The sun. The sun was waiting for her outside. She ran right into it, straight out from the church and into the blindingly bright white light of a supernova. She brought her arms up to her face, shielding her eyes. It felt so close, so hot against her cheeks, she couldn’t help but wonder if the intense glare was enough to peel her skin right off. Burn straight through.
Wait, she thought. Wasn’t it midnight? Where had the sun come from?
Her eyes slowly adjusted. Back to the night.
To the dark.
There were several suns now. Not just one. An entire constellation of hot white spots hung throughout the cemetery, suspended over the graves on their own telescopic stands.
For the last few hours, the gaffer and his crew had busied themselves by setting up a handful of ground-mounted lighting fixtures all around the outer perimeter of the cemetery, illuminating the graves. Each headstone cast its own severe shadow. In the film, in the very celluloid itself, it would look like moonlight. But here, on set, they burned with an intensity that caused Amber to wince.
The cemetery wasn’t so big. A town as small as this one, there weren’t that many bodies to bury. Pilot’s Creek hadn’t expanded beyond its few stoplights. There were no plans to extend the city limits and there were certainly no plans to cut through the surrounding woods to make way for more graves. There was more than enough room to bury this town’s own without ever setting foot into the neighboring pines, which was just the way the locals liked it. Preferred it. Nobody set foot in those woods. That much was clear.
But at night, in the dark, the graveyard lost its shape. The contours of it loosened within the shadows, bleeding into the surrounding trees. As far as Amber was concerned, it felt as if the cemetery went on for miles and miles. There could have been hundreds of graves, a thousand graves, lingering beyond these lighting fixtures. The crew had only set up their kit in the northern corner of the cemetery, isolating a row of graves directly in front of the church. Whoever was buried beyond the light’s reach was anybody’s guess. Amber didn’t know.
“Finally,” a man’s voice beckoned from beyond the grave. “There you are.”
Amber froze.
Mr. Ketchum marched straight for her. His breath fogged up before him, puffs of steam dissipating into the night air at a quick clip, as if he were breathing fire. She simply stood there, intensely aware of the fact that Mr. Ketchum didn’t seem happy with her. Happy at all. With anything. The arc lamps cast a stark silhouette over his face. Amber had a hard time seeing his eyes. They had sunk back farther into his sockets, lost in shadows. He kept chewing. From where Amber was standing, staring up, it looked like he was gnawing on his own tongue.
“Let’s get going, shall we?”
There were so few men in Amber’s life. She’d never met her father. Any opinions of him were filtered through her mother’s point of view. Mom occasionally dated, bringing home the odd boyfriend now and then. But none of them lasted. None of the men ever lasted. Their names, their faces—some with mustaches, some not—all blurred together.
Mr. Ketchum had been around longer than any other man in Amber’s life. She couldn’t help but feel he just might be the closest thing to a father figure she had.
Telling her what to do.
Where to stand.
How to talk.
Demanding the most out of her.
Only the best.
And right now Mr. Ketchum was very, very disappointed in her.
“We’re burning moonlight here, people,” he announced, clapping his hands. “Let’s get this shot before the sun comes, okay? We’ve got to bang out five pages before dawn…”
The setup was simple.
All Amber had to do was walk through a row of headstones.
Simple. A monkey could do it.
Cassandra and her hippie boyfriend were sitting on her grave, toking up after a little postcoital séancing. Their backs pressed against Jessica Ford’s headstone. The boyfriend would stand up and mumble something about needing to relieve himself, leaving Cassandra alone.
The spirit of Jessica Ford would rise from the earth, out from her grave. Cassandra wouldn’t be the wiser, wouldn’t know Jessica was closing in on her, until it was too late.
It all seemed simple enough. They blocked the whole scene. Mr. Ketchum pointed to Amber’s marks, where she had to walk. Where to stop and stand and look so the camera could see her. Where to say her line.
Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.
