Final Cut, page 5
Main Street disappears behind us, and then we turn onto a residential road lined with houses that look tiny in comparison to the tall pines. This morning, these same kind of houses struck me as a little depressing, but now, in the almost-sunset, they seem nice. Leaves and rocking chairs swaying in the breeze, locals watering their plants or drinking sweet tea on the porch—kind of like something out of a movie.
And one of these used to be mine. For the first time, the thought doesn’t come with a pang of fear. Just something dreamy and floating, like words to an old song.
“How close are we to the Pine Springs Slasher house?” Lucas asks, pressing closer to the window.
Just like that, the fear is back—a sharp needle popping the balloon.
“It’s around here somewhere,” Brooke says. “This next street, actually. Pine Creek Drive.”
She nods at the approaching street sign, and panic grips me. Is that where we’re going? Brooke’s secret tour stop? Not yet, I want to scream. I’m not ready.
But the car breezes past Pine Creek Drive, and I let out a quiet breath. Instead, Brooke turns us onto Cardinal Street, a few blocks down. We finally come to a stop in front of what looks like a small, dilapidated shack.
“Here we are,” Brooke croons.
Judging from the little I know about her, this place is hardly Brooke’s vibe. What must have once been bright green clapboard has now faded to a dull, swampy muck, the tiny porch stained brownish yellow with pollen. Still, there’s a hint of whimsy in the bright Mardi Gras beads dangling from the tin roof and the gator statue that guards the door with a hand-painted sign in its fake claws: THE PINE SPRINGS MYSTERY MUSEUM.
“No way!” Lucas exclaims. “I read about this place when I looked up the town. It’s one of the top roadside attractions in Louisiana.”
I peer closer, but I’m too far away to see anything through the museum door. There’s something familiar about it, though. The gator statue, I think suddenly. He has a name. Zachariah or Jeremiah or something, a ridiculous name for a fake alligator mascot.
“It’s, like, the only attraction at all,” Brooke says, rolling her eyes, but I think I catch a glimmer of excitement behind it.
We pile out of the car and up to the entrance, Brooke leading us inside. Instantly, we’re hit with the breeze of at least three plug-in fans, all of them doing their darndest to fight the heat but mostly just blowing the muggy air around. The room is small, and it looks more like a gift shop than anything, shelves so crowded with knickknacks that it’s hard to pick out any details except the loud colors.
Lording over it all is an old man with a bushy mustache, motorcycle jacket, and thinning gray hair pulled into a ponytail. On his collar, a name pin reads CLAUDE. He sits behind the checkout table, stroking a tufty brown cat that is quite possibly older than he is.
“Welcome to the Mystery Museum,” Claude says with a thick Louisiana accent and a grumpy scowl to match his cat’s, and I like him instantly. “Five dollars each.”
Cameron pulls out the cash before the rest of us can move and hands it over.
“Keep the change.” He winks at Claude, who eyes the ten and twenty like they might be the product of a bank job.
“Museum’s out back,” he grunts, nodding at another door. “We close at eight.”
We push through the gift shop and head into the heat of the backyard. I’m pining for the indoors for about two seconds before I realize what we’ve just walked into.
This is the real deal. Actual weirdo shit—like a cross between a garage sale, an art museum, and a hoarder situation. The door leads us out to a covered walkway that winds around the big yard, which is just as packed as the gift shop inside, only the creepy swamp-world version, littered with nightmarish delights: life-size figurines of creatures grafted together, like alligators with baby-doll heads and a nutria with bat wings; a diorama of the whole town in miniature, a giant T. rex stomping through the tiny town square; a six-foot-tall statue made entirely of hot-sauce bottles. Just above our heads, a fan affixed to the walkway ceiling spins around with troll dolls dangling upside down from its blades, tied there with neon string like a chairoplane ride from hell.
“This,” I say, “is my favorite place.”
“It’s so weird. Claude—the owner—just, like, makes all this stuff and puts it out here.” Brooke is still trying to hide her hometown pride behind detached coolness, but it’s not working. Clearly, she’s as much of a freak as the rest of us.
