The Remaking

by Clay McLeod Chapman

  Take page thirty-six in the script, when Tommy and Susan are fooling around:

  TOMMY

  This is totally the moment where some masked redneck is gonna step out and machete us.

  SUSAN

  Then we better hurry and do it before he slices and dices us…

  I’ve never read anything like it before. I don’t know what to think, to be honest. Is this a joke? Some elaborate prank? Candid Camera for Scream Queens? Is Sergio messing with me?

  Take this snippet from page eighty-four:

  WES

  Don’t you know the rules? Just because you think you’ve killed her, the creepy ghost girl always comes back for one last jump-scare.

  CASS

  Save it for the sequel, bitch.

  These kids are breaking the fourth wall. They’re so self-aware, meta-contextualizing everything that happens to them, as it happens to them. It doesn’t feel real.

  None of this feels real.

  “Do teens even talk like this?” I asked Sergio when I first read the script, realizing how old that made me sound.

  “I do,” Sergio says. He has just finished another draft and he wants, needs, to share it with me. At this very moment in the car, as soon as he picks me up from the motel. I’m his first eyes on the script, a dubious distinction I don’t think I truly deserve. I can’t stand it.

  “Yeah, but…” How can I say this? “You’re not like other people, are you?”

  He certainly isn’t like Ketchum. Everybody loved to mythologize the man as some mad genius after the fact. There was one story floating around that Ketchum had used hypnosis on set. He held ritualistic rehearsals that tapped into some expressionistic mumbo jumbo bordering on human sacrifice. He wanted his actors to achieve the highest level of spiritual awareness, personally believing it would feed into our characters until we became our characters. So he pumped his cast full of LSD and we all performed shamanistic orgies and slit the throat of a goat on set and on and on and on.

  It was all bullshit. Just another cinematic urban legend. A myth made up by pimple-faced movie hounds like Sergio. Ketchum was a hack. He’d always been a hack.

  Jessica made that movie. She was the real storyteller here.

  Not him.

  But Sergio is a believer. He’s read all the interviews with Ketchum in the horror magazines. He knows everything there is to know about the troubled production, what it took to bring Ketchum’s vision of Jessica to the big screen. But it was a lie. All a lie. How can I break that to Sergio? It would crush him. He won’t understand. He’s just too much of a fan to see the film for what it truly is.

  A reckoning.

  “If all your characters speak in this meta, self-aware, horror talk,” I say, “it’ll sound like they’re all the same. That they’re just extensions of one person. Of the screenwriter…Of you.”

  He takes back the script, tugging it out of my hands. “You’re missing the point…”

  “Okay. Tell me. What’s the point?”

  “My babysitter let me watch my first horror movie,” he says, staring out the window. “I started to sneak out of my bedroom in the middle of the night while my parents were asleep so I could watch whatever slasher was on HBO. These movies are everything to me. And I’m not alone. My whole generation watches horror movies. Now we’re the ones remaking them.”

  “But real people don’t talk like this…”

  “Everyone talks like this.” He’s mad. Wounded. I must have really hurt him.

  Of course I did. He’s just a boy.

  A little boy with a camera.

  He’s a fan. And when fans get hurt, when you don’t give them what they want, they take it out on you. They make you suffer. Now Sergio is making me pay by giving me the silent treatment. Pouting like a child.

  “Serg,” I say, “nobody knows about us…right? Our relationship?” Relationship. Christ. Who had I turned into all of a sudden?

  “No,” he mutters out the window. “Still a secret, I swear.”

  I don’t want anyone, anyone, to know. Not the producers. Definitely not the studio execs. This is so idiotic of me. Completely idiotic. I’m feeling like a washed-up joke enough as it is. The last thing I need is to feel like I’m some sort of charity case for the director.

  I need to feel like I belong here. On set. In this film.

  That I deserve this.

  Someone’s holding my hand. I glance down and notice that Sergio’s fingers have woven through mine, a knot of flesh. His hand squeezes mine. “Lot of memories here, huh?”

  Too many.

  The world outside the car drifts in and out of clarity. The town of Pilot’s Creek is a ghost in and of itself. Not much has changed since the last time I was here. I’m surprised how much the place looks exactly the same.

  There’s the diner where Mom let me order whatever I wanted (“Pancakes! Chocolate chip pancakes!”).

  There’s the local library where I spent my days off, pulling dusty children’s books to read by myself.

  There’s the sheriff’s office where I gave my statement. Where my mother waited for me, away from me, the two of us separated from each other while I talked to the social services representative. After I was done, I was told to wait in the hall while the sheriff discussed matters with my mother. Wherever she was. She had suddenly slipped away.

  I asked if I could use the bathroom. The deputy shrugged and pointed down the hall.

  I sat myself in the stall. I didn’t really have any business to do. I just wanted to be alone. Away from everyone. So when the door burst open, I quickly lifted my legs up onto the seat.

