THE HAUNTING OF MISSISSIPPI BELLE

by

Ed Piwowarczyk

Circus owner P.T. Barnum is supposed to have said, “There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” but the Hollywood moguls of the 1930s didn’t agree. That’s why they had people like me, Curtis Lynch, on their payrolls.

My title was general manager of Galaxy Pictures, a middle-tier studio—not one of the majors, like MGM and Warner Brothers, but not a Poverty Row denizen, subsisting on low-budget productions with casts of minor stars or unknowns.

More importantly, I was a “fixer.” I concealed bad behavior by actors, directors and producers from the press and authorities, covering up anything—car wrecks, affairs, pregnancies, abortions, drinking, drug addiction, homosexuality—that could tarnish Galaxy’s image with the public. Bribes, blackmail or intimidation solved most problems.

However, Mississippi Belle, was different. A cloud of bad luck hung over the studio’s latest and largest production, and whispers began to circulate among the film crew that the movie was cursed.

Superstitious nonsense, I assured Dorothy Pearson, who ruled over Hollywood gossip in her syndicated newspaper column and radio show.

But I didn’t believe it. The movie was haunted by the woman who should have been its star—Mae Webster.

#

Galaxy Pictures was struggling with its finances, and studio boss Isaac “Ike” Hoffman was desperate for a hit. When producer David O. Selznick snagged the rights to Gone With The Wind, Hoffman had studio writers crank out Mississippi Belle—another Civil War-era romance featuring a headstrong Southern woman. With Selznick in the midst of a massive search to cast Scarlett O’Hara, Hoffman wanted to have Mississippi Belle in production and on theater screens first.

The plum role in Mississippi Belle was that of Annabelle Adams, a plantation owner’s daughter, who spurns her family and her longtime beau, Jubal Ferrell, to pursue Ambrose Warren, a wealthy New Englander who owns a munitions factory.

Everyone assumed the part would go to Galaxy’s most popular star, Mae Webster, a five-foot-six blonde with wavy, shoulder-length hair, green eyes, shapely legs and a slim figure rounded in all the right places. She was temperamental but talented, a tough-as-nails negotiator when it came to landing roles she wanted.

And she wanted the role of Annabelle. “The role of a lifetime,” she told Dorothy Pearson on her syndicated radio show, Inside Scoop. “Once Mississippi Belle is released, people will realize no one could have played Annabelle Adams but me.”

“We’re still waiting for an official announcement,” Pearson said. “I hear there’s someone else pushing for the part.”

“Dorothy, I’m telling you and your listeners that someone else will play Annabelle Adams over my dead body.”

#

A few days later, Hoffman had studio publicists draw up a press release with a bombshell announcement: Virginia Burke—“a bright new star in the Galaxy firmament”—would play Annabelle Adams in Mississippi Belle.

Known around the studio as Ginny, she was a five-foot-four brunette with a pixie cut and spit curls, large brown eyes, full cherry-red lips, and a curvy figure. The studio had been assigning her small roles—secretary, wife, girlfriend, and the like—but she’d set her sights on stardom.

She had been thrilled to be cast in No Cure for Heartbreak, playing a nurse to Mae’s dying socialite deserted by a cheating fiancé. She’d hoped to get friendly with the star, but Mae haughtily dismissed her as “that Betty Boop creature.”

When Hoffman announced the Mississippi Belle project, Ginny, stung by Mae’s rejection of her advances of friendship, saw an opportunity to boost her career and get even.

After hours, Ginny visited Hoffman in his office to convince him that she’d be the perfect Annabelle Adams. She was very persuasive, Hoffman later told me. Her casting couch audition had been a smashing success.

#

“Get your paws off me, you…you…big ape!” Mae spat out as she squirmed in my grasp.

The minute I’d heard the Mississippi Belle news, I moved to intercept what I knew would be a livid Mae. I grabbed her just before she arrived at Hoffman’s office.

“Settle down, Mae.” I turned her around and started to march her back to her dressing room.

“Let go of me!” She tried to wriggle free, but I squeezed her arm harder. “Ow!”

We arrived at her dressing room door, and I turned her around to face me. “No trouble now, okay?” I said. “Calm down.”

