Leon's new apartment sat in an old building off Hollywood Boulevard, third floor, with south-facing windows framing the distant, hazy Hollywood sign. Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the floor, landing on a 1940s Underwood typewriter. Its metal keys gleamed coldly, like a row of silent teeth.
On the desk, the manuscript of Fight Club lay open, Chuck Palahniuk's name—signed with a lobster-claw pen—shimmering greasily in the light. Leon's fingers grazed page 37, where he'd jotted a note last night: "Tyler's first appearance should be in the airport smoking lounge. Thick smoke, face obscured, just the sound of a lighter clicking."
His pager buzzed, shattering the morning quiet with its sharp beep-beep. The screen flashed a message from Alice:
[IMDb forums are blowing up! 127 threads dissecting the 'Killer's Diary' Easter egg. Someone's saying the head in the fridge is the killer's first love.]
Leon picked up the pager, his fingers pausing on the screen. That Easter egg was filmed last week during a Midnight Scream reshoot—a handheld shot of a leather-bound notebook, its scrawled pages reading, "Today I put a new bow on her," narrated in a hushed, deliberate whisper, the camera shaking like the killer himself was behind it.
Larry had grumbled, "This looks like a damn home video," but at Fox's test screening, that thirty-second clip kept half the audience glued to their seats.
Leon stood and pushed open the window. Downstairs, Carlos, the stocky Latino newsstand guy, was waving a copy of the Los Angeles Times, shouting, "Midnight Scream pulls three million in its opening weekend! Hollywood's biggest dark horse!"
The paper's front page featured a still of the fridge scene, the head's eye sockets glowing eerily in the dark. As Leon brewed coffee, the rich, burnt aroma mingled with the papery scent of old books, creating a writer's atmosphere. A knock at the door interrupted him.
A uniformed mail carrier stood there, holding a bulging envelope stamped with Fox Searchlight's logo. "Mr. Donaldson? From the production team. They said it's urgent."
Leon tore it open. A printed box office report and a handwritten note from Larry Stern fell out. The numbers glared in red ink: $3,027,541 for the opening weekend, with per-screen attendance at 60% of Star Wars: Episode I. Larry's handwriting was messier than usual, ink bleeding at the edges:
"Fox's suits finally see your worth!"
"Keep rewriting the sequel. I'm making 'Killer's Diary' the main storyline."
"Sunday, 7 p.m., wrap party. Miss it, and I'll toss your junky typewriter into the set's swamp."
On the back, Larry had doodled a crooked fridge with a chainsaw inside, captioned, "Sequel opener?"
Leon chuckled, tucking the note into the Fight Club manuscript. The desk phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the air like a clapperboard. "Leon? It's Laura," came a woman's crisp voice, punctuated by the clink of champagne glasses in the background. "Seen the box office numbers? The board just held an emergency meeting and bumped the screen allocation from 15% to 35%. Your Easter egg's a big reason why—distribution says people are buying full-price tickets just for those last thirty seconds."
Leon leaned against the desk, absently tracing the typewriter's metal edge. "Just got lucky."
"Lucky?" Laura laughed. "Larry's practically worshipping you. Says your 27 script changes are better than a decade of that writer's work. Oh, and Sunday, 7 p.m., wrap party. Dress sharp. Don't tell me you're rewriting again—you're coming."
He hung up as the coffee pot gurgled, brown liquid pooling in the glass. Leon poured a cup and flipped open his sequel outline for Midnight Scream. Larry had circled "Killer's Childhood" in red, with a note: "Use fridge-frozen toys to hint at abuse."
At noon, Leon headed to the bank to cash a check. Wells Fargo's glass doors reflected Hollywood Boulevard's bustle. The teller handed over the check, her eyes curious. "Mr. Donaldson, your first box office cut, huh? Midnight Scream's everywhere."
The check read $12,487.36, Fox Searchlight's financial stamp in the corner, red as dried blood. As Leon slipped it into his wallet, his fingers brushed a folded note—Scarlett phone number, edges worn from handling.
At a 7th Street convenience store, he grabbed a pack of Marlboros. A woman in a pink halter dress stood at the freezer, stretching for a milk carton on the top shelf. A familiar Gucci bag dangled from her wrist, its zipper glinting. "Leon?" she said, turning, gum popping in her mouth. It was Samantha, the short blonde who'd swiped milk from his old apartment. Her nails, painted hot pink, traced circles on the milk carton. "Saw Midnight Scream last night. That Easter egg was wild. How'd you come up with it?"
Leon pulled a Marlboro from the pack, unlit. "Just came to me."
"Just came to you?" Samantha leaned closer, her perfume cloyingly sweet. "Fox folks are calling you a genius. You going to that wrap party Sunday night? I could tag along—"
"Got somewhere to be." Leon grabbed a box of matches and headed to the register. Behind him, Samantha muttered, "Acting all high and mighty now. Wasn't like that back at the apartment."
Outside, the sun stretched his shadow long across the pavement. He lit the cigarette, nicotine easing the tension. At the corner, a video store's TV looped the Midnight Scream trailer. When the fridge shot played, a group of teens gasped. A kid in a black tee waved a poster, shouting, "The bow in the Killer's Diary? Totally for the head!"
Back at the studio that afternoon, Trevor approached with a coffee cup, admiration in his eyes behind his glasses. "Fox's marketing team says the Easter egg boosted VHS preorders by 40%. They want you to shoot more 'Killer's Diary' clips for online shorts."
Leon didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the screen showing the leather notebook. He'd found it in the prop room, its fake blood made from corn syrup and food coloring. Now fans were calling it "violent art." Hollywood was like that—your random brushstroke could become someone's masterpiece.
His pager buzzed again, a new number: [I'm at the coffee shop near the studio. Want to talk about a Texas Chainsaw Massacre audition—Scarlett.]
Leon raised an eyebrow and dialed her back from a payphone outside the set. Scarlett clear voice came through, backed by the hiss of a coffee machine. "Mr. Donaldson, I saw Midnight Scream. That Easter egg was brilliant. I've got ideas for the new role…"
"Tomorrow, 3 p.m.," Leon said, glancing at his watch. "Same coffee shop."
Hanging up, he caught Larry staring, a smirk on his face. "New friend?"
"An actor," Leon replied, turning away.
That evening, he sorted through things at the apartment. The Fox check was deposited, pushing his bank balance into five figures for the first time. In the desk drawer, the Fight Club copyright contract sat beside the Midnight Scream sequel outline, like two primed explosives.
His pager buzzed—Laura again: [Sunday, 7 p.m., Chateau Marmont in Beverly Hills. Don't be late. Aaron's bringing a new script.]
Leon slipped into a black suit, bought with his Midnight Scream pay—decent fit, if not high-end. Tying his tie, he paused at the mirror. The blonde man staring back had sharp eyes, the scratch on his left cheek faded to a faint pink, like a scar nearly healed.
Before leaving, he opened the sequel script to the "Killer's Confession" page and wrote: "I hid her in the fridge so she'd never leave me." The ink bled faintly through the page, leaving a mark on the desk.
Downstairs, his Ford gleamed in the sunset, its scratches like unhealed wounds. As he started the car, the radio played a Midnight Scream review: "Leon Donaldson proved with one fridge that horror doesn't need just gore. True fear hides in everyday corners, waiting for you to open the door."
Driving away from Hollywood Boulevard, Leon glanced in the rearview mirror. The video store's screen looped the fridge scene, an ice pick rising slowly in the dark, its glint scattering flecks of light across the freezer walls.
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