, but the weight of this town. The gravitational pull of the grave has dragged the bags under her eyes down, down, all the way down her cheekbones. Her flesh is slowly falling straight off her face.
“I was wondering if you might tell me a little bit about Amber Pendleton,” I say.
“What’s to tell?”
“I’d imagine quite a lot.”
“Says who?”
“I’m sorry.” I regroup, still maintaining that smile. “You must get this all the time. Forgive me.” I have a twenty under my palm. I slide my hand across the table, closer to the waitress’s apron. She regards my fingers without much of any fluctuation in her expression.
“I’m working on a story,” I say. “About Pilot’s Creek. About Amber Pendleton.”
“You a reporter.” Not a question. Just a statement of fact.
“Something like that.”
“You is or you ain’t, so what are you? You a reporter or not?”
“I’m a journalist. I’d like to ask you some questions about Amber—”
The waitress walks away. Simply plows through the fanning doors leading to the kitchen and doesn’t come back.
So much for southern hospitality, I think. I’d love to see the Yelp reviews for this place.
“These woods whisper.”
Talk about a grizzled timbre. The voice comes from over my shoulder. Just at my back. I would’ve thought whoever said it was standing right behind me.
I spin back around and find no one there. Nobody else is in the diner, save for the old man in his booth. All the way at the far end of this empty space. He still hasn’t moved.
“People think nobody’s listening,” the scarecrow says to no one. “But that’s not true. The trees listen. Always listening. The woods know what the people of Pilot’s Creek have done.”
“Excuse me?”
“Every last romantic tryst. The suicides. The lynchings. You name it. These trees will testify to them. These woods have witnessed it all…”
Secrets. He’s talking about secrets.
This town’s deepest, darkest truths.
I grab my Olympus and coffee and rush over to the booth. Slide right on into the upholstered seat facing this ancient husk of a human being and place the recorder before him.
The man doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice. Or move. His body remains upright, that broomstick of a backbone holding the rest of his weary self, refusing to let him fall.
Now I can finally get a good look at the man.
Up close.
He has more wrinkles than actual features to his face. A constellation of liver spots crowd his forehead and taper up to his scalp, scattering under a shock of white cornsilk hair. His mouth hangs open. There has to be a tooth or two in there, but not much else. Yellow things. Look more like corn kernels.
“What about the woods?” I scramble to catch up to the conversation. Find the thread and follow it. Let it lead me to the right questions. To the story. “What happened in the woods?”
“You wanna hear about Jessica, don’t you? Course you do. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Tonight of all nights…”
Here we go, I think. Holy shit, this is gold. The old coot is going to be an absolute treasure trove of sound bites. This is the kind of find NPR goes batshit over.
“What about tonight?” I ask. “What’s so special about tonight? Is it Jessica?”
“You brought me a bottle?” The fogey leans forward, bringing his arthritic hands up from below the table and placing them on either side of his coffee cup. His cold coffee. The knot of his knuckles looks painful. It must be impossible for them to pick anything up.
His coffee cup. There’s nothing in it.
“Bottle…?”
“Don’t be stingy on me, now,” the scarecrow hisses, licking his lips. “That’s my price of admission. You want to hear a story, you better goddamn well have brought me an offering.”
“I can—I can get you a bottle. Sure. Absolutely. What are you thirsty for?”
This affirmation sends the old man into a fit of ecstasy. He can already taste the liquor, I can tell. The smile that lifts up from his lips leaves me feeling queasy. “Bless you. Oh, bless you…”
How is this man even alive? He has to be a hundred years old. A hundred, easy. There is absolutely no muscle to him. Just shriveled skin and bones and that’s about it. The flesh at his gullet is gathered into a grizzled turkey wattle, swaying back and forth with each wet inhale.
“I’ll get you something to drink, don’t worry. But before I go, I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about Amber Pendleton. Do you know Amber Pendleton? She lives—”
“Been so long…” The man drifts. His eyes are lapsing. Sinking back into his sockets. Jesus, those eyes look disgusting. They’ve gone all gray. Like oysters. Pearls of phlegm.
Can he even see? Can he see me? Or am I just a voice in the dark?
“Have you met Miss Pendleton?” I keep at him. “Do you know—”
“You hear that, Jessica? I did my part.” The old coot’s talking gibberish now. He’s definitely not talking to me. “Just like I was supposed to. Like I’ve always done.”
