15 Amityville Horrible Read Free Page B

wasn’t good.
    “Did I hear you talking to someone?” he asked.
    “Just a ghost.”
    He laughed and hugged me. He thought I was joking, of course. I didn’t disillusion him.
    “You’ll be pleased to know I took your advice about our afflicted guests,” he said.
    “It wasn’t advice. If you parade people with Cotard’s in front of the camera, I will walk off the set and—”
    “I’ve invited relatives instead. They’ll tell their stories in brief clips to be played throughout the special.”
    “Tastefully and respectfully.”
    A faint shudder. “Yes. Though I think you’re overreacting and doing a disservice to the sufferers—”
    “It’s a mental illness where people think they’ve died. They believe they’re in hell or that they’re zombies or that they’re missing limbs or body organs.”
    His eyes glittered. “I know.”
    “They’ve been known to stop eating and die of starvation. Or test their death theory by committing suicide.”
    “Oh, well, we wouldn’t show that .”
    I gave him a look as we walked up the front steps.
    He sighed. “Yes, yes. There will be no Cotard’s sufferers on set.”
    “Couldn’t find any who’d agree, could you? It’s kind of hard to get excited about making your TV debut when you think you’re dead.”
    We walked through the inn’s front doors. Mike tried to persuade me to go to my room first, take some time, fix my hair. My hair was fine. Ten years ago, I’d have hurried off to check anyway, certain I had huge snarls sticking out the back. I knew better. Mike just didn’t want me going to the party yet.
    I was, as he’d said, early. In fact, I was significantly earlier than Mike told me to get there, because I knew he wanted me to swan in thirty minutes late and start establishing my diva-hood as soon as possible. So I turned my suitcase over to the bellhop, to be placed in my room, and insisted on joining the party.
    Mike led me along the hall toward the source of the murmurs I’d heard since entering the inn. We walked into the party in the common room. There were no decorations that looked as if they’d been hauled out of a Halloween box. No decorations at all, which told me this part was not going to be filmed. I could relax a little, probably for the last time until this show was over.
    Mike steered me straight to a tall, gray-haired man with his back to us.
    “Jaime, I believe you know Oliver Black,” Mike said.
    I tried to hide my surprise. I certainly did know the producer. He was supposed to helm the Marilyn show, and I’d been thrilled about that, not just because Oliver seemed to be a genuine fan of my work, but because I was a genuine fan of his. At the last minute he’d been pulled and I got stuck with Todd Simon, beer commercial producer extraordinaire, who’d barked commands from afar. When Mike had said Oliver would be producing this new show, I’d expected the same switcheroo.
    Mike’s up to something , I thought, as I air-kissed Oliver’s cheek and told him how thrilled I was to have him here.
    Oliver wouldn’t be staying, of course. That wasn’t his producer job. But having him here to meet the crew and impart a few words of encouragement still meant a lot.
    Before I could chat with Oliver, though, Mike led me to the next surprise.
    “And your director,” he said. “I believe you two have worked together before?”
    “Becky!” I said.
    It was Becky Cheung, who’d directed Death of Innocence . By the end of that show, I wouldn’t have been nearly so pleased to work with her again. She hadn’t been bad, simply inexperienced. After the show, though, her star had jumped, and her first act had been to cut ties with Todd Simon, which had proved the young woman was brighter than I’d thought.
    Becky had gone on to make a name for herself in TV and hadn’t forgotten that I’d helped her make her big break. Anytime we were due to be in the same city, she’d invite me out for dinner. I could chalk that up to simple