January 1, 2023
4:02 p.m.
Drive all the way down until you find the last room on the left.
Even Maisy’s directions were perfect. Something straight out of a Wes Craven movie.
And this place. I mean, hot damn.
I hopped out of the car, camera in hand. “And here we are—M-O-T-E-L,” I announced to no one in particular as I panned across the cherry red, larger-than-life letters. This place was a visual dream, like rainbow sherbet turned into lodgings. Carnation-pink brick. Robin’s-egg-blue doors. Taxicab-yellow Acapulco chairs. I might as well be flicking through Pantone chips.
“And here’s my room,” I said, homing in on the end unit. “The famed Last Room on the Left.” I said, dipping into a deeper register. “The last place our victims were seen. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
Another quick pan. Then I forced myself to shut up, capturing the ambient noises. The call-and-response of the birds in the sky. The quiet shush of wind through trees. The click and whiz of whatever power source kept an old motel running. The far-off whir of traffic on a distant road.
Back to the car. Camera still running, I grabbed my suitcase and a big ring of keys, which I used to unlock and dramatically fling open the door. Finally flicked the camera back to me. Raised an eyebrow mischievously. “Heeeeeeere’s Siobhan!”
I turned it off, set it carefully on the nightstand, then tossed my bag on the bed, plopped my ass on it, too, bounced a couple of times to check for comfort. Very, very nice. Looked around the space. The baby pink Kilim rug. Exposed wooden beams the color of cold brew. Yes, perfect.
What first? Check the directions, of course. I dug in my bag for Maisy’s packet and pulled it out, reading quickly over the responsibilities. Set heaters. Check mousetraps. Run the faucets. Et cetera, et cetera. The duties were perfunctory. I was here to focus, to make my movie. Make sure the place didn’t burn down while I was at it.
My phone began to vibrate from its spot on the bed. For a moment, I thought—hoped?—it was Kerry, having emerged from whatever hole she’d fallen into. Because she had to be getting tired of rock bottom by now, right? And even if she’d checked into rehab or whatever, you got to make a phone call, didn’t you?
But it wasn’t Kerry—it was Allison, and I smiled genuinely as I tapped to answer.
“Hey hey,” Allison said, her wide, toothy smile and hazel eyes filling my screen. “Tell me Bessie made it and got you there in one piece.”
Allison had generously lent me Bessie, her beloved ’04 Toyota Corolla, for the month, since she was traveling for the first few weeks of January and cars were a pain in the ass to park in Brooklyn. “Indeed,” I said with a laugh. “A little grumbling and getting her above sixty-five on the highway took Herculean effort, but the CD player worked, and I listened to my old Spice Girls album the entire way.”
“Slam your body down and wind it all around,” Allison said, deadpan.
“Exactly.” I glanced around at a background of blue sky and willowy palm trees. “Where are you again? Bermuda?”
“Cayman Islands,” she said. “And it’s work, remember?”
“Sure it is. Looks absolutely brutal, too.”
“The life of an actor,” Allison said with flourish. “Really, though, it’s so low-budget I had to buy my own plane ticket. Don’t be too jealous.”
“Still,” I said. “Get some sun for me in any case.”
“On it.” She tossed a bit of hair behind her shoulders, and I glanced from her image on the screen to my thumbnail at the bottom. We were both Final Girls, through and through—basic, brunette white girls. The type who were always the last to die in slasher films—if we were mid-twenties instead of mid-thirties, that was. Still, I’d always been at least a little bit jealous of Allison’s looks. Her high cheekbones where mine were round and soft, no matter how much I tried my hand at contouring. Her long-lashed eyes and delicate nose, so much more striking than my own prominent beak. I supposed it was why she’d always been more comfortable in front of the camera, me behind it. Which had worked for our friendship, so far.
“So is the place absolutely perfect?” Allison went on. “Tell me it’s perfect.”
“Adorable, right?” I stood and briefly zoomed the camera around, catching every corner, before turning it back to me. “I think I’m going to really lean into it. You know, they design these places to appeal to a certain type of city person—but then it never goes how you planned it. A subtle commentary on Instagram culture, maybe? I’m still working it out. Obviously. But I’m not going to create aimlessly this time. I’m going to make a plan.”
