The Montrose Theatre.
James sat across from the manager's desk, the contract spread between them. "One week. Starting from sixth to eleven. Private screenings only. I'll cover the rent and provide the print."
The manager in his fourties with thick glasses, tapped the paperwork. "We'll run your reel. Mornings and afternoons are yours. Evenings we need for regular shows."
"Fine," James said. He slid the deposit across in cash. "We'll be out before the popcorn crowd shows up."
The man stamped the contract, tore off a carbon copy, and handed it over. "You're booked."
The rest of the day was spent in car, lobbies, and waiting rooms.
Paramount Lobby.
James spoke briefly with the receptionist, then with a young man in a suit who introduced himself as Allen, Junior Acquisitions.
"Montrose Theatre," James explained. "Private screening. Monday at noon. Seats are reserved. Bring whoever you need."
Allen nodded, glancing at the one-sheet. "We'll send two of us down."
He scribbled it into a planner and shook James's hand.
Warner Bros.
James waited almost forty minutes in a cramped office before a liaison in shirtsleeves finally saw him. "Thursday, two p.m.," the man said after scanning the schedule. "We'll have one of our distribution executive present."
United Artists was friendlier. A woman named Janet at acquisitions looked over the synopsis, smiled, and said, "Wednesday at three works. I'll come myself.
By the time James drove back to Glendale, the list was half full, Paramount Monday, United Artists Wednesday, Warner Bros. Thursday. Avco Embassy gave him a tentative Friday slot, AIP told him to come back later.
Linda looked over the penciled schedule when he returned to the office, tapping the paper with her pen. "That's four confirmed. More than I expected."
James set the folder on her desk. "It's a start. The rest will fall in line once they hear word gets around."
The Montrose Theatre was booked, the studios were slotted, and the first reel was ready to run. Now came the hard part waiting to see how Hollywood would judge what they'd made in the woods.
Monday, noon. Montrose Theatre.
James met them at the door before the screening started. Allen Silver, Junior Acquisitions, shook his hand quickly. Beside him was Richard Kline, Distribution Liaison.
They didn't waste time on small talk, James ran the projector himself, took a seat a few rows back, and watched their silhouettes flicker in the beam. Both men kept pens moving, heads occasionally nodding, but otherwise sat quiet until the credits ended and the reel spun to its tail.
Lights came up.
Allen clicked his pen shut. "Well. It delivers. People will scream."
Kline looked at James evenly. "Tell us how you see it. Who's your market?"
James leaned forward. "Teenagers. Drive-ins. Small towns. Friday night crowds who want to scare themselves silly.
Every death is a adrenaline trigger and we cut a trailer that shows all of them.
Audiences won't know the story, but they'll know the feeling, if you come to Crystal Lake, you die."
Allen asked, "A kill reel."
"Exactly," James said. "It's simple. And simple sells."
Kline made a quick note. "Paramount's position is straightforward. Either we buy the picture, or we pass. If we buy, it's ours. You walk away with the check."
Kline looked up. "What figure are you expecting?"
James held his voice steady. "I won't throw numbers yet. You've seen it. You know what it's worth to you. Bring a fair offer and I'll listen."
Allen tucked his notebook away. "We'll take it back. No promises from us in this room."
Kline stood, extending his hand again. "Appreciate the screening. You'll hear from us this week."
By the end of the week, the Montrose had seen its share of studio men and women.
United Artists came Wednesday. Janet Morris from acquisitions arrived alone, just as she'd promised. She sat through the reel, scribbled her notes, and at the end gave James a polite handshake. "I'll take this upstairs," she said.
Thursday brought Warner Bros. A distribution liaison named Howard Bell and a junior exec, Michael Greene. They were satisfied enough to promise terms after internal review.
Robert Feldman a distribution team head of avco embassy was completly different.
Robert Feldman didn't bother with caution. He leaned against the wall when the credits ended and said, "I'll give you a million flat for it." How about it ?."
James politely declined the offer.
Feldman only shrugged, as if buying films in the lobby was routine. Then he walked out.
By Friday evening, the Montrose week was almost done.
James sat at his desk with his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Linda spread the papers across them flat.
"Okay," she said, pencil in hand. "We've got four."
James rubbed his face. He hadn't slept much all week.
She tapped the pencil in hand. "United Artists. Janet gave a call. No offer yet, but according to her strong interest pending committee review. Which sounds like don't get your hopes up."
"She liked it," James said quietly, remembering the way Janet had leaned forward during the kills, pen tapping her notebook. "But she doesn't make the final call."
Linda nodded, moving the sheet aside. "Next, Warner Bros. Two executives, Bell and Greene. They were polite, but cautious. They'll draft terms only if their higher-ups greenlight it."
James leaned back. "Warner's cautious. They won't gamble unless they see a path to profit."
"And they've got their own slate already," Linda added. "Big ones. We'd be small fish in a big pond."
James said nothing, only drumming his fingers against the desk.
Then she slid the last envelope forward. "And then there's Avco."
James opened it again, though he knew every word by heart. One page, typed clean. One million dollars, outright purchase. Immediate contract available. No residuals, no backend. Embassy to control distribution.
He stared at the page until the numbers blurred. "One million."
Linda leaned back in her chair, arms folded. "You'd walk away today with more than double what we spent. Safe. Simple."
"And never see another cent," James said.
"I win. If it explodes…" He let the sentence hang.
Linda glanced at him. "And you think it might explode."
James didn't answer right away. He thought of the gasps in the theater, the way even crew members who'd lived through the shoot still jumped when the corpse dragged Sam under the water. He thought of the trailer David had cut together, every kill strung back-to-back like a dare.
Finally he said, "It could."
James gave a humorless laugh. "So every option is either safe, slow, or a coin toss."
She rested her chin on her hand. "It's not a bad problem to have."
Linda said softly, "So what's it going to be?"
James tapped his fingers against the desk. "We wait for Paramount and United Artists. Warner's slow, Avco's our backup."