Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) (23 page)

“Hi, Mike!” Jill flashed her brightest smile as she waved to a young security guard behind the desk.

“Morning, Miss Connor.”

Her footsteps echoed in the foyer as her four-inch heels tapped against the marble floor. Who called a meeting at 7:00 a.m.? Of course, Jill had been on the phone to the East Coast since six, but still. How she wished she’d never heard of
Terror in the Trees
! Besides the PR nightmare that was several dozen lawsuits regarding audience deaths, Temple Studios had acquired the film for over 400 million dollars. That was Cameron at his best kind of money, yet Temple Studios had laid out all of their available capital on a movie that none of them had actually seen.

They just had to trust the Baxter brothers. Either this movie made box office history, or … Well, forget her job. Temple Studios would no longer exist.

Ugh! Jill felt her forehead throb. Sure, she always wanted to be the head of PR on a major motion picture. However, she thought it would be on the next
Gone with the Wind,
or at the least, a movie similar to
The
Hurt Locker
. But no, because of
Terror in the Trees
, Jill had zero sleep, and her cell phone wouldn’t stop ringing. As it was, she had twenty-three voice mails waiting for her attention.

She shifted her coffee to her other hand, checking her watch. 7:01 a.m.

Crap.

She was late. Tapping her shoe as if it would hurry the elevator, Jill watched the old-style gauge. Just two more floors, and the elevator would be hers.

Before the car arrived, Jill stole a quick glance at her reflection. Faint shadows framed her blue eyes. They once shined with excitement, but now they were dull with fatigue. Was this what it was like? Selling your soul to hock a horror film whose greatest claim to fame was that it induced paranoid schizophrenia? How much had she sacrificed, and for what? The need for a gallon of under-eye concealer?

The chime of the elevator startled her. Jill rushed in and hit the “Penthouse” button, and then swiped her employee card to confirm the fact she had access. A card that every publicist in LA—hell—the world, envied. Obviously, Jill really needed to get some rest and clear her head. She was living the dream, right?

The express elevator whisked her to the top floor in a few moments. She stepped out of the elevator and into the executive offices of Temple Studios. It appeared that not just the inner circle had been summoned this morning, but the entire staff. All of the cubicles were filled with eager twentysomethings. Had they come in early, or had they just not bothered with the whole go-home-and-shower thing and stayed the night?

As Jill wound her way through the cubicles, not one head looked up to acknowledge her. Everyone spoke in hushed tones for fear that they would draw the attention of Amanda Temple, their boss and the head of Temple Studios. Amanda was a fourth-generation Temple, and the first woman to run the studio. Her family was old Hollywood, but Amanda was a modern-day slave driver.

Jill paused at the desk of her assistant, Margie. Setting her cup of coffee down, she fluffed her blonde curls and smoothed her Chanel skirt. Of all days to be held up, why did it have to be today?

“You’d better hurry. The meeting’s already started, and you know WW’s mood,” Margie whispered, using everyone’s code name for Amanda—WW—wicked witch. Margie followed up with the motion of a claw. “Meeeeow!” Then, she handed Jill a portfolio.

“Thanks. You’re a godsend.” Jill blew her assistant a quick kiss as she raced toward the conference room.

Adjusting the papers in her hand, Jill eased the double glass doors open. The room silenced as all eyes darted to her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jill apologized, as she scooted around the long table to the only vacant seat.

“So glad you were able to join us, Ms. Connor.”

Jill flinched. How could a person’s tone cut like a knife? But Amanda’s did. She must have taken Cruelty 101 when she topped her class at USC.

Jill avoided Amanda’s eyes. Like Medusa, one look could turn you into stone.

“It took me longer than expected to quiet the family in Colorado Springs. The death of their son at Smackdance ...”

“Isn’t that a matter for our lawyers?” The vice president of Temple Studios, Howie Namer, interrupted. His beady eyes narrowed on Jill before he directed his attention across the table to Wesley Chase, the head of legal.

“All families of the deceased were served papers. Since we acquired the film after those unfortunate deaths, we are untouchable,” Wesley replied.

Like a piece of paper was going to stop the families from expressing their distress over the loss of their sons and daughters. “Perhaps ... but nothing is stopping them from going to the press about our plans to wide-release the movie. Luckily, I was able to talk the Valenz family into venting their grief in private.”
Take that, Mr. Chase.

“You
stopped
them?” Amanda shrieked. Her hands fluttered around her in distress. Her red-tipped nails pointed like talons. “The premiere is tonight! We need
any
piece of press—bad or good. What were you thinking?”

“I just ...”

“Jill, maybe you don’t understand,” Howie explained in that condescending tone of his. “Everything rides on this film.”

No kidding
, Jill thought. After a string of bombs over the last few years since Amanda fully took over acquisitions, Temple Studios was at an all-time low. But what were they thinking? A sci-fi musical with homophobic overtones?

“I know, but—”

Amanda interjected, “This studio has invested its entire working capital into
Terror
. I won’t let some sentimental little public relations—”

Jill pushed herself to her feet. “You stole me away from Miramax for a reason, Ms. Temple. And this is why.”

Jill glared at each face around the table as she pressed home her point. “Free press, even negative press, is usually welcome. But not this time.” Jill opened her file and tossed pictures of the Valenz family across the table. A prom photo, a father with his arm around his son, a mother hugging her son in a cap and gown.

“Show a grieving mother and a distraught father, and you’ve transformed a thriller into a tragedy. The public’s sympathy will swing toward the family and against the film. That is not the type of press we want.” Jill watched all eyes revert to Amanda, waiting for her response.

“Perhaps, but we need ...”