“No! He can’t do this to me!” Mae tried to beat my chest with her fists, but I’m a burly guy and I kept her at bay without any problem.

Suddenly she stopped squirming. I loosened my grip, she threw her arms around me, and I patted her back to console her.

#

Mae and I once had a thing going. I had saved her career from being derailed just as it was getting on track.

Before coming to Galaxy six years ago, Mae, desperate for cash, had appeared in a stag film, Her Naughty Ways. The “producers” contacted Galaxy, wanting the studio to cough up big bucks for the original negative, or Mae’s nude frolicking would headline screenings at brothels and “smokers”—private all-male parties featuring erotic entertainment. As Galaxy’s fixer, I had to make this problem go away.

I brought along an underworld associate—Gino “Jersey Gino” Rossi, now on the studio payroll—to prevail upon the “filmmakers” to part with their negative gratis and tell us where to find the prints. We did some not-so-gentle arm-twisting, and the negative and prints were ours. Back at the studio, they were burned.

“How can I ever thank you for saving me from public shame?” Mae gushed as the celluloid melted. Keeping a copy of Her Naughty Ways for myself, I had screened the film before our little bonfire, so I knew how naughty she could be. I bent down and whispered in her ear. She was wide-eyed at my suggestion, but, biting her lip, nodded in agreement. That night, and for a brief period after, she bestowed her favors on me.

“We’re even now, right?” she asked as she dressed after our last night.

“Yeah, we’re even.” I hadn’t told her about my copy of Her Naughty Ways, so I could call on her again if I wanted to. But I didn’t, because I had the company of other troubled stars to enjoy.

So Mae and I went our separate ways until Mississippi Belle came along.

#

I leaned against the door of Mae’s dressing room as she paced, listening to her fume about the injustice of the Annabelle Adams role going to Virginia Burke.

“What was Hoffman thinking? Why did you stop me from seeing him?” Mae demanded.

“You needed to cool off,” I replied. “I had to keep you from saying something you’d regret, or doing anything to hurt your standing with the studio.”

“Standing? I’m the studio’s biggest moneymaker, and they don’t give the part to me? The best part in years, and it goes to a talentless unknown. Ginny Burke, of all people! Where’s the respect for what I’ve done?”

Before I turned to go, I stared into the green fire of her angry eyes. “Listen, Mae. Let me talk to Hoffman. Maybe we can sort something out.”

I was stalling; the only thing that would mollify her was getting the Annabelle Adams role.

“Promise me you’ll stay put,” I said. “I’ll be a while, so don’t do anything foolish.”

“Foolish? Moi?” She batted her eyelids in mock innocence. “Okay, Curtis.” Then her voice hardened. “Just make sure that Hoffman understands that nobody plays Annabelle but me. Nobody! And that without me, there’s no Mississippi Belle.”

#

“Ike, we have a problem.”

Hoffman puffed on a cigar, fiddled with a letter opener, put it down, then folded his hands on his desk.

“So? Fix it. That’s what we pay you for.”

I leaned forward in my chair across the desk from him. “Any suggestions? You must have known Mae would be livid over your announcement.”

Hoffman looked down at his hands, but said nothing.

“What were you thinking?” I couldn’t help echoing Mae. “Virginia Burke over Mae Webster?”

“Ginny has very special…talents.” Hoffman looked up at me. “Understand?”

“What I understand is that you’re jeopardizing this production and the studio’s future for a piece of tail.” I paused. “Mae won’t back down on this. She’s money in the bank for us and for our exhibitors. Give her the part.”

Hoffman glared at me. “I won’t have anyone, least of all Mae Webster, hold Galaxy Pictures hostage and dictate what I do.”

I sighed in exasperation. “Don’t you get it? Mae has Dorothy Pearson’s ear, and there’s no telling what harm she could do us.”

Hoffman leaned back in his chair. “I’d be the laughingstock of the industry if I gave in to Mae. Ginny’s going to play Annabelle, and that’s the end of it.”

I stood to go. “So what do you want me to tell Mae?”

“You’ll think of something,” Hoffman answered. “Just make sure you do anything—and I mean anything—to get her out of my hair.”

There was a knock on the door. Chuck, a security guard, stuck his head in. “Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Lynch, you better come quick. Something terrible’s happened. It’s Miss Webster and Miss Burke.”

