tapii

The golf cart rolls forward smoothly, slowly passing by giant warehouses and people pushing giant props around. I practically bounce in my seat, taking in every new detail.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, drawing my attention. “Did you know this was where they filmed ‘Creepshow?’”

He’s been beaming too. He might be more excited about this than I am. It’s adorable.

“Really?” I ask, enjoying his spew of fun facts.

“Uh-huh,” he nods enthusiastically.

“You want a picture?” I offer, holding up my little camera. I know it's very tourist-y of me, but this is too cool to pass up the opportunity.

He nods, adjusting his sunglasses and the way he’s sitting, arm draped along the back of the seat, facing me. I hold the camera up, focusing it on his charming smile and the dorky way he does a thumb up. He’s so cute.

“Now, to the right, here is Stars Hollow,” the tour guide continues. “It’s the setting for the television series, Gilmore Girls. And if we’re lucky, we might even catch one of the show’s stars.”

Sam turns around from the row in front of us. “Can we go?” he asks, deadpanning.

“No, no, no, let's stay,” I plead. I mean, we never get to do anything cool like this.

But Sam rolls his eyes and hops out of the cart anyway, giving us a knowing look and a groan. So, with a lot of reluctance, we leave the slow-moving cart too.

“That was pretty lame of you, Sam,” I remark, side-eying him as we walk around the lot.

“Just tryna keep us focused,” he sighs, unamused. We’re annoying him, but what did he think was going to happen when he took two film nerds to a huge film set!

“Okay, well, did you know this studio is responsible for making the first full-length feature film with synchronized dialogue?” I ask, beaming up at him.

“No, I did–”

“Check it out, it’s Matt Damon!” Dean exclaims suddenly, elbowing his brother.

I follow his gaze to a white guy with short, dirty blonde hair. He kinda does look like Matt Damon.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s not Matt Damon,” Sam answers.

“No, it is,” he insists.

“Well, Matt Damon just picked up a broom and started sweeping,” Sam remarks.

“Yeah, well, he’s probably researching a role or something,” he reasons.

“Ehh, I don’t think so,” he admits. “Hey, this way, I think Stage 9 is over here.”

He pauses in front of a sign, gesturing down a side “road.”

“Come on, man, let’s keep going this way,” Dean pleads.

“No, come on, we’ve gotta work,” Sam reasons, earning a sigh in turn, “Dude, you wanted to come to LA!”

“Yeah, for a vacation,” he answers. “I mean, swimming pools and movie stars! Not to work.”

“I second the swimming pool, we should get a motel with a pool,” I interject, helpfully.

“This seem like swimming pool weather to you?” Sam counters. “I mean, it’s practically Canadian!”

“Dude, it’s shorts weather!” I exclaim. “With just a nice little breeze.”

“Well, I just figured that, you know, after everything that happened with…Madison, you could use a little R-and-R, that’s all,” Dean reasons, moving on from the weather.

“Well, maybe I wanna work, Dean,” he counters. “Maybe it keeps my mind off things.”

And just like that, he wins. How could either of us say anything now?

“Okay, okay, alright,” Dean gives in. “So, this crew guy-what did he, he died on set?”

“Yeah, uh, rumors spreading like wildfire online,” Sam explains, leading the way towards Studio 9. “They’re saying the set’s haunted.”

“Like Poltergeist?” Dean asks.

“Could be a poltergeist,” he considers.

“No, no, no. Like the movie Poltergeist,” Dean corrects. But Sam just shakes his head with a confused look. “You know nothing of your cultural heritage, do you? It was rumored that the set of Poltergeist was cursed. They used real human bones as props. And, like, at least three of the actors died in it.”

“Well, yeah, it might be something like that,” he replies.

“Okay, so who was this guy?” I ask.

“Frank Jaffey,” he answers.

“He got a death certificate or a coroner’s report or anything?” Dean asks.

“Well, no. But it’s LA, you know? It might not even be his real name.”

“Like in Scream 3,” I say.

“Yeah, sure…” Sam answers. “But the girl who found him said she saw something—a vanishing figure.”

“What’s the girl's name?” Dean asks.

“Uh, Tara Benchley, I think,” he replies.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tara Benchley?” Dean spews, stopping in his tracks. “From ‘Fear dot Com’ and ‘Ghost Ship,’ Tara Benchley? Dude, why didn’t you say so?”

