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. Give 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.
It almost—almost—redefined the horror genre for generations. Instead, it became a footnote in a bizarre and lurid urban legend that has continued to evolve over the years. We’ve all heard of the Weinstein brothers buying a movie and then sitting on it, just to settle a petty self-serving score with the director. But has anyone, living or dead, studio exec or ghost, ever sabotaged a film from the inside out? Has anyone killed a movie before it was finished? Amber did just that.
Maybe a reboot just wasn’t enough. To really refashion this ghost story, it needed to expand its narrative scope. This ghost story needed to grow.
An interesting narrative begins to develop, if you look closely…Every few decades, beginning with Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave, the Legend of the Little Witch Girl resurfaces in a major way. Even though I Know What You Did on Jessica’s Grave never made its way to the big screen, the story of its demise did…along with its supernatural source. I’d argue it made a larger cultural impact than any movie could have. More people today know about Jessica and her mom because of the alleged crime committed by Amber Pendleton than if her remake had come out.
I reached out to Gillespie for this episode to see if he had anything to say to Amber Pendleton. He wasn’t the easiest man to find, having moved back to his hometown. He’s directed a few commercials for local car dealerships, but beyond that, he remains imprisoned in director’s jail, that fabled place where studios consign their auteurs after helming big-budget fiascos. Still living in the basement of his parents’ home, Gillespie claims to have moved on with his life. That he’s left Jessica and Amber behind…but it’s clear some ghosts refuse to die.
Gillespie did not want to be recorded for this podcast. He would not let me record our interview, short as it was.
Same with Lee Ketchum. I tracked down the director of the original Don’t Tread on Jessica’s Grave in a retirement community in rural New Jersey. Ketchum now spends his days hooked up to an oxygen tank, staring out the window of his bedroom. Watching his movie play out in his mind, I imagine, over and over again. Struggling to breathe. When I visited him one sunny Sunday afternoon, I was met with a similar response as Gillespie…He refused to talk.
Nobody wants to talk about Jessica. Not the men who fashioned their film careers on her story. Whoever has dared to tell Jessica Ford’s story has disappeared from the public. They’ve either run far, far away from her—or they live in total obscurity. Alone. In the dark. As if they’re all hiding. But hiding from whom?