#

Mae Webster’s dressing room was in a shambles. A couple of chairs and a bench had been knocked over, a lamp was broken, makeup was strewn over the floor.

Lying in the center of it all was Mae, lying facedown. I crouched and turned her over. Her flickering eyelids were the only sign that she was alive. Blood blossomed beneath her breasts, a dark stain spreading on the cream-colored antebellum gown she would have worn in Mississippi Belle.

I stood, and looked over at Ginny, who was leaning against Mae’s dressing table. Mae had gotten her licks in. Ginny’s left cheek bore two deep red scratches, her hair was disheveled, the bodice of her green gown—another Mississippi Belle costume—had been ripped.

Ginny was breathing heavily—and clutching a pair of bloodied scissors. When I held out my hand for the scissors, she surrendered them wordlessly. I pocketed them.

“What happened?” I asked.

Hoffman interjected, “Surely you don’t think Ginny—”

“Shut up!” I snapped, keeping my eyes on Ginny. “Let her tell it.”

“I was in Wardrobe, trying this dress on, and I asked to see the cream-colored gown.” Ginny touched her scratched cheek, looked down at the blood on her fingers, and winced. “They told me Mae had taken it. That wasn’t right!” Her voice grew strident. “That dress was mine! To play Annabelle.”

“You were upset, you ran over here to have it out with her, and then…?”

“She went after me like some kind of…of…crazy woman. Look at what she did to me!I saw the scissors on the dressing table, grabbed them, and…and…” Ginny looked at Hoffman. “You understand, right, honey? I had to. She might have killed me!”

I shoved Ginny toward Hoffman. “Get her out of here, and clean her up! Leave the rest to me.”

Once they’d left, I knelt down to check Mae’s pulse. Faint, but still there. She wouldn’t last long without a doctor.

Mae groaned. Chuck, who’d been waiting in the background, said, “I guess I better fetch Doc Evans, huh?”

“Yeah—no, wait!” I realized here was a solution to the Mae-Ginny problem. “Get Gino over here—pronto. The doc can wait.” I paused. “And Chuck, not a word of this to anyone.”

Chuck nodded and hurried away.

Mae moaned. “C-Curtis?” she whispered. “H-help me. Get a d-doctor.”

“Sorry, Mae, but you and Ginny, all this fuss about Mississippi Belle, it couldn’t go on.” I slipped the scissors out of my jacket packet. “It was you or her, and Hoffman picked her.”

“B-bastards! All of you!” She gasped and struggled to continue. “You’ll…you’ll regret this. You’ll—”

I thrust the scissors into her. The bloodstain spread, and she stopped breathing.

#

Once night fell, Gino and I drove to Mae’s home in Brentwood. I took Mae’s body in her car; Gino followed in mine. We parked a few doors down from the house and waited for all the lights on the street to go out before pulling far into the driveway.

Gino jimmied open the back door, then we carried Mae into the living room. I laid her out on the carpet, while Gino hurried back to my car for a can of gasoline. After we’d soaked the couch, the armchair and the front drapes with fuel, we tossed lit matches at them.

Smoke started to fill the room, and we watched flames lick up the drapes and the furniture. Gino quickly splashed gas around other parts of the house.

As we were about to leave, we heard a voice croak “H-help! Help!” I turned, and there was Mae, struggling to get up.

“Impossible!” I cried. “I would’ve sworn she wasn’t breathing.”

“I’ll finish the job.” Gino reached for the gun in his shoulder holster.

“Wait!” I pulled his arm down. “You put a bullet in her head, and nobody will believe this was an accident.”

Mae started to crawl toward us, but collapsed after a few moments.

“The fire will finish her off,” I said to Gino, who grunted in agreement. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mae screamed and vowed vengeance. “I’m coming for you!” she cried.

Gino and I watched outside, as the house was engulfed in flames,

#

Galaxy Pictures shut down production for a week to mark Mae’s death. Newspapers declared her death “mysterious and tragic,” and the airwaves were rife with tributes, peppered with clichés such as, “We’ll never see her like again.”