For the first time today, I have no idea what he’s referencing. I’ve never heard of those films before.

“Is she your celebrity crush?” I ask with mild amusement.

“What? No,” he scoffs.

“But you’re suddenly on board?” Sam presses.

“Oh, I just—I mean, I’m a fan of her work. It’s very good,” he explains, standing a little taller.

********

  Eventually, we find our way to the studio, wandering into the large warehouse. There are all kinds of people walking around with clipboards and walkie-talkies. And by the set, cameras surrounding it, are two men speaking, one of them far more familiar than the other. 

  “Oh my God, it’s McG,” I blurt, staring at the tall man from afar. He’s less ginger in person than the cameras make him look online.

  “Who?” Sam asks.

  “He’s a director!” I explain. “He made the Charlie’s Angels movie!”

  “Uh, excuse me, green shirt guy?” A man next to McG yells in our direction. There’s a clipboard in his hand, too, his shaggy hair held back with his headset. Finding no one else in green, Dean points to himself in confusion, looking around again to make sure. “Yeah, you. Come here.”

  Dean gives us a wide-eyed look before shuffling towards the guy.

  “Can you get me a smoothie from Kraft?” the man asks loud enough for us to hear from a distance.

  “You want a what from who?” Dean utters.

  “You are a P.A., right?” he scoffs. “This is what you do, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, yeah…he uh…one smoothie coming right up,” Sam interjects, quickly pulling his brother away from the conversation.

  “Wait, you, girl,” the man says, snapping and pointing at me.

  Wait, me?

  “Where are you going?” he asks. “You’re Allie’s replacement, aren’t you?”

  “What?” I deadpan.

  “Ugh, please don’t tell me they sent another idiot,” he mutters to himself. “Look, Allie got scared off, you’re her replacement, you’re playing Kendra. We’ll shoot your replacement scenes another time. For now, we’re gonna continue where we left off. Alright?”

  “Wait, but I’m—“

  “They already got you dressed, great, now go look over the script or something, we’re starting at the cabin scene,” he continues, giving me a final once-over before brushing me off with a wave of his hand.

  “What the hell just happened?” I utter the second we’re out of hearing, my jaw now permanently dropped.

  “You just got cast,” Dean grins.

  “But I’ve never acted before. What am I going to do?” I whisper-shout, looking between them with wide eyes.

  “Get to reading,” Sam laughs hard.

  “No, stop enjoying this,” I lecture. “Help me. Help. Please.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart, we have smoothies to get,” Dean answers, enjoying this just as much as his brother, if not more. Betrayed by the people you love. “We’ll be back, trust me, we aren’t gonna miss it.”

  “No, no, no, no, no, please, please, please, please,” I spew, total dread filling my chest.

  But, they’re already walking away, leaving me to struggle for their own amusement. I can even see the way their heads duck down and their shoulders wrack in fits of laughter.

  I hate them.

  They’re actually the worst.

********

  I stand stiffly on set, eyes focused on the ‘X’ taped beneath my feet to mark where I’m meant to stand. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I shouldn’t do this. 

  My heart beats wildly in my chest, blood pumping so loud in my ears that everything else is muffled. But the stage lights feel too bright, and all the cameras around are like horrible voids. 

  The actors around me talk amongst themselves; they're so comfortable in this environment, I almost envy them.

  I try to remind myself to breathe, to loosen up my muscles, because really, I have acted before. I act every time we pose as someone for a hunt. It’s not that different when you think about it, right? Right?

  My eyes wander past the various cameras, landing on a familiar figure weaving through the crew members. His back is towards me, but I know that it’s him. He places down a tray of smoothies onto a far table, twisting around smoothly to go on his way. Through all the people and all the equipment, his eyes find mine, shining through like little gems. He smiles widely, holding two thumbs up, making a little smile break onto my lips. I want to be mad that he didn’t try to save me from doing this, but he looks so genuine that it’s hard to stay upset.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad. I mean, who hasn’t wanted to be in a movie? And it’s a horror movie! 

  “Quiet, please!” someone shouts, making everyone snap into place, rigid and ready. 

  Dean gives me one last emphasized thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd, going God knows where.

  “On the bell!” 