“Amber Pendleton,” I try again. “She’s been living out at the Whispering Pines—”
The waitress slams her hand down on the table, onto my Olympus, as if she were swatting a fly. Spoons rattle. “That’s enough of that,” she hisses.
“Hold on a sec.” I glance up to her stern face and shrink, as if I were some
kid caught passing notes in class. “I was just—”
“Pay your bill and move on, you hear? I don’t want you coming back.”
“I was just asking a few questions.”
“I know what you’re doing. We don’t talk about that in here. We don’t talk about that witch in here. Not in this establishment, not anywhere else in this town.”
“Are you suggesting you truly believe Amber Pendleton is a witch?”
“Don’t say her name! Stop saying her name!”
“I’m within my rights to have a conversation—”
“Haven’t you people done enough?”
“Who’re you calling you people?”
“This is our home. This is our lives you’re meddling with. You can’t just waltz on in here and peck at our past! Acting like crows on carrion! Now get the hell out before I call the sheriff.”
I glance back to the old man. As if he’d be able to help. As if some flame of recognition might reignite in his mind and demand I stay. But the man has already drifted back to that blank spot between this world and wherever his memories refuse to let him go.
“Please,” he begs to that emptiness, that black hole before him. “Please forgive us. Forgive us all. Release me.”
ACCORDING TO THE MOST RECENT CENSUS, LESS THAN FIFTEEN HUNDRED people call Pilot’s Creek home today. That’s a drastic decline for a once-thriving town. While there’s no direct explanation for the population drop, it has been whispered among certain townsfolk that a particular citizen may have something to do with it…even if she’s six feet underground.
Even to this day, Jessica holds sway here.
Pilot’s Creek was originally settled in 1803. The wooded community at that point was called “Pin Hook,” up until 1823, when Virginia statesman John J. Pilot claimed the surrounding county for his family. Pilot’s Creek had been a destination hub for the lumber industry for years. The enormous swaths of conifers surrounding the town were cut and pulped by the local paper mill. Its pines made for perfect masts. But that was the Pilot’s Creek of the past. Today, its mills have all shut down. The timber trade has moved on and left Pilot’s Creek behind. Only the pines remain.
Eldridge Ford III formed Ford Timberland with his business associates back in 1907. Their first purchase was a modest two thousand acres of timberland in northern Virginia. Ford’s logging operation began to stretch along the Blue Ridge until finally finding its way to Pilot’s Creek.
It was here that Ford decided to stake his claim in the surrounding conifers and build his base, along with his family home. It wouldn’t be long before he and his wife, Prudence, would have their first—and only—child. Ella Louise Ford. After her birth, the Ford family would forever be rooted to the soil of Pilot’s Creek in more ways than they could ever have anticipated.
Pilot’s Creek would be their grave.
FOUR
The game plan is simple: Record the next episode of Who Goes There? on top of Jessica Ford’s grave, alongside the infamous actress who played both roles:
Jessica in the original, Ella Louise in the remake.
I’d get her to open up about her experiences there. A blow-by-blow of what happened. This is her chance to set the record straight. Then, once I have everything recorded, with scalpel-like precision, I will dive in and debunk each and every claim Amber makes.
Once I have her story, her version of it, I can do whatever I want with it. I can edit it to fit my own developing narrative. Sculpt it. Already the spine of the piece is formulating itself. Bit by bit, vertebra by vertebra, my own version of this story is growing.
What if I drag the truth out of her? Catch her in her web of deception? There’s so much to play with here. Too much. So many details. I keep uncovering little nuggets of gold. I don’t think this is all going to fit into one episode anymore.
What if it’s three episodes? Jesus, a whole season in itself?
What if this is my Errol Morris moment?
My own reverse Thin Blue Line? This could be The Jinx! I’ll expose her for the fraud she is. History will reevaluate her claims, thanks to my crusade to find the truth.
Who the hell are these people, anyway, turning this town into a theme park? Exploiting the darkest spot of their closed-minded past for money?
The people of Pilot’s Creek deserve what’s coming to them.
This town deserves to burn.
I booked a room at the Henley Road Motel. One night only. I don’t plan on staying in this ass-backward town any longer than I absolutely have to. I’ll rest for a spell, do a quick sound check with my recording gear and then head back to the trailer park around ten to pick Miss Pendleton up and chauffeur her out to the cemetery.