But as soon as Mr. Ketchum was standing behind the camera, muttering to the cinematographer about how to frame the shot, as soon as he pressed his eyes against the viewfinder to see how it all looked, as soon as the boom operator lifted the mic over Amber’s head, as soon as Amber was standing alone, waiting alone, as soon as the intense glare of the lamp spread over her face, the heat from the bulbs causing her to sweat, her makeup starting to slicken, the perspiration chilling against her skin…she felt her skin prickle.
How could she be hot and cold at the same time? It made no sense to her.
“Sound,” the sound tech called out.
“Camera.”
“Rolling.”
A young man stepped up with a clapboard in hand. He lifted it directly in front of Amber’s face. The glare of the lights was suddenly off her eyes. Amber’s attention drifted, her eyes wandering over the row of graves. So many bodies buried here. The light kits. The camera. The crew waltzing over their coffins. This didn’t seem right. Didn’t seem appropriate. Being here, like this. Making a movie, like this. Wouldn’t the dead think they were making fun of them? Teasing them? Dancing over their graves? Amber couldn’t help but feel guilty. Culpable.
“Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave,” he announced. “Scene forty-three. Take one.”
CLACK.
The arm on the clapboard came down so hard, so fast, it snapped Amber out of her daydream. She gave a start, wincing from the harsh smack of the wooden wand slicing down. Like a guillotine. Like a mousetrap. She needed a moment to settle her nerves. Settle down.
“And…action.”
All eyes were suddenly on Amber. She felt them staring at her. The cast. The crew. The director. Mom. Nora. All of them. Watching her. Waiting for her to say her line. Her one line.
It should’ve been so simple.
All she had to do was waltz down the graves. Lift her arm and reach out to Cassandra. Point an accusing finger at the young woman and her frizzy-haired boyfriend and say…
And say…
What was her line again?
Her mind had gone blank. The words weren’t there anymore. They all evaporated. They had just been there, only a moment ago. And now…
Now…
Now her tongue felt dry. It had shriveled in her mouth. Her throat constricted. She felt like a raisin. Like a mummy. A shriveled corpse on two feet.
Amber lost her mark. Her eyes darted away from her sightline. To the camera.
(Don’t look directly in the camera!)
To the crew.
(Don’t look at the crew!)
To her mother.
(Don’t look at me! Whatever you do, don’t ever look at me!)
Her mother had been standing off to the side, deeper in the cemetery, where the FX techs had been waiting for their cue to move in and prep for the next scene.
Amber lost herself in her mom’s eyes. The telepathic missives she kept sending to her daughter. She was having a hard time deciphering her mother’s expression. She looked frightened. Her own mother. Her eyes so wide. Her mouth hanging open, without breathing.
What was there for her to be so scared of? Why would she be afraid?
“Cut.”
The call felt like a cut all right. Slicing through the air at Amber’s back. She hadn’t seen who said it, but she knew right away it had been Mr. Ketchum. The intonation. The anger.
“Set it up quickly, please. Back to starting positions. Let’s do it again.” And then, from whatever shadow he was hiding in, his voice bellowed out: “Do you need your line, Amber?”
She shook her head no. No—she knew the lines. They were in her, she swore it. They always had been. She just lost them for a second. Just a second. But they were back now.
She promised.
Her lines.
Her voice.
Her breath.
She had them all back. Back where they belonged.
Please don’t be mad at me, she wanted to say. But she knew this would only make Mr. Ketchum madder. Adults always get angrier when you ask them not to be mad at you, because it makes them see that they’re angry in the first place. You’ve made them aware of the fact that they’re angry, angry at you, and you’ve called them out on it. You’ve shined a light on their rage, and nothing makes an adult feel more awful than knowing they’ve done something awful.
“Sound.”
“Camera.”
“Rolling.”
“Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave,” he announced. “Scene forty-three. Take two.”
CLACK.
Even though Amber knew the harsh sound was coming, it still startled her again. She took a moment to mentally check if all of her fingers were still attached to her hands.
“Action!”
Amber shuffled down the row of graves, just as she was told to.
Amber lifted up her arm, haltingly so, just how Mr. Ketchum had told her to. Like it’s really heavy, he’d said to her, like it weighs a hundred pounds.