And, of course, a few comments were hypocritical and self-serving. The most galling was Virginia Burke declaring to Dorothy Pearson that she’d miss having Mae as her “guiding star” at Galaxy Pictures. Typical Tinseltown blarney.

While I greased a few palms to make sure there was no autopsy, Hoffman took charge of the funeral arrangements. He chose to have Mae laid to rest in Evergreen Cemetery, the oldest burial ground in Los Angeles, but without the cachet of Hollywood Memorial Park or Forest Lawn Memorial Park.

Hundreds of Mae’s fans turned out to see her casket lowered into the ground, but not the thousands Hoffman had hoped for. But what had he expected? Mae had been a star at Galaxy Pictures, not MGM.

With Mae Webster gone, Hoffman and I thought the studio could get back to shooting Mississippi Belle without any further complications.

But the haunting of Mississippi Belle was about to begin.

#

Light bulbs that weren’t turned on exploded. Scaffolding for a set collapsed, sending four stagehands to hospital. A storage building for props caught fire, and many of the items were destroyed before the blaze could be put out. All accidents, but none of them could be explained.

Most unnerving for the cast and crew of Mississippi Belle, however, were the gusts of cold air that blew through the set whenever shooting was about to begin. That had them shivering, both from cold and from fright.

“What do you make of it?” Dorothy Pearson asked me one day. Hoffman had invited her to the set to get her early stamp of approval, so that her readers and listeners would be sure to see Mississippi Belle. But Hoffman had left me to field her questions, figuring I’d come up with a satisfactory explanation for the mishaps.

I gave her an admiring once-over before answering. I pegged Dorothy to be in her mid-50s, but it was hard to tell. A brunette with a trim figure, she’d maintained her good looks. Fascinators and furs were standards in her wardrobe.

“The accidents? Just a bit of bad luck,” I said. “C’mon, Dorothy. That could happen on any set.”

“Some of the crew think otherwise,” she said. “They say all this started after Mae Webster died, and that the movie is cursed.”

“Movie and theater folk are notoriously superstitious,” I countered.

“Don’t be so dismissive,” she said.

A chill continued to hang over the Mississippi Belle set, and Dorothy shivered inside her mink jacket. “How do you explain why it’s so cold around here? Not the rest of the lot, just here.”

“To be honest, I can’t,” I confessed. “Something weird must be going on with the weather.”

“When the temperature in a room suddenly drops, do you know what people say it is?” Dorothy replied. “The presence of a ghost.”

I laughed off her suggestion. “Wrong studio. Don’t you think a ghost would be more at home at Universal, with Frankenstein and Dracula?”

“If I believed in ghosts, I could think of one who’d belong here,” she said. “Mae Webster.”

A shiver ran through me at the mention of Mae’s name.

“Something wrong, Curtis?” Dorothy asked.

“No, just the cold air.” I coughed, then said, “Why would Mae’s ghost—if there was such a thing—be here? People here loved her. Her death was tragic, but—”

“The show must go on,” Dorothy concluded.

“Speaking of which,” I said, escorting her to a set of director’s chairs at the edge of the set, “maybe watching a bit of the shoot will convince you there’s nothing cursed, jinxed, whatever you want to call it, about Mississippi Belle.”

After Hoffman joined us and we’d exchanged pleasantries, Dorothy settled into her chair. “So what are we watching?” she asked.

“The duel scene between Jubal Ferrell, Annabelle’s longtime suitor, and Ambrose Warren, the New Englander she’s fallen for,” Hoffman said.

“They’re using flintlock pistols,” he continued. “They’re replicas, so there’ll be a bit of smoke, right, Curt?”

“Right,” I said. “No live ammo.”

The props manager had created replicas of vintage dueling pistols, but rigged them so no lead balls were loaded. I oversaw him testing them to make sure only white smoke came out of the muzzles of the 10-inch barrels.

The actors playing the duelists—both dressed in white shirts and dark trousers—stood with their backs against each other, holding their pistols with the barrels pointed up. One actor wore a gray vest, the other’s vest was deep blue.

“I know Ted Cooper, of course,” Dorothy said, indicating the sandy-haired man to her left. “Gray vest, so I assume he’s Jubal. Who’s the dark-haired one?”

“That’s Roy Walker,” Hoffman replied. “With those chiseled good looks, we figure he may be the next Clark Gable.”

