Forty-Two

Sally anticipated hating seeing her overbite blown up to vast proportions on the silver screen, but that wasn't why she wanted to leave.

She couldn't bear to see them all die again.

Besides that, she dreaded the point in the film where she'd stopped playing a role. Because it didn't matter how talented you were. You could be Meryl Streep or Al Pacino. You could never act as well as the real thing when it came to naked terror.

The one time she'd ever gotten her performance truly perfect.

Jordan released a cloud of cigar smoke as she passed. "Sally Priest."

"Yes?"

"The camera. It's still safe?"

"Yes." She'd stashed it and the spell book.

"On the next full moon, let's do a general," the producer said. "I've got some fresh ideas for it that will put you on top."

Though free of desire, the dead remained hungry, and these particular spirits offered a dedicated production studio specializing in lethal freak accidents.

"I love it." Sally smiled. "My people will call yours."

As things went in Hollywood. People lied all the time.

She moved up the aisle to watch her mother watch the movie. Like the others, Sally was invisible tonight, her mortal coil tossing and turning in her bed back in her apartment. Astral travel, Raphael had called it during a previous visit to the dead. He was the one who'd taught her to tie her body to the bedframe to prevent it from trying to follow her spirit. To the moviegoers, the two front rows sat empty, occupied by a foreboding presence they instinctively avoided testing.

On the screen, If Wishes Could Kill's inciting incident scene marched to its climax, making way for the rest of the story. Clutching her purse as if ready to bolt at a moment's notice, Maude stared with her face set in a mortified mask, a grimace of social death. Her only daughter in America's most notorious horror flick, a production that had almost killed her. Maude's idea of real horror.

You were right, Sally mused. Horror movies really can create violence.

Light and dark flickered across her mother's features as if trying to imprint themselves. Sally heard her own voice on the theater speakers, joined by Clare's. Her first scene in the movie had appeared. Though she faced away from the screen, she could see it in her mind. She and her friend lying shoulder to shoulder on a bed at a soundstage in Burbank.

She stiffened, expecting Maude to stage a bitter and tearful walkout.

Instead, her mom's lips curled into a slight smile.

All along, Sally had missed an important fact hiding in plain sight. Her mother had always been proud of her. She'd never realized until now.

Seeing it in action was priceless.

Priceless, though a bit too late.

She didn't care that much about Maude's approval anymore. Bombay Beach had burned that need out of her. Her own little hero's journey complete. While the dead shed their worries, the living traded up for entirely new ones.

When it came to hang-ups, survivors had way bigger fish to fry.

"I love you, Mom," Sally said. "Regardless of what you think. I'm glad you're here. But I'm a scream queen. You'd better get used to it."

Scripts kept arriving on Louise's desk. Now that Wishes had slouched to Hollywood to be born, Sally could start thinking again about the future.

Horror directors wanted her. Other directors did too for everything from romantic comedies to action movies. Even studio heads like Chazz Morton, whom she'd enjoyed rejecting. Sally had ample choices, but she'd already decided to stay in horror. Despite what Max had done, the genre remained playful, accessible, boundary breaking. She'd scream again, and the audience would love her for it.

It was also therapeutic. Max had been right about that.

The desire to revisit her trauma to confirm she had in fact survived. Hoping that the next time, she'd understand it.

Like Max, Sally would stick with the genre that let her play with her demons. She'd relive the horror until at last the monster couldn't hurt her anymore.

That's how the Final Girl truly won.

And if that didn't work, well, she always had the other option.

Always Arthur Golden's cursed camera, craving fresh souls.