“We need events like the film being stolen. That’s a PR person’s wet dream. Thief risks imprisonment to view the director’s cut of
Terror in the Trees
. That I can use to drum up the proper hype. But not if the media is focused on distraught families.” Jill looked around the room for approval. She found none. No one would venture an opinion until Amanda told everyone what each should be.

“What about the FBI investigation?” Wesley asked.

“Bring ’em on.” Jill stated. “More fuel for the fire.”

“I admire your ... pluckiness, Ms. Connor,” Amanda stated, her smile not reaching her eyes. “But I still want those families blabbing to anyone who will listen. As a matter of fact, we should encourage them to organize a boycott. Now
that’s
publicity. Must I do your job for you?”

“You’re wrong.”

Jill’s words hung in the air like a noose, while the meeting attendees exploded in gasps. Blotches of red burst on Amanda’s cheeks, her red lips pinched in outrage.

“A stunt like that will scare away the celebrity whom I’ve just made arrangements for in order to attend our LA premiere.” Jill stated, as everyone in the room probably started making wagers on how fast she was about to get fired.

“The theater is going to be packed with Hollywood’s elite. For God’s sake, Jack Nicholson is on the waiting list. What difference is your celebrity going to make?” Amanda sneered.

“You’re right. I guess I'll just call the president and first lady of the United States and tell them not to show.”

Everyone in the room vibrated with questions.

“The president?” Wesley asked, his pen paused in mid-stroke.

“While he’s out for the Democratic fund-raiser, a little Tinseltown exposure helps him as well as us. How many movie studios can say that the president attended their movie premiere? But I can guarantee you that he won’t cross a picket line of sobbing middle-American voters. So make up your mind.”

Speechless, Amanda blinked several times, and then slammed her iPad cover closed and stormed out of the conference room. Everyone in the room sat stunned. Sure, people stormed out of the conference room all the time, but never Amanda. She was always the one to stay behind and gloat. Jill challenged the room, “Now, would anyone else like to criticize my PR campaign?”

Soft murmurs circulated around the conference table as each head shook
no
in response.

Wesley set his pen on the table and stood with his hand extended toward Jill. “Well, let me be the first to congratulate you, Jill. Well done. Well done, indeed.”

Soft applause accompanied the handshake, followed by another. Everyone but Namer rose to his feet.

Ding, dong!
The witch is dead, and all.

CHAPTER 4

The theme music for the movie
Halloween
chimed from Mitchell’s phone, but his eyes were glued to the real thing up on the forty-six-inch plasma screen in front of him.

“Douche, answer your phone!” his roommate, Craig, barked.

But how could he? The best part was coming up. Besides, it was probably just his mom anyway. Eighteen, with a masters degree, and she still checked up on him, making sure he ate his oatmeal. It took some creative manipulation for her to allow him to even live in the dorms. She would not be pleased with their current plan to cut class and have a horror marathon until the witching hour of Halloween. Moms—they just didn’t get it.

“Mitch, pass the chips,” TJ requested, while lounging on the corner of Mitchell’s bed.

“Are you kidding me? The last time you came over, I found pizza crust under my blanket.”

TJ threw a pillow at Mitchell, knocking his glasses off. “Don’t be such a pussy,” TJ said, motioning across the room. “I bet Craig hasn’t changed his sheets since school started.”

Ugh! TJ couldn’t be more correct. As a matter of fact, Mitchell would bet that Craig hadn’t showered since his lacrosse practice, and that was on Tuesday. Clods of dried mud and grass punctuated Craig’s side of the room. Of course, on the upside, Craig had eaten that stale pizza crust. There really was no need for a trash can in the room with Craig in the house.

“H-e-e-e-re’s Johnny!” Jack Nicholson’s voice came out of Mitchell’s cell phone, indicating that he had a text message. Yikes! He snatched up his phone. His mom hadn’t figured out how to text yet.

Thank God.

He scanned the text. “Mitchell, if you want to see the full version of
Terror in the Trees
, then get your ass to the studio before I start chopping.”

It was from Elmore Taylor, lead editor at Temple Studios.

Mitchell glanced up from his phone, eyes bulging. Ho..ly guacamole!
Terror in the Trees
!

He fisted his right hand and pulled it back. Yes! The unedited version of
Terror
! He looked at the text again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Could he really be going to view the uncut version of the film that his doctoral thesis was based on?
Horror—A Societal Necessity?

But as the real-life body count stacked up,
Terror
was no longer just about getting his PhD. No, it went way further than that. Mitchell had done hundreds of hours of research into the film, the deaths, and even the film’s directors, the Baxter brothers.

And he had a theory. A theory that he hadn’t even been able to put in writing yet about the phenomenon. He thought he would have to wait for the theatrical release, but now? To be able to get his hands on the raw film to analyze? To finally test his theory? Ho..ly shit!

Dear God! Did he have a pressed shirt ready?

Mitchell jumped out of his chair and opened his closet, relieved that his mom had hung his starched shirts there. He chucked off his “I liked my father’s
Star Trek
” T-shirt and put on the crisp shirt. His worn chinos were going to have to do. His mom only did pants on Fridays.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” Craig asked, cramming a fistful of popcorn in his mouth.

“Sorry, gotta jet,” Mitchell said as he put his MacBook Air into its neoprene sleeve.

“Mitchell, are you serious?” Craig asked. “We’re just on the first
Halloween
. We’ve got, like seventeen, to go.”

“I gotta get to the studio,” Mitchell said as he sifted through papers on the desk and tossed Craig’s underwear on the floor. “Have you seen my keys?” he asked.

TJ snorted. “It’s a damn internship. You don’t even get paid.”

“Doctoral theses don’t get granted without some sacrifices,” Mitchell said absently as he rattled a Red Bull can. You never know.