  My heart speeds back up, thumping full of dread. But I see Dean’s ecstatic face in my mind, and it eases something in me.

  “Alright! Hold the noise, we’re rolling!” Someone else shouts, then on cue, the warehouse lights go off, leaving only the stage lights on. 

  I play the lines over and over again in my head, hoping I spent enough time with them to not embarrass myself further. 

  “Why don’t we take it from, ‘come on, it’ll be fun,” McG yells, which is great because that means I don’t have to say anything. “And, action!”

  A brunette holds up a big book, standing in front of us. Apparently, this is Tara, who is playing Wendy.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she teases, eyes dropping to the book.

  She begins to read, but instead she’s just stammering through the Latin words. My best worried expression turns to pure confusion as she continues. I’m fluent in Latin, and yet I have no idea what she’s trying to say. She’s stumbling over the words, half mumbling them, and all I can really pick up is something about a pig, which could be the poorly written Latin or the fault of her misspeaking. 

  “Maybe we’ll finish this up tomorrow,” McG says from behind the camera, putting us (mostly me) out of our misery. 

  “Oh my God, I hate you so much right now!” Tara whines, breaking character.

  “Cut!” McG yells, finally allowing the crew to laugh at her breakdown. No wonder why they say Hollywood is toxic.

  Still, I use the opportunity to shuffle away and be grateful that we hadn’t shot long enough that I would’ve had to act.  

  I move to stand where I last saw Dean, only having to wait a minute or two before he emerges again, tucking a little box-shaped object into his pocket. 

  “What’d you get up to?” I ask as he nears.

  “Checkin’ for EMF,” he answers, gaze wandering off to the table of food not five feet away from us. “Nothing there though.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best. We should get out of here,” I say, watching him conspicuously shuffle towards the food.

  “Nope, haven’t gotten to see you act yet,” he muses, picking up a little paper plate and filling it up with small sandwiches.

  “It should stay that way. I feel like I’m being hazed,” I remark.

  He laughs, hard, eyes sparkling with mischief and endearment, while he brings one of the sandwiches to his mouth. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters through a mouthful of food. “You hungry, sweetheart? You should try this.”

  “No thanks,” I say. “I think I’m filled with too much leftover anxiety to be hungry.” But I’m glad he’s enjoying it. 

  “‘S that bad?” he chuckles through another bite of food. 

  “I just don’t exude confidence like you do, Dean,” I half-shrug.

  “You should, you’re really fucking sexy,” he answers so naturally as if it were an absolute fact.

  I bite back a smile and a scoff of laughter. Still, it catches his attention like he expected it, gaze drawn to me. 

  “If you think you aren’t sexy, we’re gonna have a real problem,” he states, eyes sharpened, and brow quirked just so.

  “Hey, you find anything?” Sam asks, popping out of nowhere. 

  “Nah, there’s no EMF anywhere,” Dean repeats himself.

  “Great,” he mumbles. “So, what do you think?”

  “Well, I think being a P.A. sucks,” Dean remarks, helpfully. “But the food these people get? Are you kidding me? I mean, look at these things. They’re like miniature Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. They’re delicious.”

  He holds one up to Sam, adamant on sharing.

  “Maybe later,” Sam says.

  “Sandwiches aside, did you find anything while you were gone?” I ask, assuming that’s what he got up to since he didn’t arrive at the same time as Dean did. 

  “Well, Frank Jeffrey was just filling in for the day. Nobody here knew him or where he lived or anything,” he answers. 

  “That’s helpful,” I remark.

  “‘Found out about as much as I did,” Dean adds. 

  “No, not quite. I—“

  A guy with black hair and glasses interjects with a friendly “Hey, guys.”

  “Oh, hey,” Dean responds.

  “Sorry,” the man mumbles, squeezing himself in to grab a plate and a sandwich. 

  “That’s alright,” Dean says, watching the guy walk around with a proud smile. “They’re wonderful!” he shouts after the guy. 

  “Listen, I did dig up some stuff about Stage 9’s history,” Sam continues, where he left off. “Four people died messily here over the past eighty years. Two suicides and two fatal accidents.” 

  “Gosh,” I gape. “I’m guessing that means a lot of vengeful spirit material, then.”

  “Yeah, we’ve just gotta narrow it down more,” Sam confirms. 

