by Adam Cesare
“People should be scared,” he said, and took a long drag. “Shouldn’t they?”
Fred looked at him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. Even after all this, he was an uptight prick. Or he knew they were close to the end too.
Bob smacked him in the back of the head, forcing his face into the control panel.
“I’m talking to you, Fred.” He slapped the bald spot on his head a few times. “But I suppose I don’t give a shit what you have to say. I’m only asking because, well, you’re the only one left.” He motioned to the glass and pointed to the studio beyond it. “But them. I wanted to give them the thrill you get from a good movie. Fear pressing right up against safety. And I would’ve done that without taking your fuckin’ lives if you miserable pricks hadn’t treated me like the Elephant Man.”
“Please,” Fred said. “Once we start the last movie, you’ve won. You don’t have to.”
“Oh stop it, Fred. You know what’s coming.”
There was something wonderful about Fred’s defeated face. Here was a guy who gleefully undermined him at every turn over the past fifteen years, and now he was completely powerless.
Bob glanced at the clock again—a few minutes to go before he needed to be in front of the camera, and he didn’t trust Fred in here alone. Not when the only thing keeping the police out was a bike chain across the door.
“Come on, Fred, I’m going to let you take a bow. Let the kiddies see the face of the man who brought them so much joy tonight. Before I blow it off.”
The Last Remake
Sean Winters woke up early on Saturday morning and reached for his iPad.
There was a text from one of the bean counters at the studio: Overperforming for a $45 million weekend. Enjoy ur new shorefront apartment n Miami, u prick.
Better than a wake-up blow job.
Sean flung the thin silk sheets aside, patted last night’s conquest on her overly bronzed ass, and rolled out of bed wearing only a shit-eating grin.
“Time to go,” he said, then added, “I’ll call you a cab,” without waiting for a reply.
Sean might’ve been a bit more charitable to her if she’d managed to please him at all last night. Too much teeth and not enough enthusiasm. One of those broads who was told long ago she was a looker and mistook that to mean the extent of her bedroom responsibility was to simply show up.
So this morning he was happy to throw her back to the barista pond whence she’d come.
He took his espresso breakfast on the back patio, dipping his feet into the infinity pool while gazing triumphantly at the Hollywood Hills.
Deadline was running with the good news. Sean skimmed it, making sure Nikki hadn’t said anything too incendiary.
It was actually quite complimentary, praising Winterland Productions’ decade-long success in “can’t miss” ventures.
Truthfully, it hadn’t been hard. They secured the rights to shitty horror movies that somehow lingered in public consciousness. Dust off an old, recognizable title and a hefty chunk of the marketing was already done.
They shot this weekend’s movie, a remake of 1972’s The Legend of May Lane, for $4 million last year, cropping the overlong title down to the cleaner, more effective May Lane because it was easier to sell.
It was the first of four projects that Winterland acquired in a deal with the film’s original producer, a reclusive hick who hadn’t been seen in public since before the fall of the Berlin Wall. Buddy Sebastian. The J.D. Salinger of B pictures.
Original content? Why bother when there was a smorgasbord of obscure material ripe for harvest?
The inadequate fling cleared her throat in the doorway.
Sean didn’t bother looking. “Car’s out front.”
The girl, whose name he never cared to get, disappeared on her walk of shame. Reluctant heels clopped across icy marble tiling as she basked in the kind of lavish excess she’d hopefully never see again.
He pulled up Twitter and found an overloaded @ tab, skimming the responses through a disinterested yawn. Most of it was ego stroke, interrupted by sporadic and indignant fanboy blather.
Eventually he’d don his appreciation mask and interact with these marks, thanking them for forking over their hard-earned dollars. He clicked the retweet button a few times for now, though. Because I appreciate it. He then browsed Miami Beach enclave condos.
So May Lane was en route to a $45 million opening weekend, meaning he was pocketing at least $5 million when all was said and done. Possibly more if audiences actually liked the piece of shit.
As usual, Deadline mentioned the “all-important” Cinemascore. This one was a C+, indicating that audiences weren’t all that thrilled with their rendition of May Lane’s haunting.
Whatever. The money was made. Even if they took a 70 percent drop next weekend, as was common for Winterland, they were looking at $70 million before the international lemmings contributed.
By the time Night at Gator Creek was ready for release next summer (now Gator Creek), whether audiences did or didn’t like May Lane would be irrelevant.
Which reminded him.
He pulled up FaceTime and dialed Chelsea.
She answered as though she’d been expecting him.
“Sean, the numbers are in!” she said. It was cute that she thought he got box office from someone so menial.
“I saw them.” He was already bored with the conversation. “Am I all set for tomorrow’s trip?”
“Yep. Called last night to confirm. Checked with the hotel too. We’re copacetic. Except—”
Sean gnashed his teeth at the hint of a snag.
“I just got off the phone with Sebastian. Again. He called twice last night and first thing this morning. He really wants to talk to you.”
That’s what you get paid for.
Chelsea was supposed to shield him from these maniacs. Besides, there was nothing to say to Buddy Sebastian. The old fool signed over the rights to his work, and that was the end of it. May Lane and her haunting no longer belonged to him.