“You’re going to do great,” Allison said. “Now aren’t you glad you open my newsletters?”
I smirked. “Yes, I am glad I open your newsletters.”
Allison had started “The Creative Journey” weekly newsletter years before, and the thing had grown and grown, bringing her—kid you not—a healthy Substack income. She always listed opportunities in a paragraph at the bottom, and most of them didn’t really apply to me—open auditions, elite artist retreats, the sort that occasionally hit me like a Mack Truck with the kind of jealousy none of my friends actually knew about—but for once, this one had. Perfect Artist’s Lodgings Two and a Half Hours from New York City! After a quick Google search of the Twilite Motel, I’d called up Allison, asked her to put me in touch directly—and immediately. A place to live. A place to work. A place to prove to myself that I could do it. Now, here we were.
“And remember,” Allison continued, “quality not quantity this time. Ryan is going to want a clean fifteen minutes.”
“I know,” I said, feeling myself blush. Creating—it had never been a problem for me. I always always had a camera in my hand, whether it was the first camcorder my mom had bought me from the Walmart electronics section or the short-lived Flip camera I used to carry everywhere or one of the myriad iPhones I’d gone through. I had stacks of external hard drives and SD cards, too many stories and Reels and Instagram posts to count, and in my work as an editor for soulless fashion brands, I’d made more sizzle videos than any one human probably should. It’s what I’d never understood about Kerry and her constant battle to produce work. She’d done the hard part already—coming up with the idea, getting buy-in. Now she only had to write. Wasn’t that supposedly what she liked to do so much?
“He’s going to do everything in his capacity to push you through,” Allison said. “He promised me a favor.”
Of course he did, I thought. People were always doing favors for Allison, men especially, who fell fast—and hard—and who she always managed to keep as friends whether she dated, dumped, or fucked them. She was a charmer, the sort who seemed to know—and be known—by everyone. The Ryan in question was a filmmaker friend of hers who was on the board of a small festival that was quickly gaining clout. I’d dreamed of making a horror movie all my life, but since film school, since one tiny little documentary about a ghost that supposedly haunted my hometown in New Jersey, nada. I was tired of the question—at dinner parties, subway run-ins, everywhere—“Are you still doing your own stuff?”
I was always filming—sure—but I had nothing to show for it.
And now this connection—plus the money, of course—was making it all possible.
“I couldn’t do it without you,” I said. “Really.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Allison said mischievously. “Oh, and the last thing: Ryan has some recs for good editors—he sent me an email with their rates. I’ll forward it on—you can work it into your budget.”
Budget, I thought. Right.
“Anyway,” Allison said, looking around her fabulous locale. “I should go. I’m overdue to hair and makeup. But go shoot your dark, horror-loving heart out. And please don’t just post a bunch of Reels. Once you get the lay of the land, put your camera down and figure out the plot.”
“One step ahead of you,” I said. “According to Maisy, the internet is only on through tomorrow. Then it’s off for the whole month—she doesn’t pay for it in the winter—and the service is apparently spotty.”
“Perfection,” Allison said. “But wait—how am I going to get in touch with you?”
“I’ll go into town to check emails every few days,” I said. “And I have a bar or two, so something might go through? But wait till you hear this: There’s a landline. Let’s make sure it works.” I walked over to the old phone on the wall and lifted it up, listening to the tone before holding it to my cell, then putting it back on its hook. “Did you hear that? A real live dial tone. What a throwback.”
Allison laughed. “Send me the number. And, Siobhan?”
“Yeah?”
“You got this. I know you do. And when you get stuck, just ask yourself: What are you going to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I smiled. Allison signed off all her “Creative Journey” newsletters by paraphrasing Mary Oliver. The sentiment was beautiful and simple, and she lived it, too. Better than the rest of us.
“Thank you,” I said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said. “Now go get to work.”
For a hot second, I was high on all of it—the promise, the hope, the possibility of actually. Finally. Making. Something.
I half wanted to skip the unpacking and wander the property, camera in hand, but a text popped up, buzzing against my palm. Flicking my heart into its familiar pitter-patter rhythm.
You can’t do this to me, Siobhan.
A beat as he kept on typing.
I want my money back.