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APRON. The curly handle of Midge’s signature paring
     knife sticks out — always ready to slice off a souvenir finger for her collection.
     
    MIDGE SARKO
    (winking)
    Tina’s just an actor. I’m the real McCoy.
     
    I lower my camera to shake her hand.
     
    MIDGE SARKO
    Sorry about your flight delay.
     
    ME
    What’s an extra two and a half hours on the tarmac, right?
     
    MIDGE SARKO
    Well, if it’s any consolation, it was an extra two and a half hours for your driver
     too. He was already on his way to get you by the time he learned of the delay.
     
    ME
    Bummer for him.
     
    MIDGE SARKO
    But lucky for us, because you’re here now. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.
     
    I follow Midge through the house, filming the whole way, as the infamous swish-swish
     sound of her ass fills the loud silence.
    “Excited?” she asks.
    “Are you kidding? I can hardly believe this is real.” I found out about this contest
     totally by chance doing research for my film class; it was posted on a fan site for
     Justin Blake, notable horror director/producer/screenwriter. The site was littered
     with photos of Blake, favorite movie clips, and tons of Nightmare Elf–inspired fan
     fiction. I’d forgotten what a cult following Blake has. I used to be a fan too, back
     when I first discovered horror and didn’t know much about the genre.
    Someone had posted an entry that read: “Want to meet Justin Blake and get a behind-the-scenes
     look at his new confidential film project? E-mail me:[email protected].”
    I sent an e-mail, figuring I wouldn’t hear back. But ten minutes later the contest
     guidelines appeared in my inbox. And eight months later, here I am.
    Midge stops in front of the door at the very end of the hall. “This is it.”
    I point my camera into the room just before mine, wondering where the other winners
     are, looking for something else interesting to shoot.
     
    ANGLE ON GIRL
     
    GIRL, 18-ish, sits on her bed, looking down at her hands. There’s a tiny bottle between
     her fingers, hanging from a silver chain.
     
    CLOSER ON GIRL’S FACE
     
    Brown eyes, heart-shaped face, long dark hair. She’s way too beautiful to be real.
     
    The girl looks back at me and I’m totally caught.
     
    “Hey,” I say, lowering my camera, suddenly feeling like a creep. “I was just shooting
     my arrival.”
    My explanation sucks, and she knows it too. Her forehead furrows as she looks toward
     my camera; it’s half-tucked behind my back, as if I could possibly hide it now.
    “Coming?” Midge asks me.
    I give the girl an awkward wave and then proceed to my room. A king-size bed greets
     me, the cover of which has dozens of hungry, open-mouthed eels scattered across the
     blue fabric.
    “I guess somebody has a sick sense of humor,” I say, zooming in with my camera, remembering
     the essay I submitted for the contest.
    “How’s that?” Midge asks, evidently clueless.
    A laptop station sits beyond the bed with one of those ergonomic chairs—one that probably
     cost more than my car.
    “Nice,” I say, moving farther inside.
    As if on cue, music starts to play. An old black-and-white movie cranks to life on
     a projector screen on the far wall. The quality of the film is grainy, but I’d recognize
     this scene anywhere: it’s nighttime, there’s a storm outside, and an unsuspecting
     couple falls victim to the classic stranded-car-by-the-side-of-the-road routine. “The Old Dark House,” I say. Circa 1932, if I’m remembering correctly from my History of Film course. “How
     fitting for the weekend.”
    “Should I assume that things are to your liking?” Midge asks.
    “Definitely.” I aim my camera at the bookshelves lining the room. They’re jammed with
     screenplays—what has to be at least five hundred of them.
    “You’ll notice that some of them have been signed,” Midge says, following my gaze.
    “Signed by whom?” I ask, noticing a copy of Citizen Kane , one of my favorite films