“Quiet, everyone!” director Viktor Franz cried. “Action!”

Walker and Cooper each counted off 10 paces, turned to face each other and fired. That’s as far as it went, according to the script. But instead of just Cooper’s Jubal crumpling, Walker’s Ambrose was also writhing on the ground. Both men clutched their guts, and blood trickled through their fingers.

“Cut!” the director yelled. “Cut!”

Dorothy gasped and put her hand to her mouth. Hoffman gaped in disbelief.

Screams, calls to find Doc Evans, and pleas for an ambulance were all part of the ensuing pandemonium. I scooped up the pistols and hurried over to the props man. “What happened?”

He was speechless at first, then shook his head and shrugged. “You were right there when I loaded those guns. Where could the live ammo have come from?”

I hurried after Dorothy Pearson and caught up with her at the studio gate. I grabbed her arm, but she yanked it from my grasp.

“Please don’t print anything about this,” I begged. “We’ll make it worth your while to keep this quiet.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got an exclusive.” She got into her car, revved the engine and stuck her head out the open window. “Don’t dismiss talk of a ghost.” She pointed at something behind me. “What’s that over there?”

I glanced over my shoulder, saw something dark hovering behind me. I turned around, but it was gone.

“You must’ve seen a shadow,” I shouted. “There’s nothing there.”

“I saw something, Curtis” she said, putting her car into gear. “You did, too, but you don’t want to admit it,” she added, and pulled away.

#

I rolled two lead balls, roughly the size of marbles, in my hand.

“This is what they dug out of Cooper and Walker at the hospital?” I asked Doc Evans, who was sitting across from me in my office.

“Yup. Not what they usually pull out of people’s insides.” The studio doctor shifted in his chair. “What are those for, anyway?”

“Ammo for flintlock pistols, for a duel scene in Mississippi Belle,” I answered. “Except they weren’t supposed to be in the guns. How they got there…”

“Well, for phantom ammo, they sure caused enough bleeding,” Doc Evans said. “It’s a good thing your actors are bad shots. Another inch or two, they would have hit something vital. They’re lucky they’re not dead.”

“I’ll hang on to these,” I said, placing the lead balls in my pocket. “How long will our boys be out?”

“I’ll check with the hospital.” Doc Evans stood to leave. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Dorothy Pearson was on set when it happened, and she’s not going to play ball with us to keep things quiet. So you may get some calls from the press or the boys in blue. Just send them my way. I’ll take care of it.”

After Doc Evans left, I put the lead balls in a small safe in the back wall of my office. Then I realized there was something else I needed to lock up.

Returning to my desk to retrieve the scissors used to stab Mae, I stared into an empty drawer. The scissors were gone.

#

Shooting without the two male leads continued over the next week, but mishaps continued to plague Mississippi Belle. Doors opened and shut, seemingly on their own, and that meant a number of retakes. Crew members suffered minor electrocutions. Power went out without explanation partway through scenes. Virginia Burke tripped down a plantation staircase; fortunately, she only sprained an ankle.

All this meant delays, which meant going over budget, which meant losses for the studio, which meant Hoffman might not have a studio if things continued as they were.

So his evening phone call came as no surprise. I assumed he was going crazy with frustration and looking for a sounding board. “Meet me in the projection room,” was all he said. What struck me was his tone of voice. He didn’t sound angry or upset. He sounded…scared.

“What’s up?” I settled into the seat next to him in the projection room, where we screened “dailies”—raw, unedited movie footage. “You’ll see,” he said. Then he called up to the projectionist, “Pete, dim the lights and roll the film.”

The Adams plantation house in Mississippi Belle flashed up on the screen. As the camera moved in, we saw a figure in a black dress and a long black veil standing in front of Annabelle’s home.

The camera stopped, then the figure started advancing. The veil was lifted to reveal a face with charred skin, horrible to look at but recognizable—Mae! The skin started to peel away, revealing the skull, with a death’s-head grin, beneath.

The screen went blank for a few seconds, then Mae’s image returned, looking like the beauty she once had been. She was smiling, but it was a wicked grin. She raised an arm and pointed at the camera…at us.

Then we stared at a title card, like the ones they used for dialogue in silent movies: I’m coming for you!

