The reels were stacked neatly in the corner, each one labeled in David Wirtz's clean handwriting. Linda flipped through her calendar, pencil tucked behind her ear.
"So, where do you want it?" she asked.
James leaned back in his chair. "Private theatre. Not too big, but enough seats for cast, crew, and a few extras. Paramount's got a small one on the lot. See if we can book it for next Thursday."
Linda scribbled. "Next Thursday, seven p.m. That gives us a week. Who do you want there?"
"Everyone," James said. "Cast, crew, anyone who froze with us in Topatopa. They earned it."
She smirked. "You realize that's going to cost a lot."
"I will pay for it from my pocket." James replied.
Linda flipped another page in her notes. "Alright. I'll start calls this afternoon."
James glanced at the reels again, then at her. "Scoring's wrapped. Orchestra did good. Better than I expected, honestly."
"How good?" she asked.
"Good enough I didn't want to change a thing," James said simply.
Linda closed the calendar. "Then all that's left is for people to actually watch it."
James smiled faintly. "That's the terrifying part."
"I want you to draft a sheet of title credits, Everyone who worked, what they did, before, during, after. Cast, crew, even Luisa for the food. If they were there, they go on it."
Linda gave a small nod. "I'll start a list. Alphabetical or by department?"
"Department first. Then we'll shuffle if needed," James said. He leaned back. "We don't want anyone complaining they got left off."
"Credits shoot?" Paul repeated. "You mean the names on black?"
"Exactly," James said. "Clean, simple. We'll shoot a roll of white text on black card. Cheaper than sending it to a lab. Just need you behind the lens to make sure.
Paul chuckled. "This is the glamorous part of moviemaking."
"I'll owe you lunch," James said.
By noon, the small stage was set in office. A black backdrop hung from the rafters. Linda sat off to the side with her sheet, reading names in order as she they would appear on the scree. James held white cards each, checked the spacing, then taped them flat against the backdrop.
"Roll camera," Paul called.
"Steady at ten seconds a card. We can trim in editing if it drags."
Linda read off: "Director… James Rowan. Director of Photography… Paul Kennan. Assistant Director… Terry March."
One by one, the names rolled past the lens.
By late afternoon, the stack was done. Cast, crew, music, even "Catering Luisa Ortega" made it in. James flipped through the exposed reel as Paul packed the camera away.
"It's not fancy," Paul said. "But it'll do the job."
James said. "That's enough."
James stretched, rubbing his shoulders. "Good. Now we can move on to the mix."
The mixing room was dim, lit mostly by the glow of dials and reels. James sat behind the engineer, watching the levels rise and fall across the board.
"Dialogue first," David said. "Then effects, then score. Standard order."
James nodded. "As long as nothing swallows the voices, I'm fine."
They worked through the morning. Most adjustments were small, a tweak up here, a trim there. Every so often David would glance back, waiting for James's nod.
Only once did James stop him. During the hospital scene, Sam's whisper nearly vanished under the strings.
"Hold up," James said. "That line has to be clear."
David replayed it with the music pulled back, just a notch. Sam's words came through fragile.
"That's it," James said quietly.
By the third day, all the reels had passed through the board. Foley sat tight, ADR blended clean, score carried the tension without drowning the rest.
David leaned back, rubbing his temples. "That's your final mix."
David had barely packed away the reels when James tapped the editing bench."We need a trailer. Two minutes, Every kill.
David raised an eyebrow. "A kill reel?"
"Exactly. Fast cuts, title cards in between. Hook them before they know what they're watching."
They set to work. James called the shots while David threaded reels.
The trailer ended on black. A final card burned in: FRIDAY THE 13TH Coming Soon.
James exhaled. "Good. Box it. Next step is the screen."
The small theatre on the Paramount lot. Rows of red seats stretched toward the screen, more than enough for the people James had invited. He stood near the back with Linda, watching the first arrivals filter in.
Craig and Sam came through the door together, already bickering.
"I'm telling you," Craig said, "if my throat-stab looks half as good as it felt, I'm Oscar-bound."
Sam rolled her eyes. "If you get an Oscar, I'll eat my shoe."
Lisa followed behind them, carrying a soda. "Don't tempt him. He'll hold you to it."
They drifted toward the front rows, claiming seats like kids picking sides in a cafeteria.
Paul, the DP, came next, He nodded to James. "Feels strange not carrying a tripod in behind me."
"Enjoy it," James said. "It won't last."
Jerry arrived last, grumbling about parking, and dropped into a chair with a bag of peanuts he must've smuggled in.
By the time dimmed the lights, the theatre was nearly full. Crew members, extras, everyone except betsy had made it. The projector flickered and movie started.
Silence fell.
On screen, the van rattled down the country road, kids laughing, bags unloading. The sound was clean, the movie flowed.
The first scare Ralph stepping from the shadows, muttering his warning. A ripple of laughter and unease ran through the seats.
Then the kills began. Craig's bed scene drew gasps, Someone in the back whispered, "NG take," and the row shook with muffled chuckles, followed by a round of laughter.
Craig turned, grinning proudly. "Still stole the scene."
Jerry threw a peanut at him. "You stole the laundry bill."
The movie rolled on. The axe, the arrows, the screams. Each moment pulled the room in silence and gasps. Nobody shifted in their seats during the fight scene between Sam and Betsy choreographed chaos that now looked raw, terrifying.
Sam leaned forward unconsciously, watching herself scramble across the cabin floor.
The canoe drifted, the water quiet. The audience leaned forward as one. When James's corpse surged from the water, dragging Sam under, the theatre shrieked. Even the crew who'd shot the scene jumped, though they knew exactly what was coming.
Sam slapped James's arm. "You nearly drowned me for that!"
The laughter this time was relieved.
Then the hospital scene. Sam's whisper hung in the theatre: "Then… he's still out there."
The credits rolled in silence, broken only when Craig clapped loudly, starting applause that spread through the room.
James sat back, finally exhaling but his mouth curved into a faint smile.
People crowded him as the lights came up slaps on the back, questions, jokes about sequels. Someone shouted for a toast, though there was nothing but soda cups in their hands.
James stood still in the aisle for a moment, letting the noise wash around him.
For the first time since the shoot began, he believed it. They had a movie.