  “I’ll get right on that,” Dean announces, his attention trailing off onto Tara, who walks by. He follows after her, swiftly stealing a sheet of paper from a passing worker before approaching her. 

  An uneasy feeling settles into my gut, jealousy gnawing ugly bites into my organs. I trust Dean, I mean, he did just finish calling me sexy, and he once told me that he thought my speaking Latin was hot, and that’s something Tara cannot do. Not to be mean, that is. Besides, when do any of us get the chance to meet an actor we like?

  “I’m surprised you’re not saying anything,” Sam remarks from beside me.

  “What?” I scoff, trying to play it off. “I-I’m cool, this is fine.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he whispers. 

  But there’s nothing to worry about because Dean returns almost exactly a minute later, paper still in hand. And, he looks irritated, which is actually maybe not a good sign.

  “That was quick,” I point out.

  “Yeah, well, Frank Jeffery isn’t Frank Jeffery,” he reveals. “He’s Gerard St. James, an actor, who I’m pretty damn sure isn’t dead.”

  “What, so he faked it?” Sam asks in disbelief.

  “Only one way to find out,” I say.

  “Actually, you’re still needed on set,” Dean reveals, holding up the paper for me to see. It’s a call sheet. Great.

  “Not this again,” I grumble. 

  “You’ll do well, just remember you get to be in a horror movie,” he says like it’s easy, stepping close enough to cup my face and press a lingering kiss to my forehead. “I’ll come pick you up later,” he adds, helping himself to a proper kiss.

  Take that, Tara. 

********

  Hours go by in a whirlwind of refilming scenes I had to make up and then continuing with new ones. Between each take, I crammed the script like it was my life, all in hopes of not embarrassing myself. 

  Dean did keep me updated on what was going on, texting me often. That Geard guy is alive; his death had been faked in order to gain publicity for the movie. Which is very out of touch and horrible if you ask me, but maybe that’s show business. Still, it was nice to hear from Dean and all his silly little messages, like the photo he sent of a star with my name in the middle of it, drawn on a napkin. He said it was my own Hollywood Star, the sweet dork he is. 

  Now, I’m on set again, set up in the same “abandoned house” I started in. Admittedly, this has all been pretty damn fun. 

  “When we read from that book, we must have brought them back,” Torrance, who plays Mitch, acts. “Back from hell.”

  “None of this makes any sense!” I exclaim as scripted. Luckily, none of this storyline is that far off from what I experience daily. 

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re not going anywhere until we find Wendy and her sister. Got it?” He retorts. “Good. Now let’s get busy.”

  “Cut!” McG yells from behind the camera. “Very nice.”

  “No good for sound,” a man holding a boom mike says. “I’m getting some kind of feedback.”

  I sigh in tandem with just about everyone else on set. We all want to go home. In fact, I’d like to see my friends again instead of being put through whatever dream/nightmare this is.

  “Another costly sound delay!” Someone mocks. “Alright, we’re going again for sound, people!”

  “Thank you!” The sound guy chirps, adjusting his headphones. 

  But, we still wind up at a standstill while we wait for McG to conclude his conversation with the guy who recruited Dean, who I learned was called Brad, and some other guy. 

  “So, what other films have you been in?” Torrance asks, breaking the silence amongst our waiting.

  “Oh, I haven’t. This is my big break. ‘Always wanted to be in a horror movie, though,” I admit, truthfully. “What about you?”

  “My first film too,” he nods. “I was a background character in two shows, though.”

  “Congrats, then,” I reply. 

  “Yeah, you too…so—“

  “Alright!” McG announces. “We’re gonna add in a couple of lines. Kendra, after you say ‘None of this makes sense,’ say, ‘If they were in Hell, how could they hear our chanting?’ And Mitch, you’ll answer, ‘They must have super hearing!’ Then, continue with your lines like normal.”

  That’s a whole lot of telling instead of showing, but alright. 

  “Sounds good!” Torrance answers for both of us.

  “Great!” McG claps. “Let’s start. Places! Quiet on set! And, 3…2…1 and action!”

  “When we read from that book, we must have brought them back. Back from Hell,” Torrance repeats in almost the exact same inclination. 

  “None of this makes any sense!” I exclaim, again. “If they were in Hell, how could they hear our chanting?”