She pointed her finger off camera, toward the spot where sCassandra was supposed to be, unaware that the spirit of Jessica Ford was approaching.
Amber’s lips parted. She took a breath and…
Nothing.
The line was gone again. It had just been there, right there at the tip of her—
“Cut. Cut!”
Amber noticed that the moment Mr. Ketchum shouted cut, everybody else went limp. The crew clenched during filming, holding their breath. But as soon as the camera shut off, their limbs loosened again, all that pent-up breath spilling out in one big collective exhale.
Before Amber knew what was happening, she saw Mr. Ketchum approaching. Saw him storming down the row of graves. Heading straight for her. There was spite in his eyes. He was trying to hide it. Masked in a thin layer of impatience. But she knew, Amber knew it was all a façade.
Mr. Ketchum kneeled before her. He took a moment to breathe in through his nose. Take the little girl in. “Amber. You okay, hon?”
Treacle. His voice sounded phony. There was anger buried beneath that sugary tone.
Amber nodded her head. It’s always better to agree with adults, she knew. Let them believe they’re right so that they won’t get angrier with you.
“Having a hard time remembering your line?”
Amber nodded again. “Yeah.”
Her mother suddenly appeared. Breathless. She had raced through the graves and was now standing next to Mr. Ketchum. He was quick to notice, tightening his smile.
“That’s okay,” he continued. “It happens. Everybody forgets now and then. But it’s really, really important that we get this shot finished so we can move on to the next, ’kay?”
Amber nodded. She glanced at her mother, who did nothing. Said nothing. She merely hung back, eyes wide, imploring with Amber: Don’t mess this up don’t you dare mess this up…
“So.” Ketchum cleared his throat, drawing Amber’s attention back. “The line in the script is: Do you want to play with me? Pretty simple, right? Now why don’t you go ahead and try it?”
Amber nodded her head, up and down, as she intonated the line back to Mr. Ketchum, word for lifeless word. “Do you want to play with me.”
Ketchum smiled. “See? That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
Amber shook her head no.
“Try it again for me.”
“Do you want to play with me.”
“Once more.”
“Do you want to play with me.”
“Again for good luck?”
“Do you want to play with me.”
“Ask it. It’s a question.”
“Do you want to play with me?”
“Perfect! Perfect! Once more?”
“Do you want to play with me?”
“Again!”
“Do you want to play with me?”
“Good. Great. Perfect. Think you can do that when the cameras start rolling?”
Amber nodded yes.
do you want to play with me
do you want to play with me
do you want to play with me
do you want
do you
me
But even then, from some bottomless depth within her chest, she could hear another voice inside her, a turf-ridden lisp, hissing out an altogether different response. Rejecting him.
Noooooooo
“Good,” Mr. Ketchum responded. “Real good. Now, we won’t start rolling until you say you’re ready this time, okay? I’m not gonna call action until you’re ready. We want to get this right, so you let me know when you’re ready. Okay, Amber? Does that sound good to you?”
Noooooooo
Mr. Ketchum stood up and faced Amber’s mother. The silent exchange between them seemed less than sympathetic.
do you want to play with me
do you want to play with me
do you want to play with me
do you want to play
All their eyes. Everyone was watching her. Waiting for her. Hanging on her every word.
These words seemed so silly.
So…wrong.
That was when it struck Amber. She suddenly realized what the problem was.
These weren’t the right words.
Of all the things to say, this is the silly stuff they had written?
“Do you want to play with me?”
Who writes tripe like that? She could write better lines than that. She’d been hearing them in her dreams for days now. Weeks.
Amber had a story to tell. An important story. She was a vessel, a conduit for her character, for Jessica Ford, the Little Witch Girl, and this was what she was supposed to say?
Do you want to play with me?
It was wrong.
All wrong.
do you want to play with me
“Sound.”
do you want to play with me do you want to play with me
“Camera.”
do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me
CLACK.
do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play with me do you want to play
And just like that, before the camera, its film unspooling, whirring and clicking from within its sealed chambers, before the rest of the crew and her own mother, Amber nodded at the director and Mr. Ketchum called action.
