Forty

Sally Priest cut through the handful of protesters chanting their defiant hymns and entered the Night Owl's dim, stale interior. Ignoring the concessions stand fragrant with popcorn, she passed through a dark curtain and walked into the little theater, where rows of grungy, sticky seats faced a projection screen.

The air smelled dusty. The decor was outdated and appeared not only tired but utterly exhausted. The theater hadn't received a proper cleaning in ages. It wasn't even close to the kind of venue she'd imagined one day displaying her acting talent, but beggars didn't get to be choosers, no. Not in this town.

The theater staff had draped yellow tape over the two front rows, stringing together RESERVED signs. Sally picked a seat in the front row, center. She hadn't watched any of the movie outside a Moviola. This would be her first time seeing it from start to finish and in an actual theater. She hadn't wanted to see it at all ever again.

If concerned moms and clergy couldn't stomach If Wishes Could Kill, imagine being the only actor who survived its filming.

Instead, Sally had bought these seats in advance and walked here to see the horror film in all its shock and grimdark glory. Tonight, she had to bear witness again, as it wasn't only about her. Just as she'd had to see it finished.

Tonight would be something of a premiere, in fact.

She groaned a little as she settled into the polyurethane foam seat. Even now, parts of her ached from her ordeal at Bombay Beach four months ago. Over time, the cuts and bruises had healed, but her inner wounds might take years to mend. Badges of horror. Sally had finally gained the experience she'd craved to inform her performance as a Final Girl. She'd gotten her suffering.

Careful what you wish for, right. She still dreamed of scorpions and snakes boiling out of the ground, rustling toward her feet.

When she'd at last have the chance to play the Final Girl in a future film, she'd be able to run her lines without acting. And the offers were coming.

Everyone wanted a piece of her now. A real live Final Girl in a true-life horror movie. America's scream queen. The media ate it up, from the snobs at the New York Times to the cheerful blasting TV morning talk shows to Howard Stern. Overall, they didn't know whether to canonize or crucify her. She was the victim who'd fought back against an evil director who'd lost his ability to distinguish fantasy and reality, and she'd won. She was also the pariah who'd realized that director's vision by finishing his snuff movie and wrangling distribution for it.

Louise had been a substantial help on that last part, bringing in bookkeepers and lawyers and yelling over the phone, We gotta make hay! Make hay while we can! Sally had imagined her in black jacket and overalls like the farmer in Grant Wood's American Gothic painting, but instead of a pitchfork she held a scythe, sweeping the flashing blade not through wheat but through bodies, all the cast and crew, and then the scythe turned into the blades of Harry Stinson's crashing Bell 47.

Ever since Bombay Beach, Sally's imagination traveled to dark places.

It's what they would have wanted, she'd told Good Morning America, referring to her movie's murdered cast. The same answer she gave all the newspaper reporters and radio shock jocks and TV talking heads. It wasn't about the money for her but instead honoring the dead in their glorious final roles.

She wasn't lying.

Sally had inherited the cursed camera, and it came with debts.

Heavy footsteps thudded in the theater aisle. She craned her neck to see. A man lurched down the gentle incline, grunting and groaning. His face glowed pale and ghoulish in the dim lighting. The blazing eyes met hers, and he shambled over to plop into the seat next to her with a ballooning puff of desert dust.

He managed a strangled moan.

Sally answered with a smile.

"Hi, Max," she said.