  “They must have super-hearing!” Torrance replies, but instead it just sounds stupid and out of place.

  Then, there’s a loud crash from above us, something breaking through the ceiling. A horrific scream rips from my throat at the sight of what came through: Brad’s hanging body. His body spins on the rope from the force, his neck left bent at a horrible angle.

  By morning, it’s like nothing happened. The ceiling is patched up, the body is gone, and the set is clean. The only indication that something occurred is the whispers spread among the cast and crew. Though I’d like to add a sleepless night. The hours I had the opportunity to sleep were filled with the image of his body dropping again and again. I see messed-up things all the time, but it hasn’t made me immune to the bizarre and horrible. 

  Speaking of messed up, we’ve continued right where we left off, talking about books, and hearing the chanting from hell. Now, Tara’s character is entering the scene, finally adding something different to this Groundhog Day of filming. 

  “Wendy?” Torrance, as Mitch, gasps.

  “Oh, Mitch! God, you’re alive!” She gushes, hugging him tightly. 

  “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he smirks.

  “Rumble, rumble rumble!” McG narrates from behind the camera. Actually, I laughed the first time he did it, which made us have to restart, so this time I forced myself to keep a straight face.

  “Salt,” Tara announces, pulling away from the embrace. “Okay, we need salt. I read in that book that it keeps ghosts away.”

  “Kendra, Logan, you guys check the back,” Torrance orders, prompting us to nod in determination and walk off-screen. 

  I use the opportunity to walk around the camera crew, heading to where I saw Dean last. Luckily, he chose to play his P.A. role again, allowing him to be back on set. 

  “Um…uh, yeah, cut. Cut!” The director shouts.

  “That’s a cut!” Dean mimics in all seriousness, though it makes finding him that much easier. 

  Seeming to sense me before I say or do anything, he turns in time with my arrival, letting his half-eaten taquito fall onto his plate so he can push his headset off one ear. 

  “There’s my movie star,” he drawls, smirking devilishly as he eyes me up slowly. 

  “You’ve seen me do like one scene,” I laugh, standing close to him.

  “And?”

  “And…that’s hardly ‘star’ material.”

  “Says you,” he remarks in a little grumble, handing his plate off to the nearest crew member walking by to rest his hands on my hips. “My girl is gonna be in a movie.”

  “A possibly haunted movie,” I add, giving in to his sugary words and proximity.

  “Still counts,” he decides. 

  “I-I-I just can’t wrap my head around the dialogue, you know?” Tara says loudly, unintentionally cutting into our conversation. “Salt? Doesn’t that sound silly? I mean, why would a ghost be afraid of salt?”

  “Little does she know,” Dean chuckles, voice low in my ear. 

  “Okay…Marty?” McG calls out.

  “Yo,” Marty, a long-faced man with thick, greying hair, answers, stepping forward. 

  “What do you think?” McG asks.

  “Not married to salt, what do you want? ‘We still sticking with condiments?”

  “It just sounds different, not better. What else would a ghost be scared of?” McG continues.

  “Sigil—“

  “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” someone groans from beside me, cutting off my own mumbled response. He’s the same guy who interjected our conversation with his sandwich taking. 

  “What would a ghost be scared of? Maybe, uh, maybe shotguns,” Marty suggests.

  “Okay, that makes even less sense than salt,” McG remarks.

  “These people are idiots,” the sandwich guy spits, walking off with a huff of annoyance. 

  It’s been an interesting two days. 

  “Walter’s a little testy for a P.A., huh?” Dean muses, watching the man go with a thoughtful look.

  “Can’t blame him, there’s constantly so much going on at once, it’s overwhelming,” I reason. 

  “Hey, how’s it going in here?” Sam asks from behind me, returning from whatever he was up to. Thus forcing me to step out of Dean's grasp to hold a conversation like a normal person.

  “It is going really well, man,” Dean grins, adjusting to my movements so that his arm wraps around my waist. “‘Directors really liking Y/N’s work, heard him talking ‘bout ‘being a natural’ and a ‘scream queen.’”

  “He does? He was?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he exhales like it’s obvious. “I was eavesdropping."

  “Guys, you know when I ask how it’s going in here, I’m talking about the case, right?” Sam interjects. “We don’t really work here.”

