Night fell over the camp. Floodlights washed the cabin exterior in pale yellow, cables crisscrossing the dirt. Everyone knew this was it, the finale. The air carried mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.
Inside the cabin, Jerry and his assistants worked over the dummy rig. The body wore Betsy's costume, the head was a carefully sculpted likeness mounted on a foam base. Tubes snaked from the neck into blood packs, hidden behind the collar. The axe gleamed on the prop table, sharpened just enough.
Jerry wiped his hands. "The head's balanced on fishing line. When Sam connects, I cut the line, packs blow, head goes. Blink and you'll miss it."
James crouched beside Sam, who stood gripping the axe handle with both hands. "This is it. You're not acting afraid anymore you're ending it. One clean swing. No hesitation."
Sam nodded.
James turned to Betsy, who waited just off set, knife in hand. "All rage, no restraint. Pamela's gone, just pure fury. Charge her, knife high."
Betsy gave a nod.
Linda clapped the slate. "Scene seventy-two. Take one."
"Action!"
Betsy lunged, eyes wide, knife raised. Sam screamed, lifted the axe, and swung. The blade connected but the line jammed. The head jerked sideways, refusing to drop. The blood packs sputtering weakly.
"Cut!" James shouted, groaning.
Jerry cursed, already resetting. "Line stuck. We'll grease it."
Sam let the axe drop, exhaling hard. "All that and she still has her head."
Betsy smirked faintly. "I've survived worse wigs."
The crew laughed.
Take Two.
"Action!"
Betsy charged again, knife flashing. Sam swung hard, axe connecting. This time the line snapped, but too early the head toppled before the blade fully connected, rolling off the shoulder in an awkward bounce. Blood sprayed late, misting the cabin wall.
"Cut!" James barked, pinching his nose. "It looked like we dropped a melon."
Jerry kicked the rig lightly. "Timing's off. Third time."
Take Seven.
The room stilled.
"Action!"
Betsy lunged with a snarl, knife arcing. Sam's scream tore through the cabin as the axe swung. The blade struck, the line snapped, blood exploded in a crimson spray. The head tumbled clean, bouncing once before rolling into shadow.
Sam stood frozen, chest heaving, axe trembling in her hands. Betsy's body slumped, lifeless, collapsing into the rug.
"Cut!" James shouted, voice hoarse.
Silence. Then Paul whispered, "That's it."
Relief flooded the cabin. Crew members clapped, some cheered, others simply sagged against the walls in exhaustion.
James exhaled, trembling, then managed a smile.
Sam dropped the axe, her hands shaking, but she didn't smile.
Betsy rose from the floor, brushing fake blood off her sweater with practiced calm. "Darling," she said lightly, "you killed me beautifully."
The eleventh day began before dawn. Mist rolled off the lake, drifting low across the water. The crew gathered at the dock, shivering in their jackets.
James stood with Paul, Jerry, and Terry, storyboard drawings of shots in his arm.
"Here's the shot," James said, pointing out toward the canoe floating in the fog. "Paul, you'll frame it tight on Sam in the boat. Jerry, you're handling water rigs in case we need water spray for the impact. Terry, your job is to reset the canoe between takes keep it steady, centered, same drift every time."
Paul nodded, already setting up the tripod on the dock. "We'll go handheld if it feels alive, but let's start locked."
Jerry smirked. "You really want to drown yourself for this?"
"No lines, just a jump," James replied. "I'm cheaper than a extra actor."
Linda wrote in her ledger without looking up. "Cheaper, yes. Smarter, no."
Inside the makeshift makeup tent, James sat still for two hours as latex, plaster, and paint were layered onto his face and neck. The air smelled sharp with chemicals. Jerry's assistant smoothed on mottled green-gray paint, adding shadows beneath his eyes. The decayed Jason mask slowly came together.
"Don't talk," Jerry muttered as he brushed along the cheekbones. "Every wrinkle matters."
By the end, James barely recognized himself in the mirror pale, waterlogged, eyes sunken into darkness.
He flexed his jaw. "Feels like cement."
Jerry smirked. "Looks Perfect."
Out on the dock, Sam sat in the canoe, hugging her knees. She eyed the water with a grimace.
"I don't mind screaming," she said. "But if we do this more than five times, I'm going on strike."
James adjusted the damp costume, shivering already. "You'll be fine. I'm the one freezing under here."
Sam smirked. "Then get it right the first time."
Take one Rehersal.
James waded into the water, ducked under. Paul called action. James surged up too early, slamming an arm into the canoe's side. Sam shrieked, breaking character immediately.
"Cut!" Paul shouted, laughing. "Jason's drunk already!"
The crew snickered.
James spat water, annoyed. "Reset."
Take Two
James crouched low, counted to three, then exploded upward. when he grabbed Sam, his grip slipped. The canoe spun sideways dumping Sam into the water.
She clutched the rim, glaring.
James groaned. "Reset."
Take Three.
This time he cleared the water clean, but he rose crooked, only half his face in frame. Sam screamed on cue, but the shot looked lopsided, awkward.
Paul lowered the camera. "It's a half-ghost, half-fish. Not working."
James dragged himself out of the lake, teeth chattering. "Fine. Again."
Take Five
James burst up dead-center this time, hands clamping to Sam's shoulders. She screamed perfectly on cue, the sound echoing across the lake. He yanked hard, dragging her down into the water. For a second, both vanished beneath the surface then Sam broke back up, gasping, hair plastered to her face, clinging to the canoe edge.
Paul dropped the camera from his eye, grinning. "That's it."
James staggered out of the lake, peeling the mask off with trembling hands. Sam hauled herself back into the canoe, soaked and shaking, but smiling.
"You almost drowned me," she panted.
"You screamed like hell," James said, teeth chattering. "That's all that matters."
The vans pulled up outside the only pub in Topatopa big enough to hold them all. Lights glowed through the windows, and the sound of music spilled into the street before they even stepped inside.
Within minutes, the tables were shoved back, pitchers of beer and bottles of vodka scattered across every surface. The jukebox thundered, voices rose, and the crew that had spent eleven days in the dirt and cold turned the little pub into a riot.
Craig was the first on his feet, spinning in the middle of the floor with a bottle raised high. "This is the only death scene I'll survive tonight!" he shouted, already half-drunk, sending everyone into laughter.
Sam pulled Lisa by the hand and the two of them joined the music, dancing barefoot on the floorboards. Joel and Terry tried to keep rhythm, failing badly, but it didn't matter the whole room clapped along until the beat carried them.
James found himself shoved into the center next, vodka in hand, half-pushed by Jerry. He tried to wave it off, but the chant of "Director! Director!" rose until he gave in and pulled the equally drunk Linda stumbling into a rough circle of dancing bodies.
Someone cranked the jukebox louder. Voices strained to shout over it songs turning into shouts, shouts into laughter.
Betsy sat at one of the tables, calm and steady with her glass of wine, watching the chaos unfold. Every so often someone leaned down to drag her in, but she only waved them off, content in her quiet corner as the energy spun around her.
By the end of the night, half the crew were sprawled on couches drunk, the rest still dancing at the top. Bottles clinked, arms were slung around shoulders, and the pub walls rattled with the noise.