The lights came up, and the screen went dark.

“Where did this come from?” I demanded.

“Pete swears he doesn’t know who delivered this cannister to the booth,” Hoffman replied. “It was labeled Mississippi Belle, so he assumed I’d arranged for it to be sent over. I called you when I saw the footage.” He paused. “What can we do?”

“More security on the set. Personal guards for you and Ginny. Restricted access to the studio. Short of that, I don’t know.”

“That’s all well and good, but what if we’re dealing with something—” Hoffman dropped his voice “—supernatural?” He paused. “Do you believe her ghost could be behind all this?”

“I didn’t before, but after seeing that film…”

“How do we make her—it—go away?”

“We can’t,” I said. “Think of what you just saw on the screen. Mae won’t stop until she’s had her revenge.”

#

The next day, Chuck dashed into my office, waving a copy of the Los Angeles Times and pointing to the front-page headline: MOBSTER KILLED IN CAR BLAST. “Boss, I thought you should see this. Mr. Gino, I can’t believe it. He always treated me real good.”

I took the newspaper from the security guard. “Chuck, don’t talk about Gino to anyone, especially to cops or reporters. Just send them to me. I’ll deal with them.”

The article said Gino “Jersey Gino” Rossi had been rumored to be on the payroll of the Luca Marino mob, and speculated that he had been killed after a falling-out with his bosses back east.

According to the report, around sunset the day before, residents of the San Bernadino apartment building where Gino lived heard an explosion. Some saw Gino’s car, parked outside the complex, burst into flames. A few claimed to have heard muffled screams and said they saw someone inside the vehicle desperately pounding on the windshield and windows trying to escape.

Not unlike Mae trapped in her Brentwood home. No simple coincidence.

Mae’s words echoed in my mind. I’m coming for you!

But she got to Jersey Gino first.

#

With all the misfortune surrounding Mississippi Belle, the cast and crew were increasingly hesitant to show up on the set. Hoffman pooh-poohed their fears and coaxed them into carrying on. The most hesitant were convinced by his threats to terminate their contracts.

A few days after Gino’s murder, I accompanied Hoffman to Ginny’s dressing room.

“Burning down Annabelle’s mansion…I don’t want any part of that,” Ginny whined. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Nonsense! It’ll be perfectly safe,” Hoffman said.

“Like it was ‘perfectly safe’ for Ted and Roy in the duel scene?” she asked.

Hoffman threw his hands up in exasperation. “Explain it to her, Curtis.”

In the script, Annabelle has decided to marry Ambrose and live in the North. But once war breaks out, she realizes her heart is in the South. She undertakes a perilous journey back to the plantation, arriving to find her home in flames and Union troops marching off in the distance.

I told Ginny the set designer had created a miniature replica of the Adams mansion—a dollhouse version of the plantation homestead. It would be set ablaze and shot in close-up, giving the illusion of the mansion going up in flames.

“That won’t involve you or any other member of the cast,” I told her. “You won’t be hurt in this scene.”

I also described how the crew had created a partial façade of the mansion—its front steps and doors, flanking pillars and part of the porch—to be used in shots in which she appeared. That would also be set on fire, but she would be well-distanced from the flames.

“Satisfied, Ginny? You won’t be near any flames. There’s nothing to worry about.”

She eyed me warily. “Will you be there? I’d feel better about it if you were.”

“You want him there, he’ll be there,” Hoffman announced. “Now, can we please get this scene done? Let’s get to work.”

#

I made a safety check on the façade, while Hoffman, the director and Ginny huddled over copies of the script.

“You’re staring into the fire, your back to the camera, then you slowly turn around,” Viktor Franz said to Ginny. “You face the camera, and a tear runs down your cheek. You’re tired, hungry, bewildered. You don’t know what’s happened to your family. Your childhood home, with so many memories, is going up in smoke.”

The director placed his hands on her shoulders. “But you are strong. You hold your head high as you walk toward the camera, in slow measured steps, sad but defiant. Understand?”

Ginny nodded, then looked warily over her shoulder at the façade that would soon be set ablaze.

“Don’t worry,” Hoffman assured her. “Everything all right there, Curtis?”

