Page 1 of Romance Is Dead

If people knew how horror movies were made, they wouldn’t be scared of them.

That actress running terrified through the woods? Bored and exhausted from reshooting the scene a dozen times.

That abandoned hospital those teens are trapped in? Actually a warehouse filled with carefully curated vintage medical equipment from a supplier in LA.

That bad guy chasing them? Just some dude named Todd who will be hotboxing and eating Doritos in his trailer once the director calls cut.

The point is, movies are very different behind the scenes.

On-screen, stylists have made everyone look otherworldly gorgeous, editors have coaxed the story into perfect shape, and composers have crafted scores to depict just the right sense of impending doom.

But in reality, actors are often tired, hungry, or uncomfortable.

Or, if they’re anything like me on the first day of filming my last horror movie, all three.

Bursting out of my trailer into the early September air, I double-checked that the buttons of my candy-pink cardigan were straight as my stomach grumbled.

Thanks to a misread call time, I’d arrived on set an hour late and there’d been no time to grab a snack from craft services.

I’d never screwed up a shooting schedule before, but my subconscious must have been trying to protect me.

I was absolutely dreading making this movie.

Production assistants whizzed by as I wound through base camp, the community of trailers that would be our home while filming House of Reckoning on the outskirts of the Virginian mountains.

Wardrobe assistants shuttled costumes to the actors’ trailers and crew members hollered for people to get out of the way as they swung props and equipment into the backs of tiny golf carts that would transport the objects to set.

Because the house we’d be filming in was located a half mile away in the middle of the woods, I’d need to find my own golf cart to get there.

And judging by the time, I needed to find it now.

I swept through camp, looking for the line of carts I’d been told would be waiting. Thankfully, there was one left. A young, gangly PA with shaggy, sand-colored hair and an eager smile on his face waved from the driver’s seat.

“Need a lift?” he asked, reaching for the ignition.

“Yes.” I gratefully hopped in next to him. “I do.”

He steered us onto the dirt path that led through the woods, leaves that were just starting to turn orange rustling pleasantly on either side of us as we bumped along.

The PA kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, opening his mouth but never saying anything. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Excuse me for asking, but you’re Quinn Prescott, right?”

My stomach sank. After more than two decades of making movies, I was used to being recognized. But in the three months since my disastrous previous film, it usually came with either a snide comment or look of pity. I couldn’t decide which was worse.

“Guilty.” I braced myself for what was coming next.

The PA’s face broke into a grin. “Wow, it’s amazing to meet you! I’ve seen all your stuff. Your performance in The Exorcism of Luna LeGrand ? Genius.”

Some of the tightness eased from my chest. “Thanks.”

“Gosh, I was so excited when I learned I’d be working on one of your movies. This sounds so lame, but can I get your autograph later?”

“Of course.”

“Amazing, thank you. Seriously, you’ve got a fan for life. Anything you’re in, I’ll be watching!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that after this, there wouldn’t be any others.

“My name’s Trevor, by the way. I’m so rude.” He took one of his hands off the wheel and reached for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you.” As I shook his hand, I noticed a brightly colored friendship bracelet on his wrist. “I like your bracelet.”

“Thanks! My niece made it for me a few weeks ago at camp and I haven’t taken it off since. She’s the best, just the cutest kid.”

My mind wandering as Trevor chatted away, I scanned the landscape for any sign of the set.

In the movie, four college students rent an Airbnb where they accidentally conjure the spirit of an evil witch, who then proceeds to slaughter them one by one.

The setting and atmosphere would be one of the most important aspects of the movie.

At first, all I saw were trees as we wound through the woods. They leaned close, their branches brushing the cart like they might snatch us if they had the chance. Finally, a weathervane peeked above the treetops, twirling in the wind and spinning lazily as though by an invisible hand.

Then we rounded a corner, and the entire house lurched into view.

With sides of gray stone and a roof of black shingles, the towering Gothic mansion looked straight out of a Hitchcock movie — complete with turrets, creeping vines, and shadowy windows.

It had been nicely maintained, clearly loved, but still had the air of a house with secrets.

I shivered. It was perfect.

“Here we go.” Trevor steered us to the far side of the driveway and threw the cart in park. “I hope — ”

But I was already out of the cart and gone, waving in thanks over my shoulder. Weaving between a grip wheeling a camera rig and two prop assistants lugging a rolled-up carpet, I slipped through the front doors.

The foyer was spacious, paneled in dark shining wood and featuring a grand staircase.

Briefly, I wondered how a gaggle of college students would be able to afford such a fancy Airbnb, but decided not to raise that particular plot hole with production.

An archway to the right led to a dim dining room, but it was in the room to the left that we’d be filming.