Already, Lucas has made his way deeper into the walkway, studying the exhibits on the walls with a conspiracy theorist’s devotion. Nina’s reading the hot-sauce labels, her face bunched into a thoughtful expression like the star of a nature documentary.
“This one…” She leans closer. “… is just a picture of a toilet on fire.”
Cameron whistles, dodging a flying troll as he passes beneath the fan.
“See, Haze?” He leans toward me. “This is why we explore.”
I can feel a snarky comeback trying to form on my tongue, because I don’t want to give him the impression that he was right—even if he was—but before I can, Brooke tugs on his arm.
“Come on,” she says. “I’ll show you the celebrity voodoo dolls.”
Cameron lets himself be led away, leaving me with that strange heat burning in my cheeks again.
I make my way around the path, taking in the bizzarro displays that line its walls: a map of the Gulf South with pins marking reported alien encounters, a collage made of beer-bottle caps, and, for some reason beyond human understanding, a collection of feathered and bedazzled Crocs.
Each new oddity scratches at a corner of my memory, little tugs on invisible string that I can’t quite tell if I’m imagining. I can’t place anything for sure. I think about snapping some pictures to send to Mom, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Maybe because I don’t want to be wrong. I don’t want this freakish little oasis to be a part of Pine Springs I never knew.
I catch up with Brooke and Cameron at the voodoo dolls, which are, in fact, designed to look like various celebrities, arranged on a shelf next to a bucket of little pins.
“Here.” Brooke hands me one of the pins. “Stab away. It’s kind of therapeutic.”
“Thanks.” I take it, looking up at the dolls for a moment before asking, “That gator statue outside. Do you know if it has a name?”
Brooke smiles like she knows it’s silly but can’t help it. “Jedediah.”
Warmth trickles through my chest, until a new question replaces the other. Did I come here with Mom—or Cal?
“Why do you ask?”
The warm feeling goes icy.
“Thought I heard someone call him that,” I say quickly. “I was curious.”
“Y’all, come look at this!”
Lucas’s voice pulls our attention. He’s on the other side of the yard, standing in the open doorway to what looks like a toolshed.
“It’s a whole exhibit about the murders,” he says reverently, and my heart drops like a hot coal all the way down to my gut.
“Oh yeah,” Brooke says, walking toward him. “People love this part.”
Everyone follows Lucas into the shed, but I stand frozen just outside of the door. Green light emanates from the inside, sickly and pulsing. Plenty of yards have sheds, I tell myself, but I can’t fight the fear that this one is somehow a portal to Cal’s home theater, the scene of the crime.
“You coming?” Cameron asks, holding the door open for me.
I swallow. You’re not scared, I tell myself, forcing my legs to move. It’s nothing you don’t already know.
Inside, the others are standing in front of a placard with a header in a bright green Goosebumps-style font: WHO WAS THE REAL PINE SPRINGS SLASHER?
My heart boomerangs back up from my stomach to my chest, making itself known with a frantic thumpthumpthump as Lucas reads the rest of the placard.
“‘Since 2010, the murders of five local students have haunted Pine Springs, even after former high school English teacher and horror-film enthusiast Cal Dupre confessed to the gruesome crimes. But despite Dupre’s conviction, some locals aren’t convinced of his guilt. Legend has it that La Bête Verte—or the Green Beast, the monster said to stalk the swamps where the victims’ bodies were found—was the true culprit.’”
“I don’t know,” Nina says. “Looks like an upstanding citizen to me.”
She’s standing in front of a wall dedicated to the swamp monster: drawings, news clippings, even casts of big webbed footprints. I move closer, taking in the various depictions of La Bête Verte. He’s like a cross between Bigfoot and some kind of aquatic lizard, with big claws, gills, and bright red eyes, mossy muck dripping from his sickly green scales.
He’s exactly the sort of creature that would feast on the blood of five teenagers and leave their bodies like husks in his swamp—ridiculous, over-the-top, a Scooby-Doo villain of a thing—and as silly as it is, I sort of get it. It’s much easier to believe the kids were killed by a giant cryptid than by the man who was supposed to keep them safe.