  “Speak for yourself, I’ve literally had to stay late, learn the script, and I get paid tomorrow,” I retort. “All thanks to you two for thinking you were funny, may I add.”

  “Fine, you might be actually, accidentally, working,” he corrects with a grumble. “But I thought you hated being a P.A., Dean.”

  “I don’t know, it’s not so bad. I kind of feel like part of the team, you know?” Dean admits, shuffling his feet. 

  “No,” Sam deadpans. “Anyways, listen, I conned my way into the morgue.”

  “And?” Dean asks.

  “News reports were right, Brad's a doornail, no question,” he answers.

  “I told you!” I exclaim. “You can’t fake the sound of a neck snapping like that.”

  “Copy that,” Dean mutters. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “They faked it in front of someone before; we had to be sure,” Sam explains, looking at me.

  “Fake what?” Dean asks, looking between us.

  “Brad’s death. Y/N was right. The reports were right,” Sam answers. 

  “They are aware.”

  “Who’s aware?” Sam asks.

  “It’s his headset,” I answer for him.

  “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Dean says again. 

  “Uh…The newspaper’s right, Brad’s a doornail, no question about it,” Sam repeats for the umpteenth time. 

  “I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t skip town,” Dean remarks, finally paying attention. “Oh, come here. I want you to hear something,” he adds. “Copy that. On my way.”

  Sam gives me an annoyed and knowing look, expecting me to be on his side. But I just shrugged and let Dean lead us away. 

  “Hey, Dave,” Dean greets a man holding a boom mic. “Can you play ‘em that thing you were playing me earlier?”

  “Sure,” Dave answers, bringing us over to a laptop. He clicks a couple of things and offers up a pair of headphones, Sam and I taking an earbud each. 

  The audio starts normal, crisp even, as it plays the scene from last night, but not even halfway through, there’s a weird staticky noise. It continues to grow distorted, and I know there was nothing going on last night that would’ve caused this externally, so what the hell is going on here?

********

  The A.C. hums quietly in the background, the door to the trailer thumping shut behind the youngest Winchester. It’s my first time in this trailer that’s technically mine, or, well, the girl who was playing Kendra before me. 

  After we listened to the audio, Dean did another EMF sweep, this time getting results. So, the next logical step was to investigate the crime scene, but because that had been cleaned up, the closest thing was a recording of last night. 

  “Where’d you get that DVD?” Sam asks as Dean inserts it into the machine and turns the TV on.

  “They’re called dailies. I got it from Cindy,” Dean explains. “She’s kind of got this on-and-off thing with Drew. He dubbed me an extra copy.”

  “They’re ‘on’ right now, if you were wondering,” I mutter to Sam, sitting next to him on the couch.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “Alright,” Dean says, grabbing the remote, pressing play, and collapsing down beside me, arm thrown around the back of the couch.

  The scene from last night plays from the beginning, my cheeks growing warm from seeing myself act, my voice playing back at me. Then, of course, comes Brad’s crashing entrance, making me flinch all over again, just this time, the screaming is left to my past self. 

  “Again,” Sam orders.

  Dean nods, rewinding the footage to just before the fall. Again, the ceiling breaks, and Brad comes crashing in, the snap of his neck evident before the screaming. 

  “Wait, go back, go back,” Sam directs. “Right after. Right aft-yeah. Wait. There.”

  Dean has it paused on the right frame, revealing an entirely different set than the one used last night. And standing off in the corner is a ghostly woman wearing a silk robe and painted lips. 

  “How the…it’s like it’s filmed over,” I mumble.

  “It’s like ‘Three Men and a Baby’ all over again,” Dean remarks. “Selleck Danson, Guttenberg, and…I don’t know who played the baby.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sam asks, confused as ever. 

  “There’s a scene in the movie where people say that the camera caught a ghost on film,” he explains. “Apparently, in the background of one of the scenes, there was this boy that nobody remembers from set. Spirit photography.”

  “Well, I’ve seen her before,” Sam declares, staring at the screen intensely.

  “You have?” I ask.

********

  I shuffle my way off set, trying to be inconspicuous so I don’t get swept away again. 

  Sam had left before to figure out how he recognized the spirit, which had taken enough time for filming to start up again. Now, I’m breaking away, meeting the Winchesters in our agreed spot.