Still, it struck Sean as odd. “No one’s seen or spoken to that fossil in more than twenty years. I’ve never even met the guy. And he’s called three times?”
“Four,” she said, sounding slightly unnerved. “All I know is that he wants to talk with you about something, but he refuses to elaborate.”
“Old bastard must’ve seen the numbers.” He laughed. “Realized his hick lawyer got him zilch.”
Chelsea’s voice lightened some. “Or maybe he thinks we ruined his, uh, classic movie.”
Yes, these films had inexplicable followings. They were released and re-released to DVD and Blu-ray more times than he could count. Truth was, they were so bad he figured he was doing the world a favor by finally making them right.
The Legend of May Lane had a reputation for being one of the scariest ghost stories ever put to film, despite the endless dialogue and a total lack of special effects. Night at Gator Creek was a twelve-dollar piece of cheese about killer mutants attacking teenagers in the bayou.
Winterland would be improving two more titles in the near future. Blood Legacies, the closest Sebastian ever came to making a real film, was a meandering story about a young girl who inherited an old family farmhouse in a town overrun with vampires.
Then there was Shadow Pass, a dime-store attempt at Lovecraft with gigantic rubber demons that were screaming for a CGI update.
Sean acquired all four after learning of their notoriety and enduring reputations.
“Tell Sebastian I’m unavailable.”
“Okay—it’s just...” Chelsea hesitated. “He’s getting pretty weird.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of some old hick from North Cackalacky.”
“He keeps asking me when I’ll be home.”
Sean lied about having a conference call with the studio so he could get off the phone.
He resumed his perusal of ocean-side Miami apartments for a few minutes before swallowing his pride
and returning to Twitter.
He issued a few more retweets for those who somehow held May Lane in high regard and answered a few boneheaded questions about details in their version that the idiot screenwriter must’ve overlooked.
Twitter was banal, but interaction cultivated the idea that Sean Winters was a fan-friendly guy. This was him fashioning a ready-made army willing to take up the fight on the e–front lines against the cynical voices of failure.
Still, it would be better if someone would do this for him. He opened up a Post-it on his desktop and jotted that down before ordering lunch from the deli.
Then he settled in poolside for a day of fan mongering, while thinking of little more than his inbound beachfront property.
***
Sunday came early, and Sean was up at three to catch a flight to Georgia. After a few hours of travel, he settled into a luxury suite at the Ritz Carlton, feeling jet-lagged and angry about the Dylan Rock situation.
His director was an irresponsible ass who needed sorting out. Sean was considering the ways he could do this over a glass of scotch when there was a knock at the door.
It was Brittany Hunt, looking impossibly fresh-faced after an eleven-hour night shoot. She parted her coat’s black collar, revealing a hot-pink push-up that practically shoved her cleavage into his face.
“I couldn’t wait to see you,” she said.
Sean tried thinking of a clever reply and couldn’t. Successful men didn’t need wit.
The girl pushed on his chest with the palms of her hands, forcing herself inside and flashing a pink smile that went with her lingerie.
Maybe I’m not so jet-lagged after all...
She nudged her coat, and it dropped to the floor as she got to her knees. He tried reminding her that the door was still open, but she giggled and told him it added to the fun.
That’s what this was to her. A little fun on the way to the top.
Word around set was that Dylan Rock was hopelessly in love with her. That goon couldn’t help her career. Dylan was practically an untouchable in the Hollywood caste system.
Sean watched her bob up and down on him, and all he could do was grip a strand of her hair like a handlebar. He groaned as the room spun.
When the ride was over, they fell back onto the floor and his foot pushed the door shut.
But she was already sitting up, tugging her bra back into place. “I hope you enjoyed that.”
“Welcome to the big time, you sexy bitch.”
Brittany giggled, bending down and planting a passionless kiss on his forehead while her breasts brushed against lips.
“I have to go,” she said. “Can’t wait to see you later.”
He marveled at her faux sincerity. This was the most believable performance of a part he’d seen played by countless women throughout the years. Maybe she could act, after all.
She was in the hallway when she looked back and frowned. “I know it’s really not my place, but, uh, I was really sorry to hear about Chelsea.”
Sean stared for a second, wondering how in the hell she could’ve heard about his assistant troubles.
“You haven’t heard?” she asked.
The scotch must’ve dulled his comprehension for as much as he could decipher what she was talking about. “Huh?”
“She’s dead. Someone broke into her house last night and killed her. And her husband.”
“You’re shitting me.”
He went to the end table for his phone. How could he have not gotten an e-mail or a text?
“We had a moment of silence for her this morning when Dylan got the call. Their bodies were all mangled and everything.”
There was awkward silence in the wake of Brittany’s departure. He stood staring into the hallway when the front desk called.
“Mr. Winters, there’s a Buddy Sebastian here to see you.”
The name rang out like a gunshot.
Could Brittany have been right? Girl was dumb, but she couldn’t have whipped up a story like that on her own. And Sebastian again? When Chelsea’s last words to him were about the old man?