Amber suddenly knew exactly what needed to be said.
“Tell my story,” Amber said. “Let everyone know who I am.”
The words flowed right out of her. She didn’t even realize she was saying them until she spoke out loud, filling the air and embedding them onto tape.
“Cut, cut, CUT!”
Amber heard Ketchum coming before she saw him. His strides swept through the crisp air. Mr. Ketchum swooped upon her before she could retreat. “What the hell’s going on here? You want to rewrite the scene? You want to play a little game and say whatever the hell you want to? Is that what you want to do, Amber? Is that what’s going on here?”
Her mom rushed up. “Let me talk to her. We can work this—”
Ketchum shot back up and released his complete wrath on Amber’s mother. “You want to tell me what the fuck this is all about? You want to talk to your daughter and let her know what this is costing us? That I only have three days left on the schedule to shoot? That every time she misses her mark or forgets her line or makes some shit up, she’s losing us thousands of dollars? Can you please do that for me?”
“She…” Mom started. “She’s just a girl.”
Just a girl.
Her mother was sticking up for her. Fighting for her. Defending her against this…this ogre of a director. This mean man. Nobody should talk that way to a child. Even Amber knew that. Everybody knew that. And here was her mother, her mom, ready to put her foot down.
“Do you know how many fucking girls there are out there that I could’ve cast? Do you know how many fucking kids auditioned for this role? Do you know how many bitches are ready and waiting to take her place? Right now? At this very minute? Do you?”
Amber waited. This was the moment. The moment where her mom would say a bad word, a really bad word. Really throw it at him. Spit it right in his face.
Nobody talks to my daughter like that, she would say. Nobody.
Ketchum took her silence to keep on going. “I can get on the phone right now. I can call up Sheila and get her to send down whoever was next on the list. Hell, I could just head down to Pilot’s Creek Elementary or whatever the fuck it’s called and drag some kid out of class and get them all suited up…I could give a shit who plays her, as long as she says the fucking lines exactly the way they are written. Hear me?”
Amber’s mom bowed her head.
And nodded.
She kneeled before Amber. Before she met her daughter’s eyes, she took in a quick breath. Really gulped it down, like someone who didn’t savor it but just wanted to imbibe.
“Amber…”
She still hadn’t looked at her. Why wasn’t she looking at her? Why wasn’t she protecting her? Why wasn’t she stopping this mean, mean man from saying these awful, awful things?
Save me, Mommy…
Save me…
“Amber, you need to do what Mr. Ketchum says. You understand?”
Amber croaked. “But…”
Amber’s mom gripped her by the shoulders. Squeezed. “Listen to me. Listen. Do you see what you’re doing? Do you? Do you understand how much trouble you’re causing right now?”
“Mommy…”
“Just say the lines, Amber.”
“You’re hurting—”
“Say the lines the way they’re written.”
Amber tore herself out of her mother’s grip. It took all her strength. She toppled over, her back smacking the tombstone directly behind her, smashing into the soft sandstone.
She bit down and instantly felt her teeth crack together.
Her tooth.
Her tooth bent backward, almost at a ninety-degree angle. The nerve tore even farther away, until the tooth flailed against her tongue, barely holding on any longer, just by a thread of flesh.
The force of impact was enough to send the headstone tipping over. Once it hit the ground, the slab shattered, crumbling into smaller chunks that rolled across the ground.
Amber’s mom didn’t move. Didn’t rush to catch her. She only froze. The rest of the crew was watching. The cinematographer was watching. The director was watching. The FX techs were watching. The makeup assistants were watching. The production assistants were watching. The rest of the cast was watching. The actress playing Cassandra was watching.
Nora…
Nora Lambert was watching, her fingers pressed to her mouth in stunned silence, standing in complete stillness among all the others.
“Oh, Amber…” Miss Lambert said it. Not her mother.
Her mother said nothing.
Amber ran. She picked herself up and raced through a row of tombstones. The farther she went, the deeper she slipped into the dark. Into the shadows waiting beyond the Fresnel lamps.
The cemetery opened up to her.