That’s the plan.
In, out.
When I first checked into the room, I noticed the extra door. One of those inner door thingamajigs. It’s two doors, actually, connecting my room to my neighbor’s. All these roach motels have them. I hadn’t paid it much mind before, dropping my travel case on the bed.
It’s not until I start sound-checking my mic—“Testing, testing, one, two, three, testing, testing, one, two, three, microphone check, one two, what is this…”—that I hear the soft sweep of the neighboring inner door swiping across the carpet, wood on fabric, in my cans.
I turn. Pull down my headphones and listen. I swear I hear someone open the internal door.
From the other side.
Somebody must have just checked in next door. The room was dark when I walked by. Whoever is in there now must be testing the door to see what’s on the other side. Maybe they mistook it for the bathroom. Maybe they want to see if the door works? Where it leads? Assess all possible exit strategies?
I can’t hear anything without my headphones on, so I sling them around my shoulders.
I step up to my own inner door. I don’t want to alarm my neighbor by opening it, so I lean in. Simply press my ear against the paneling.
And listen.
Someone is standing right there.
On the other side.
Whoever it is doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. But their presence is still palpable. Imposing. This is silly, I think as I grab the knob and twist my wrist. I’ll just ask them if everything is—
The door to my neighbor’s room is closed. Locked, as it should be. But it still takes me by surprise. I swear I…
Didn’t I just hear…?
Then what was…?
Talking. Someone is talking from the other side of the inner door. I can hear it. The words are muffled, shapeless intonations, but the sound is unmistakable.
It’s a woman’s voice. A woman talking to someone else.
I am one layer closer to the room now. I can’t help myself. I have to press my ear against her door. Listen in. Who is she talking to in there? What is she saying?
“—after the day’s (something-something). Cutting loose. I bet you kids brought along (something-something-something) help unwind…Right?”
Amber. That’s Amber Pendleton’s voice.
I can’t hear who she’s talking to. Whoever she’s having a conversation with, they never speak up. Is she on the phone? Is someone else in the room with her?
Did she check into the room next door?
Is she alone?
“That squeaky-clean image isn’t so spotless, is it? (Something-something.)”
That has to be Amber.
Of course it’s Amber. Who else could it be? That’s her voice. But I left her at her trailer less than an hour ago. Hour, tops.
It has to be her.
I know what her voice sounds like. That’s her voice.
Isn’t it?
“Amber?” The moment I say it, I instantly regret it. Idiot. What the hell am I doing? Of course it’s her. Of course it’s Amber. I should just mind my own business. G
ive the poor woman a break. Dragging all this up is clearly taking its toll on her. Better to leave her alone.
Just leave her be.
Things are very silent next door. Whoever it is—Amber, of course it’s Amber, who else—they’re now listening to me. Whoever it is must have their ear pressed against the other side of the same door.
I slowly step back.
Away from the door.
Back into my room.
I push my own internal door shut as quietly as I can, careful not to make a sound. The latch clicks and I remain standing right where I am, staring at the paneling.
I turn on the TV and wrap myself up in a fatty layer of sound. To drown out everything else. To protect myself.
I can’t rest. Can’t nap. I’m having a hard time taking my eyes off the door, the inner door, almost as if I’m expecting it to open at any moment now.
For Amber to enter my room.
What would I do if she did?
As I leave for the night, I go ahead and peer inside the window next door.
Nothing.
The room is dark. The lights are turned off. My eyes can just barely make out the silhouette of the bed inside, neatly tucked in and made up. No suitcases. No bags. No nothing.
The room is completely empty.
ONE OF THE MORE ASTOUNDING ASPECTS OF I KNOW WHAT YOU DID ON JESSIca’s Grave—for genre die-hards, at least—is that it would have ushered in the pending influx of meta-horror alongside Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven. Sergio Gillespie’s failed feature film debut had all the hallmarks of Scream. The screenplay has been available online for some time now. You can read it, if you’re so inclined. I did. What I find so intriguing about Gillespie’s script is that it has the exact same knowing winks, the exact same self-referential banter that became so common in horror for the rest of the ’90s. If the film had kept on schedule, Jessica would’ve just beaten Scream to the big screen and would have become the benchmark for all derivative horrors to come.
The Remaking Page 22