  Hiding.

  I remember hearing Mom’s voice rise as she argued with Ketchum over what to say, what they knew, what they thought they knew, what they believed had happened. “I don’t give a shit about your goddamn movie,” she whispered in a way that was nowhere near a whisper. “They’re threatening to take Amber away from me!”

  “You’re the one who’s supposed to be watching her,” Ketchum hissed back. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the one responsible. Not the production.”

  “What about that batshit actress? What about her? Where was she during all this?”

  “She’s got nothing to do with any of—”

  “Amber said Nora dragged her into the woods,” Mom insisted, even though that wasn’t true. That wasn’t what I had told her at all. “She dragged her! Dragged her! In costume and makeup and everything! Scared her right out of her mind! It’s no wonder she shut down.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s what Amber says happened and I believe her…and I think the police will, too.”

  I had told Mom it had been Ella Louise. She had drawn the conclusion that I meant Nora. Why wouldn’t she?

  “I know what’s going on with you two.” When I heard my mother say this, I sensed her words sharpening. The threat was there. In her voice. “I know you two are sleeping with—”

  “That’s none of your—”

  “I could shut this production down in a heartbeat. I could go to the producers and tell them all about how the director is fucking his leading lady. How that same leading lady is off her goddamn rocker. How she dragged my daughter—my baby girl—into the woods, in the middle of the night, in the cold, and scared her half out of her mind, until she had no choice but to hide.”

  There was silence. Nothing from Ketchum. I remember how heavy that silence felt. The weight of her accusation. I kept my knees pressed against my chest, curled up into a ball on the toilet, suddenly feeling just as afraid of my mother as everyone else in this world was.

  “You need us,” Mom said. Her final word. “You need my daughter to finish this movie, which means you need me. Try recasting her. See if I don’t spill everything. To the producers. To the press. Whoever’ll lis
ten. We better be on the same page here. Get our story straight.”

  How had I forgotten that Ketchum had been in a relationship with Nora Lambert? It had always been an open secret. The cast and crew all knew and chose not to speak of it. Certainly not around me. Did I even know? I had to have…But what would it have mattered to a child?

  I was only a kid back then.

  Just a girl.

  It dawns on me, in Sergio’s rental car, as the pines sweep by outside, as we plunge deeper into the woods, nearing the Pilot’s Creek Cemetery, that I’m doing the exact same thing over twenty years later.

  History is somehow repeating itself and I didn’t even realize it.

  No wonder Nora never spoke to me again. She hated me.

  Despised me.

  All because my mother had sold her out. Threw her under the bus. When it had nothing to do with Nora at all. Not out here. In the woods. It had been—

  It was—

  State maintenance on the highway must have ceased decades ago, the cracked pavement veining both lanes. Our tires find every last pothole the asphalt had to offer, tossing our car about like we’re rolling through a war zone.

  The trees sway all around us. I have to close my eyes to keep the vertigo at bay. They’re all spinning. The trees are spinning…

  Spinning…

  Spinning…

  I’m not ready for this, I think. I’m not ready. I thought I was, I thought I could do this. But I can’t. I shouldn’t be here. Please take me away. Please take me home.

  Home—

  Home—

  The word had slipped unevenly out of her mouth, as if Ella Louise had to force it up her throat and all the way over her tongue. Churning the word out, as if her mouth were full of dirt and her tongue were a shovel to dig up the word itself. Disinter it.

  Home—

  Home—

  She kept saying it, no matter how much it sounded like it pained her to do it, repeating it over and over again.

  When my mother—it had to’ve been my mother—found me, she first touched my hand. She thought I was dead. Who could’ve survived out there, in the freezing cold, all night? Of course I looked dead. I was still in my burn makeup, in my costume, Jessica’s cindered clothes, not to mention all the mud and the blood—my blood—seeping out from my fresh cuts.

  What a sight I must have been.

  What a fright.

  My chest rose. Still breathing. Barely.

  She picked me up and took me into her arms, carrying me through the woods. Don’t worry, she said. I’ve got you. I’m going to take you back home.

  Home.

  Home.

  home

  “Here we are,” Sergio says, snapping me back to the present.

  To the cemetery.

  Its cast-iron gates loom just outside my window. They’re a Serliana design, along with an arch bearing the name PILOT’S CREEK, held up by square columns at either side. Rusted angels perch upon the lintels spanning the entryway, the gates always open.

  “Welcome back,” he says. He can’t hide the excitement, the downright giddiness in his voice, even if he tries. Nothing but a little boy about to run into a toy store.

  I can’t do this. I can’t be here. I can’t, I can’t.

  “Ready?”

  Please don’t make me go please don’t make me look please don’t make me see—

  He must know this is hard for me because he’s holding my hand as we walk together. Side by side. He’s guiding me along in front of the producers and the cinematographer. Do they know about us? Does everyone know now? Is the secret out?

