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“I thought they did a nice job incorporating the historical context—”
“It’s entertainment, Amy,” he said flatly. “Not history. Bits and pieces, maybe, coupled with fools running around in the dark with beeping lights. We can’t justify taxpayer money toward something that paints the town like a graveyard attraction.”
She stared at him. His words landed like stones. “So that’s it? There’s no appeal process?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Amy.”
When he left, the silence in the office rang. Thirty thousand dollars gone, just like that. Outside, the wind moaned softly through the eaves. The morning forecast had mentioned a storm out to sea—hurricane remnants expected to bring high winds, driving rain, and rough surf over the next several days.
She pressed both palms against her desk, trying to steady her breathing. The grant had been her safety net—the anchor keeping everything stable. Without it, she’d spiral straight into debt. There had to be something she could do, some more budget cutting… something. She frantically pulled out her laptop to go over the figures yet again.
She was still reeling when another knock came less than an hour later.
Mason.
He breezed in, sunglasses perched on his head, an easy grin in place. “Morning.”
Amy summoned a polite smile. “You’re up early.”
“Well, someone has to bring good news.” He swung a laptop bag onto the table and flipped open the screen, scrolling rapidly. “Record ratings. The network couldn’t be happier. Number one in our demo, trending in six markets. They’re requesting a full run—extra episodes, double the contract.”
Amy blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Very.” His grin widened. “Looks like the island’s our new favorite ghost story.”
For a heartbeat, hope flooded her chest. She could practically see the account balance returning—the project salvaged, the retreat still possible. “Mason, that’s incredible. I—”
He raised a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. “With one small catch.”
“Of course.”
He turned his laptop toward her, suddenly deliberate. “You know the finale episodes always end with a big closure scene—our ‘reckoning.’ The spirits identified, peace about to be restored, or at least resolved.” He leaned closer. “We’ve got almost everything we need for that,” his eyes flicked up to meet hers, “except for one last visual element.”
A video window bloomed on the screen. Grainy night-vision footage.
Amy’s breath caught.
She was looking at herself.
In the video, she was outside—barefoot in her white nightgown, moonlight glinting off her hair. She stumbled slowly across the lawn like someone half asleep, then stopped beneath the looming silhouette of the mansion.
Her voice disappeared. “That’s not—”
“It’s you,” Mason said, almost gleeful. “Imagine my surprise when reviewing footage and seeing this. You can see why I’m excited.”
Her mind scrambled. “How did you even—That’s from the exterior camera, isn’t it? You had no right—”
“You signed a release.” His tone stayed calm—too calm—like a predator in the grass with its prey in sight. “Standard coverage for on-site filming. Anything happening within camera zones becomes production property.”
“That was for—not this!”
He raised his eyebrows. “You walked into frame, Amy. We don’t make the rules. Legally, it’s ours.”
She stared at him, trying to comprehend. “So what do you want?”
“This is perfect; I couldn’t have asked for better from an actress. The setting, the night, the fog… I want you to finish it.” He paused the video on the eerie still of her near the base of the stairs to the widow’s walk and turned the laptop back toward himself. “We’re planning our finale—a storm scene, with you on the widow’s walk where our cameras didn’t pick you up because we weren’t allowed out there. Something dramatic and primal. Cathartic. No dialogue. Just you, the wind, the lightning, standing there for closure. Viewers’ll eat it up.”
“No,” Amy said immediately. “Absolutely not. What makes you think I’d do something like that?”