  “There she is,” Dean grins widely, lounging in a folding chair, man-spreading to the max. And, of course, his headset is still in place. 

  “Hi, sorry,” I exhale, stepping closer to the table he and Sam are occupying. 

  Dean beckons me with a small gesture of his hand, immediately pulling me down to sit on his thigh when I’m close enough. My legs are between his spread ones, his arm at my back. He ignores the side look Sam gives us, shrugging and saying:

“What? There’s no other chair,” like it’s the most obvious explanation in the world.

  “…Anyways, you’re just in time,” Sam nods, unfolding a piece of paper from his pocket.

  “Yeah, go for Ozzy,” Dean suddenly says. The headset…again. “No, I don’t have a 20 on Tara, I think she’s 10-100.”

  “Oh, I got eyes on Y/N,” he says next, hand slipping up the hem of my shirt, his thumb rubbing back and forth against the skin of my back. “Okay, copy that. Alright, what were you saying?”

  Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Elise Drummond, starlet back in the thirties. ‘Had an affair with a studio exec. He uses her up, does her, leaves her destitute, so Elise hangs herself from Stage 9’s rafters, right into a scene they’re shooting.”

  “Just like our man, Brad,” Dean nods. “So, what, she’s got it in for the studio brass?”

  “Possibly. I mean, it’s a motive,” Sam answers. “And Brad’s death matches hers exactly.”

  “We’re digging tonight, aren’t we?” Dean remarks. 

  “Maybe not. Why did this only happen now? I mean, this studio isn’t exactly new. What could’ve triggered this?” I say, rattling off my train of thought, something itching at the back of my mind.

  “You have something?” Dean asks, gaze boring into my expression.

  “I don’t know…” I mumble, trying to detect what’s bothering me. “One sec.”

  I leave Dean's lap and warmth to round the set, beelining it to the first script I see. I snatch the packet off of one of the fancy movie chairs, flicking through the pages with a scene in mind. Finding it, I skim through the passage of Latin, making alarm bells go off in my head. 

  “Should’ve seen it before,” I mutter as I return to the Winchesters. I place the packet down, finger pointing to the passage of text. “In this scene, Tara’s character is accidentally summoning the demons, or whatever, for the movie. But this is an actual summoning spell. At first, I thought it was Latin because she was butchering it so badly, but it's not. It's Enochian. I just…I didn’t realize it before because I was trying not to vomit everywhere.”

  “Well, what the hell is that doing in a Hollywood movie?” Sam asks, looking up from the script. 

  A little awkwardly, we wander into the doorway of the writer, Marty’s, office. He’s lounging back in his chair, talking on the phone with an edge of annoyance. Then his eyes jump to us in the doorway, giving us a strange look as he hangs up on whoever he was talking to. 

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” The long-faced man asks. “Are you having problems on set? With the script?”

  “Oh, um, no,” I shake my head.

  “Sorry, we—we couldn’t help ourselves. We just had to tell you that we also read the script,” Sam jumps in, gesturing towards him and Dean.

  “And?” Marty presses, unamused.

  “Yeah,” he nods. “It’s, uh, it’s awesome.”

  “Awesome,” Dean nods.

  “I know it’s pretty rockin’, right?” Marty smiles, leaning in as if he were absorbing the praise. “I’m glad you guys liked it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we especially liked the, uh, Enochian summoning rituals,” I pile on.

  “Yup, great attention to detail,” Sam adds.

  His smile falters. “Attention to detail is usually all me, but I didn’t write that Latin crap. No, man, that’s Walter. Walter Dixon, the original writer. You like that garbage?”

  What’s this dude got against Latin?

  “Wait, ‘Walter the P.A.’ Walter?” Dean asks.

  “No, he’s not a P.A.,” Marty clarifies. “He’s got a clause in his contract that allows him to come on set.”

  “But he wrote the invocations?” Dean continues. 

  “He wrote a whack-job screenplay. There’s no pace, there’s no love interest, it’s all wackadoo exposition,” Marty corrects, holding up a finger. “I had to cut, like, ninety percent of it to make it readable, the other ten percent to make it good.”

********

  “You know, this is pretty good,” I say, turning to the next page of Walter’s screenplay. They changed a lot of what he wrote, including the original name “Lord of the Dead.” 

  “They should’ve kept it,” Dean adds.