I glance over at Cameron, expecting him to make some wisecrack, but he’s silent, staring at the next part of the wall. When I realize what he’s looking at, my throat squeezes.
A tribute to the victims. Bella Thibodeaux, Beau Abbott, Susie Trahan, Abby Sanchez, and Reeve Warner—smiling from their Pine Springs High yearbook photos.
“It’s wild,” Cameron says softly. “Knowing they were our age.”
He’s looking at the photo of Reeve. I’ve seen it before—I’ve seen all of these photos—but Reeve’s gets circulated the most online, probably because he was, objectively speaking, hot. Dark eyes, messy brown hair, sharp jawline, facing the camera with a confident, sideways grin. Honestly, he reminds me of Cameron.
As soon as I’ve had the thought, something locks into place.
My eyes dart to Abby Sanchez, with her big square glasses, sweet smile, and pigtails. She doesn’t look much like Nina, aside from their dark hair and light brown complexion, but those glasses—they’re almost exactly the ones from Nina’s costume.
And Bella, with her perfect blond blowout and pretty blue eyes, just like Brooke’s. Beau was much bulkier than Lucas, but their hair is the same rusty auburn.
Reeve, Abby, Bella, Beau, Susie—the victims.
Rich, Anna, Brittany, Bill, Sam—our characters. That can’t be a coincidence. The couples in our movie match up with their real-life counterparts, too: “Brittany” and “Bill,” “Rich” and “Sam.”
I lock in on the photo of Susie. Her brown hair isn’t as dark as mine, which is near-black, and her face is softer where mine has sharp edges—but the pale skin, the brown eyes … even the denim jacket she’s wearing is almost identical to my Sam costume.
My heart jumps into overdrive, even as I try to slow it with logic. They never said our movie wasn’t inspired by the Pine Springs Slasher murders. Besides, plenty of horror films take inspiration from real-life cases. It’s not like it means anything sinister.
The rabbit flashes through my head again, sawed clean in two. All that blood … the muggy air feels too close, reaching deep into my nose and lungs, ready to choke me.
“That’s us,” I blurt. “We’re playing them, aren’t we?”
Four heads turn my way, surprised and a little concerned. And maybe they should be—I must look as frantic as I feel.
“Wait, no way.” Lucas gapes, half awed and half enthused. “Rich, Anna, Bill, Brittany, Sam … You’re right, that’s got to be a reference.”
“Hmm.” Cameron sizes up Reeve’s photo again, his earlier quiet reverence replaced with his usual lazy ease so quickly that I think I might have imagined it before. “No offense to the guy, but I’m much handsomer.”
“Oh my God, he’s dead,” Brooke admonishes him with a playful swat.
Nina, it seems, is the only one who’s feeling anything besides amusement.
“Weird that they won’t just come out and say that’s what the movie’s about.” She cocks her head. “We could’ve done more research to help with character work.”
Brooke shrugs. “Probably legal stuff, or something.”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to rein in my panic. “Isn’t it messed up that we’re, like, capitalizing on these people’s tragedy?”
Brooke scoffs. “Look, I love to dream big, but we’re probably not making the next blockbuster hit here.”
“That’s not what I mean.” My tone is quickly warping into a wild thing I can’t control. “It’s like we forget these were real people who died.”
“No, you’re right.” Lucas steps in, glancing at the victims and then back at me. “Maybe we should be a little more sensitive.”
The kindness in his eyes almost makes me feel better. It would, I think, if it weren’t for the rapid-fire ricochet of my heart. If not for the truth burning there: none of them would look at me so kindly if they knew who I really am. What I’ve been hiding.
And Cameron … the way he’s watching me, I’m not so sure it’s even kind at all. Instead, his eyes are slightly narrowed, like he’s trying to read me from too far away.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to shake it off, but my voice comes out flat. “I’m going to go look at the gift shop.”
Before anyone can stop me, I leave the shed. Walking fast. Controlling my breathing.
I’m fine, I tell myself. Pine Springs is just a place, like any other place I’ve lived.
It can’t hurt me.
