The camp looked different under floodlights. Crew rustled in the chill as people shuffled between setups.
"Generator kill first," James called, script binder under his arm, flashlight in the other. "Bill checks the power, finds the lights out. When he opens the shed, he's pinned to the door with arrows."
David Grant playing Bill rolled his shoulders, trying to keep loose. "So… porcupine style."
"Exactly," Jerry said, adjusting the rig. "We've got three arrows preloaded into the foam chest plate. Harness is under the shirt. When he falls back, I'll trigger the blood packs."
Paul squinted through the lens, adjusting focus. "Frame him dead center. Door swings, light spills, and wham Bill becomes a bulletin board."
James nodded. "Don't oversell the scream. One sharp gasp, then gone."
Linda raised the slate. "Scene thirty-two. Take one."
"Action!"
David opened the shed door, flashlight beam cutting across the dark interior. A second later, the door slammed, arrows jutting from his chest, blood spraying against the wood. He jerked once, then slumped lifeless, pinned in place.
"Cut!" James shouted.
Paul lowered the camera. "That'll creep people out."
Jerry stepped in, peeling the foam plate loose. "Not bad for a first run. Might want more spray on the second."
David pulled at the sticky shirt, wincing. "I felt like a dartboard."
Craig called from off to the side. "Yeah, but you died beautifully. Welcome to the club."
They reset for pickups, shooting the flashlight rolling across the dirt, the generator sputtering, blood dripping along the doorframe. Quick inserts that would string the scene together in the edit.
By 2 a.m., they moved to the camp entrance. Work lights lit the gravel road, the rented van parked just beyond frame.
Mark Holloway playing Steve Christy rubbed his hands together for warmth, script tucked in his jacket pocket.
James gathered the crew. "This is Steve's return. He sees someone, greets them friendly, casual and then bam, knife to the stomach. But the killer's never in frame. Just his reaction and the strike."
Paul nodded. "So audience thinks it's just another villager until the knife lands."
Jerry crouched off-frame with the stunt arm rig, knife prepped with a small blood tube. "On your cue, boss."
Linda raised the slate. "Scene thirty-five. Take one."
"Action!"
Mark strolled into the light, blinking. He smiled faintly. "Oh, hi. What are you doing out here?"
He paused, listening to someone unseen. Then his face shifted confusion turning to shock as the knife drove into his stomach from off-screen. He gasped, staggered forward, and crumpled out of frame.
"Cut!" James barked.
Paul lowered the camera, satisfied. "That it. No need for the audience to see more."
Mark sat up, peeling the blood rig from his shirt with a grimace. "Friendly, then fatal. Shortest scene of my life."
Jerry chuckled. "That's the point."
Linda snapped her ledger shut. "That's a wrap on Steve."
The crew let out cheers. Cigarettes were lit, jackets pulled tight, and the night slowly wound down.
By the ninth day of shooting, the camp had settled into routine, breakfast at dawn, setups by eight, shooting until light gave out. But today was different. Today was the climax.
The cabin had been stripped and reset to resemble the final showdown. Breakaway lamps, foam chairs, a rigged window that could be slammed without shattering. Stunt pads had been taped to the floor beneath the rug, just in case.
James stood in the center of it all, script binder open but ignored. He spoke directly to Betsy Palmer and Sam Loring, his voice steady, deliberate.
"This is the turning point. Pamela finally reveals herself. Alice fights for her life. It's not a brawl, it's choreography. We'll rehearse it step by step before we shoot."
Betsy listened intently, arms folded, she was here to work.
"Understood," she said simply.
Sam nodded, gripping the script tightly. She knew this was her moment, the scene people would remember.
James positioned them. "We start here. Betsy, you lunge with the knife, but hold the blade wide Sam, you duck left, grab the chair. Count one-two before you swing. Don't actually connect. We need some space between the chair and Betsy's head, We will take another still shot of the connection."
They walked through the motions. Betsy lunged, Sam ducked, swung the chair. James stopped them.
"Reset. Betsy, slow your step half a beat. Sam, keep your eyes up, not on the chair. The audience has to believe you're terrified."
They tried again. Chair swung, Betsy stumbled back, hand brushing the table. The lamp toppled padded base hitting the rug with a dull thud.
"Good," James said. "That it."
They rehearsed the entire sequence: knife slashes, door slams, Sam scrambling for a cast-iron pan, Betsy grabbing her hair and dragging her across the floor. Every motion was blocked, tested, repeated.
By the time Paul rolled camera, both women were sweating, their breath coming fast.
"Scene forty-eight," Linda called. Slate clapped.
"Action," James said softly.
The fight exploded into life. Betsy's voice cut sharp, desperate, maternal fury spilling into every word. Sam's screams rang against the cabin walls, her panic raw. The choreography held the chair swing, the pan strike, the frantic scramble for the rifle.
"Cut!" James shouted.
The room went still. Paul lowered the camera, shaking his head with a grin.
Sam was panting, her face flushed, her eyes were wide. She looked at James, Did it work?
James nodded once. "It worked."
Betsy smoothed her hair back, calm as ever. She gave sam the smallest smile.
The next morning, the set had been redressed. One of the cabins had been transformed into a makeshift hospital room sheets starched white, borrowed IV stands, a wheeled metal tray from the local clinic. A lamp flickered against the ceiling beneath the rustle of the crew.
Sam sat propped in the bed, pale gown draped across her shoulders, her hair brushed back to look exhausted. She gripped the blanket tight, knuckles pale.
James crouched beside the bed, speaking low so only she heard. "This scene isn't about lines. It's about memory. You survived. The camera will search your face confusion, grief, then that lingering dread. When you mention the boy, it has to feel like you're not sure if it happened."
Sam gave a nod. She was ready to prove she could carry it.
Linda clapped the slate. "Scene fifty-one. Take one."
"Action," James said quietly.
Sam opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the harsh light. A nurse leaned over, adjusting the IV. Off-screen, a doctor's voice asked: "You're very lucky to be alive. Is there anything you can tell us?"
Sam turned her head, lips parting, voice thin. "The boy… in the lake. He pulled me under."
Paul zoomed tighter on her face. Sam's expression shifted confusion creeping in. Her brow furrowed, mouth tightening as if she herself doubted the memory.
A pause. The Sheriff voice asked: "We didn't find any boy."
Her eyes flickered with shock, then softened, puzzled. The silence dragged. She inhaled, whispered: "Then… he's still out there."
James leaned forward, holding the moment. He waited until the breath left her lips, her gaze staring past the camera into nothing.
"Cut," he said softly.
The room held its breath.
James finally exhaled. "Print it. That's our hospital scene."