  Everything within the cemetery is right where I’d left it. Practically untouched. The rows of graves don’t seem as even as they did when I was younger.

  I glance at a few of the headstones. I remember these names. They ring familiar to me.

  Here lies Harold Smith.

  Here lies Jeremy Hawthorne.

  Here lies Tom Watkins.

  Here lies Bill Pendleton.

  And here lies Wayne Reynolds. I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of all this. Probably rolling over in his grave. Yet another production has come to Pilot’s Creek, trudging over his final resting place, to honor Ella Louise and Jessica Ford. Let their story be told.

  You brought this upon yourself, I say to myself in a voice that feels a little unlike my own. If you’d shown compassion, none of this would’ve happened. None of us would be here.

  This is all your fault.

  All your fault.

  You.

  That doesn’t sound like me. I have to take a moment to collect myself as we pass the church. It looks smaller now. Much smaller than I remember it. It wasn’t in the best condition back then and it definitely doesn’t look as if anyone has done any repairs on it since.

  Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open the doors and see all the—

  “What do you think?” Sergio asks. “Looks great, doesn’t it?”

  “The church? Not particularly…”

  He laughs at first, then stops himself. “You don’t know?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a facade. Had it shipped down in pieces. They just put it up yesterday…The original burned down ten years ago.”

  “Burned.” I wanted it to be a question but I end up just repeating the word flatly, echoing Sergio. He nods back, unaware that I still don’t quite understand what he’s talking about. I can’t process this information as quickly as I should. The Ambien is impeding my ability to absorb news.

  “We tried to replicate the old one as closely as possible. Wasn’t easy. There wasn’t much on public record about the original. Not even down in city hall, so…we ended up just watching Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave and freeze-framing all the shots with the church in the background. Blew them up and printed them out, just to draft this bad boy up. Looks pretty sweet if you ask me.”

  Sweet. Jesus, he’s just a kid. A giddy kid playing make-believe games. Building forts in the backyard.

  Sure enough, I open the front door to waltz into emptiness. Nothing but a hollow shell. The outer walls of the church are held up by a diagonal web of two-by-fours.

  Burned down keeps echoing in my head. Burned down.

  Burned down.

  Burned—

  I walk through the front doors. I wonder if I can retrace my steps from that night. If I can waltz through my memories and see if I can map out everything that happened.

  I’ve blocked out so many recollections from that night. I don’t know if I can even if I wanted to.

  Do I even want to?

  Why would I?

  Sergio is talking to the DP about some shot he wants to get. Some angle we had achieved in the original that he wants to replicate. A long dolly down a row of graves. He’s talking, his words slipping into the air, but I’m losing the shape of them. Losing their sound.

  I can’t hear him anymore.

  All I hear is breathing.

  Someone breathing.

  I want to think it’s me. Please, please, let that be my breath. But it’s far too wet. Far too labored. Every inhale rips through tissue, sopping burlap tearing in two, and I know, oh God, I know that sound, I know I’ve heard those inhales before.

  “And there she is,” Sergio says, proudly presenting Jessica Ford’s grave to the rest of the crew. “The belle of the ball.”

  No one has repainted the crucifix fence in quite some time. The last layer has chipped away. Flakes of white scatter along the ground, as if it were snowing over her grave.

  Weeds choke its trellis. Crabgrass and thistles and wild morning glory weaving and twining over the crosses. Some of the arms are bent now, all crooked.

  Her headstone has faded. Decades of weather have worn down her name. The date of her
birth. Her death. They want to erase her name. Her very existence. Like she never existed.

  But she’s still here. Under the ground.

  Below my feet.

  Sergio feels compelled to say some words, paying his respects to Jessica. Promising to honor her memory.

  I’m not listening. I’ve turned away from her grave. Toward the woods. The pines at our back. They are listening to us. Observing us. Always watching.

  I’m looking for Ella Louise. Wherever she may be. She must be watching from a distance, hidden in the pines, at the edge of the cemetery, getting as close as she can without stepping onto hallowed ground. She must be close, I know. I can still hear her breathing.

  Or maybe that’s just me.

  I’m already getting into character, I think, and I don’t even realize it.

  NINE

  This feels familiar to me. Have I been buried here before?

  There’s no air down here. In the dark.

  In the ground.

  The weight of the cement bears down on me. The burden of it gets heavier as it hardens. I can feel it. Whatever oxygen is left in my chest burns. My throat constricts. All my lungs want to do is usher another breath in, just one more, but there’s nothing left. I’m trapped down here.

  In the ground.

  I’ll never see the light of day again. Never feel the warmth of the sun against my skin. I’ll be cold forever now. Down here forever. Buried below all this concrete.

  In the ground.

  I want to scream. Need to scream. But the cement presses against my chest, gripping me. Pinning me in place. Holding me down.

  In the ground.