I throw open the gift-shop door and take a big gulp of the cool air.
“Finding everything okay?”
Claude’s voice almost makes me jump out of my skin. Somehow, I’d forgotten he’d be here. The cat leaps off his lap and disappears beneath the desk, like it’s offended on Claude’s behalf.
“Yeah,” I say. And then, because I like Claude and I’m a little embarrassed for storming out of his museum like that, I reach for the nearest knickknack and take it up to the counter. “Just wanted to grab this.”
Claude eyes the thing I’ve just brought over, and we both realize at the same moment that I’m purchasing a shot glass that says I GOT SLOSHED AT THE SWAMP! in slimy green letters. Beneath it is a little drawing of the swamp monster’s face. I wince.
Claude, bless him, doesn’t say anything about my clearly underage status as he rings it up. “Five ninety-nine.”
I fish my card out of my pocket and stick it in the machine.
“Need it wrapped?”
“Um, no, that’s okay. Thanks.”
He hands me the glass. “Enjoy.”
I know I should go before the embarrassment of this interaction kills us both, but something keeps me planted. Claude stares at me, one bushy eyebrow raised. It feels like enough of a challenge that I can’t help but meet it.
“Do people here really believe that?” I ask, gesturing with the shot glass. “That the swamp monster killed those kids?”
The cat leaps back up onto Claude’s lap, and he flinches in surprise before looking down at it with a small, sad smile.
“When you’re from a town like this, you don’t discount the improbable.” He scratches the cat softly. “Stranger things have happened than a hungry creature stalking the swamp.”
“Like what?” The question feels small and trapped in my throat.
Claude looks up at me. “Cal Dupre’s confession, for one.”
My breath stalls entirely, and I grip the shot glass so hard I’m worried it could shatter.
“You don’t think he did it?” I manage.
Claude gestures at his museum. “I traffic in the unusual and unexplained. And an upstanding member of the community suddenly confessing to the murder of five students he adored, after he’d already sworn he was innocent?” His eyebrows shoot up. “That qualifies. The police department…” He clicks his tongue. “Bless ’em, but this is a small town. They’d never been faced with a crime like this. They wanted this wrapped up quick, even if that meant plenty of loose ends. All those holes in Cal’s story…”
“Holes?” I echo, heart racing.
“Mm-hmm.” Claude nods emphatically. “My brother-in-law was at the plea hearing, and he says when the judge asked Cal how he’d done it—how he’d killed them that night—Cal could barely explain it. Couldn’t remember who he killed first, or how he kept ’em from running—almost like someone had fed him a story but left out the details. And Cal didn’t have even a scratch on him. I mean, three healthy kids, one of them a young man over six feet, and not a single one fought back?”
He watches me like he’s waiting for me to agree, but my heart is in my mouth now, taking up too much space for me to move my tongue. In all the accounts I’ve seen of Cal’s plea and sentencing, no one has ever mentioned this. Only the big, hulking fact:
“He confessed,” I insist. “He pled guilty.”
“He did.” Claude shrugs. “But people say and do all sorts of things when they’re staring down the death penalty.”
My mind races. Logically, I know I shouldn’t put too much stock in Claude’s conspiracy theories. He’s got reported alien sightings on display in his museum, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a tinfoil hat somewhere behind that desk. Still, the idea digs into me, deep enough to leave claw marks.
I assumed everyone in Pine Springs had branded Cal a monster, but here’s someone who isn’t so convinced.
“I should go.” It comes out on instinct, a wall flung up against the tidal wave of questions and feelings rushing to the surface. “Thank you. For the museum. And the…” I hold up the shot glass. “This.”
Claude’s face softens, and I think there’s something else he wants to say, but he just nods. “Have a good day, now.”
Outside, I stop next to Jedediah the gator, trying to breathe—breathe—but my thoughts won’t slow down. A new possibility lurks just out of sight like a creature in trees, vanished into the shadows the second I turn around: there might be more to Cal’s story than what I’ve always been told. My whole being burns to find it, to catch the truth and look it in the face.
But I also know what happens to girls who go chasing monsters in the dark.