  “Yeah, and it reads like a how-to manual of conjugation, like a textbook on how to summon ghosts and get them to do whatever you want,” Sam points out. 

  “Like kill people,” Dean finishes for him. 

  “Yep. So, let’s say somewhere down the line, Walter learned some pretty black magic,” Sam continues.

  “And let’s say he’s pissed at these people for wrecking his movie,” Dean topples on. 

  “Hell of a motive,” I say. 

  “One worth checking out,” Dean concludes. “You think Walter’s gonna be home?” 

  “No, he’s probably still on set,” I answer.

  “Why? It’s late, and filming is over,” Sam points out.

  “Exactly. It’s the perfect time to kill someone else. I mean, you really think he’s going to stop at one person? And who is still alive that ruined his script?”

  “Martin,” Sam exhales.

  “Look, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But I think we should get the guns and check the sets,” I suggest. “Plus, I’m never wrong.”

********

  After checking the abandoned building set, I thought I may have actually been wrong. But when we enter the warehouse with the forest set, the shouting coming from around the corner tells me all I need to know. 

  “Walter, please! Walter, help me!” Martin screams as a ghostly male figure drags him by his collar towards an industrial fan. “He—“

  A loud bang booms through the large space, the calculated shot hitting the ghost square in the chest, making it vanish in a puff of smoke. Dean steps forward, lowering the gun just enough.

  “You are one hell of a P.A.,” Martin remarks, scrambling to sit up.

  “Yeah, I know,” Dean answers. 

  “What are you—“

  “The jig is up, Walter,” I cut him off, taking careful steps towards him. 

  He scurries up the stairs of the rafter, Sam immediately jumping in front of me and climbing up after him. 

  “Raising these spirits from the dead? Making them murder for you? That’s playing with fire,” Sam tells him. 

  “You don’t understand,” he utters. 

  “You know what? You’re right, I don’t understand,” Sam admits.

  “Just…wait, look,” Walter stammers. “You put your heart and soul into something, years of hard work. It’s years, and then they take it! And they crap all over it! And then—and then they want you to smile and say, ‘thank you.’”

  “Walter, listen. It’s just a movie. That’s it,” Sam urges.

  Walter scoffs, and I have to agree. I even take offense to that; a movie is never just a movie. 

“Look…I’ve nothing against you, man. Or either of you!” he gestures towards Dean and me. “You’re not a part of this. Just please, please, leave. But Martin’s gotta stay.”

  “Hey, man, we got nothin’ against you either,” I admit, holding my hands up in surrender. “But you can’t just kill people. We can’t let you do that.”

  “Not that we like him either, or anything,” Dean mutters. “It’s just a matter of principle.”

  “Then I’m sorry, too,” Walter responds. He raises his arm, and clutched within his hand is a talisman, circular with some sort of ‘x’ or ‘t’ inside of it. 

  But before he can begin chanting, lips forming the first letter, the talisman vanishes, appearing in my hand. Having no clever quip to say, I give him a knowing, pointed look as I recite the words to set the spirits free from control.

  “What the–” he mutters, scrambling further up the rafter with wide eyes.

  I frown, knowing what’s to come, because their freedom means his death. Regardless of being under no one’s control, they will want revenge for what he made them do. There is no stopping that. I turn my back just as an invisible force drags him down, his guttural screams filling the air.

  My cheeks burn as a round of applause breaks out amongst the crew members. It’s the last day of filming. Or, at least it is for me. I have no idea what kind of scenes they may or may not reshoot with the other cast members, but that’s no longer my problem. 

  I bow my head in a sheepish ‘thank you,’ then trudge my way off set.

  “Now that that humiliation ritual, and bucket list number, is over,” I say, standing in front of the Winchesters. “I have a bikini that is in desperate need of exposure.”

  I watch the way my words process in Dean’s mind, his jaw going slack, eyebrows rising, the cogs in his brain turning, and a smile spreading on his lips as his eyes lazily dip down my figure.

  Then, he’s turning to his brother, saying: “You heard the woman.”

  Satisfied, I turn on my heels, leading the way out.

  “God, I love this town,” Dean mutters. 

(Next Chapter)

A/N: In a couple hours I’m gonna be presenting my research paper in front of a whole bunch of people at school, like a whole department. I might die so wish me luck.