“Sir,” the operator said. “Shall I send him up?”
“No. Don’t do that.” His voice cracked. “I do not know that man.”
“As you wish, sir. You should know that he’s referring to you as a business associate.”
“I don’t know him, for fuck’s sake!” Sean slammed the receiver into its cradle and refilled his scotch.
The room’s silence made him uneasy. So much so that he kicked himself for allowing Brittany to leave. He could’ve stood the company now.
Buddy Sebastian.
The recluse. DVD producers often courted his participation while putting together special features for his films, but the old man apparently declined every time.
When Winterland pursued the remake rights, the deal was between two lawyers.
And now Sebastian was here?
He dialed Chelsea’s number again. Brittany had to be mistaken.
The call fell into voice mail, and her simple and mundane greeting chilled him.
He stumbled into the bedroom and passed out facedown, hoping things would make more sense when he awakened.
***
They didn’t.
Now Rock wasn’t answering his phone.
So help me God, if I have to fire that prick tonight and spend the rest of the month directing this piece of shit...
The set was an hour away, but the drive felt like six.
After twenty minutes, the limo pulled off the highway and crawled slowly down narrow back roads, overgrown foliage constantly scraping either side of the car like nails on a chalkboard.
Sean was eager to get there and show Rock how to stay ahead of schedule without waiting around all night for the right light.
He didn’t feel any better while reading May Lane criticism written by film-blogger peasants. These guys and their faux-intellectual musings. Balding, overweight men in their forties who Instagrammed their cats while bemoaning their solitary lives. As if their chosen career paths weren’t directly responsible for their failings.
Men fought and died for this country so movie bloggers could live at home and make less than paper-route pay.
“We’re here,” the driver said after an especially tough hour.
A production assistant was waiting for him in the crew parking lot, a transportation cart puttering behind him.
They exchanged brief introductions before climbing on board and riding through overgrown grass thick with mosquito buzzes.
The cart carried them into a wooded clearing where a bunch of tents sat against the far end. Dozens of people stood around making low-decibel chatter.
An uncomfortable vibe fell over him, but this was also a waste of Winterland’s money—something to be angry about. He hopped off the cart and screamed for Dylan Rock.
“I’m here, Sean.”
The director made his way out of the hushed crowd, expressionless faces turning as he passed and staring silently while they spoke.
“This isn’t the fucking set,” Sean said. “You people look like you’re ready to break out in ‘Kumbaya.’”
“It wasn’t my choice,” Rock whispered. In the flickering firelight, Sean could see he was sweaty and pale. “Buddy Sebastian’s here.”
Sean stared in disbelief. He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t about to be bullied on his own set. Not with all of these eyes watching, waiting, and judging.
He couldn’t let a crazy old man have the upper hand. Not even for a second.
“Take me to him,” Sean said.
Rock didn’t move. Instead, he pointed to a path between two trees. “He’s on set. And would like to speak with you.”
Those words got to Sean; he swallowed hard.
He looked at the cast and crew, but something about their behavior was perplexing. They were as white as Rock, and all eyes watched him.
His swamp mutants congregated together near the path, their full-on lat
ex appliances made their faces obscured and sweaty. They said nothing as he passed, but their heads turned to follow him.
When he finally reached the set, he found a rickety old cabin on the water and a wobbly dock that extended outward.
A man stood looking out across the oily black swamp muck, his arms folded and hands clasped at the small of his back.
“Choosing to shoot Gator Creek in the same location was a nice touch. It’s a shame you did not have more of them.”
There was nothing threatening about his words, only the way he’d spoken them.
The old man went on: “I have been trying to get in touch with you, Mr. Winters. Though, I suppose you are very busy.”
Sean felt a line of sweat inching down his cheek, and he didn’t know if it was due to heat or stress.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Sebastian. Sabotaging me like this. Now that we’re number one, you want a bigger piece of the pie. That right?”
Sebastian turned and caught the lantern light just right. He was disgusting. Clad from head to toe in filthy attire. A brown duster that dropped to his ankles, covered in what looked to be flecked dirt and inch-thick cobwebs. A wrinkled fedora pulled down on top of his old head.
He looked like he’d just been exhumed.
“Pie? Not interested, Mr. Winters. I had my time.”
“Look,” Sean said, telling himself there was nothing to be scared of. Right?
Sebastian wouldn’t allow him to continue. His hoarse voice grew over the objection. “I would ask you some questions. On behalf of myself and some ... curious parties.”
“We’re making a fucking movie, pal. No one here has time to—”
Buddy Sebastian stepped closer.
His skin looked wrong. His lips seemed to move out of sync with his words. A bad dub.
Sean squinted, trying to see if this guy was for real or whether his face was a crude makeup job. The kind you’d find in one of his shitty movies.
“You and I have nothing to say, Sebastian.”
The old man nodded. “I thought you might protest. So I will remind you that I am within my right to do this.”
The old man slipped his bony fingers beneath the flap of his dark coat and fished out a rolled piece of paper. He pulled a strand of twine free from the roll, and the parchment unspooled toward the ground.