“From what I see, everything’s good,” I told them.

The façade had been doused with kerosene, and the cans taken away. Six stagehands with brass extinguishers stood by, out of the camera’s eye, to ensure that the fire would be contained once the scene had been shot. If the blaze got out of control, we’d call the L.A. Fire Department.

“All right.” Franz signaled the stagehands to light the fire. “Now, Ginny, when I call for action, you step 12 paces toward the fire. Then stop, count to 10, and turn around slowly. Face the camera and walk toward it. Remember, don’t rush. Slow and steady.”

“You don’t have to tell me again,” Ginny snapped. She glanced at the flames. “Let’s get this over with.”

“C’mon, baby,” Hoffman urged. “Go get ’em.”

Franz yelled, “And…action!”

Ginny took a few tentative steps, stopped, then continued gingerly toward the fire. “That’s it…just like that…perfect!” Franz said.

As Ginny turned around and took a few steps toward the camera, she suddenly stumbled backward. She fell, screamed, tried to get up, but something seemed to be pushing her to the ground.

I sprang forward to help her, then…bang! I hit something hard that sent me sprawling backward. It felt as if I’d run into a wall, but there was nothing there.

Crying for help, Ginny staggered to her feet, only to stumble again and clutch her abdomen. Blood seeped through the fabric of her gray dress.

A dark mist swirled around us, then hovered in front of Ginny. The black mist then transformed into a woman in a black dress and a dark veil, clutching a pair of scissors. Mae!

Lifting her veil, she turned her charred face toward Hoffman, Franz and me. The skull’s eyes glowed green, and its death’s-head grin widened. The creature lunged at Ginny, pushing her closer to the flames.

The stagehands frantically pumped their extinguishers, but nothing came out of them.

The creature shoved a screaming Ginny into the burning façade. The fake wooden front crashed down on top of her. Within moments, she lay still, flames dancing around her body.

A dark cloud formed over the fire, then dissipated as smoke rose from the blaze. No longer held back by the invisible barrier, I rushed forward. A few feet short of the fire, I threw up my hands to shield myself from the intense heat. I couldn’t save Ginny.

Hoffman stared stonily at the inferno. Ginny was dead, and so was Mississippi Belle. With no one to play Annabelle Adams, there was no movie. What actress would want the part now?

#

I’m coming for you!

Her Naughty Ways flickers on a screen in my office as I sit in the dark, waiting for Mae to arrive. I have no doubt she will; her vengeance won’t be complete if it doesn’t include me.

With a .38 revolver beside me, I watch Mae cavorting in a lake, then drying herself off on the beach. She’s naked. Her back is to the camera as she drops part of her towel to reveal her shapely derrière. She pivots slowly, clutching the towel to her chest, then lets it slide to the ground.

Suddenly Mae disappears, and I see bubbling and a white spot. A burn hole on the film. I turn off the projector, but it continues to throw light up on the screen. In seconds, the lake is back in view, but not Mae.

“Hello, Curtis.”

Where is she? I grab my gun, stand, and fire wildly, first at the screen, then around the office.

“You know that won’t stop me.”

“Show yourself!” I keep pulling the trigger until the revolver is empty. I collapse back into my chair, the gun dangling from my hand.

“Come out!” I yell. “Let me see you!” I drop the gun on the floor.

Mae steps out of the shadows, water glistening on her bare skin. She holds scissors in her right hand.

“W-where did you c-come from?” I stammer.

She points over her shoulder with the scissors. “Back there. The lake.”

I’m transfixed, unable to move, as she advances. Dread envelops me as I think of what happened to Ginny and Gino.

I’m coming for you!

“You knew how it would end, didn’t you, Curtis?” Mae leans into me and thrusts the scissors into my gut—once, twice, three times. She twists the scissors into the wound with her last stab and leaves them there.

It takes all the energy I can muster to pluck the scissors out of the wound, and send them clattering to the floor. I lean back in my chair, exhausted, blood seeping from my gut.

The projector catches fire. Tentacles of flame reach into every corner of my office and will soon wrap themselves around me.

“Goodbye, Curtis,” Mae says, and turns toward the screen. “It’s over.”

I watch her naked backside disappear into the flames.

I close my eyes, and everything fades to black.