The parlor had been dressed like a college party was underway: a large sound system dominated one corner and a beer keg sat on one of the chairs.

I took a moment, soaking in the last first day on a set I’d ever have.

Had my decision to leave the movie industry last month been hasty?

Yes. Had selling my LA apartment and putting all my belongings in storage until I figured out a new plan been even more impulsive?

Also yes. I’d been making horror movies since I was eight — a bit part I’d nabbed solely because my dad had been playing the infamous horror villain Puzzle Face since the nineties — and in the years since, I’d worked my way up to become one of Hollywood’s go-to scream queens.

Horror was my thing, my passion. My happy place.

But then a year of horrible, no good, very bad events made me realize I needed to leave the industry — and LA — for good.

I’d just have to suffer through one last movie first.

As I stepped into the parlor, the room was abuzz — crackling with the special energy only found at the beginning of a new production.

Like the first day of school, but better.

The energy followed you everywhere, from your trailer to the set and back to your hotel room.

It sizzled through the atmosphere, electric and full of anticipation, rife with the possibility that this could be it: the blockbuster that could catapult everyone to fame and superstardom.

The optimism made me want to puke, but it was impossible not to feel.

“Girl, what did you do to your makeup? I saw you less than an hour ago!”

A makeup brush appeared out of nowhere, bristles fluttering dangerously close to my cornea.

The hand wielding it belonged to Mara, who today was dressed in a floral-print dress with her chestnut hair styled in vintage victory rolls.

Last month she’d been sporting high-end athleisure almost exclusively, but now she seemed to be favoring a 1940s pin-up aesthetic.

Thankfully, her commitment to being my best friend was far more constant than her fashion du jour.

“Sorry.” I waved my hand vaguely in the air. “I’m feeling a little off today.”

Mara eyed me warily. “I bet. You’re sure this is the last one?”

Saying nothing, I nodded.

We’d met ten years ago when we were both nineteen and working on the slasher My Mom Married a Demon 2: Zaddy Zebub Returns .

We instantly clicked, bonding over being two of the only women on set and a mutual love of the TV show Scream Queens .

I loved the campy horror; she loved the frothy fashion.

We’d been inseparable ever since — and even more so over the last month, once I’d started crashing on her couch after selling my apartment.

“You don’t want to spend more than a few weeks deciding whether to end a twenty-plus-year career?” Mara rustled around in the fanny pack that held her on-set supplies. “You don’t think that’s a little rash?”

“Shh!” I glanced around frantically, hoping no one had overheard. “I’d prefer to keep this under wraps for now. And yes, I’m sure. I told you — ”

“I know, I know. I get it.” She dabbed some fresh concealer under my eyes and started to blend. “By the way, did you hear your co-star had to drop out?”

“Wait, what?”

“I just found out. A motorcycle accident, apparently. He only broke his thumbs, but production thought he wouldn’t be able to do his stunts, so they replaced him.”

“With who?” Endless possibilities flashed through my mind. Could it be Adam Driver? Chris Hemsworth? Zac Efron?

“You know that reality show from a couple months ago? Pleasure Island Paradise ?”

I rolled my eyes. “The one with that guy who’s been all over the press for dating every supermodel in the continental US?”

Mara stared at me pointedly.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead. Sorry, girl.” She sighed. “Looks like your luck hasn’t turned around just yet.”

My brain spun like an overloaded computer as I tried to comprehend this development.

This could not be right. Teddy James was a vapid reality star, not an actor.

He was nothing but an opportunistic fame-chaser.

After Pleasure Island wrapped, the tabloids had spent the summer analyzing paparazzi shots and social media interactions to predict which starlet he was dating that week.

The more famous the better. I’d only met Teddy once, but it had told me everything I needed to know: that he was a jerk, a player, and a fuck boy of the worst order.

This was not good.

My anxiety ten times higher, I glanced at my phone. I’d thought I was running late, but it still didn’t look like we were ready to start.

“What are we waiting on?” I spotted our director, Natasha Vossey, pacing the length of the room, peering out the window each time she passed. I’d worked with her before and knew she hated starting even a minute late.

“Teddy,” Mara said. “He’s hot, but can he read a clock?”

Then, right on cue, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the room.

It was Teddy. Golden sunlight slanted through a nearby window, illuminating him like something from a Renaissance painting.

His sun-kissed skin looked lit from within and his hair shone like burnished bronze as he moved leisurely into the room, no sense of urgency or remorse, clearly unconcerned that he’d kept everyone waiting.

He slung a letterman jacket over his shoulder as he greeted the cast and crew, his biceps straining his white tee-shirt as he made sure every person in the room had noticed his arrival.

He was, unfortunately, even hotter than I remembered.

“There you are!” Natasha stormed across the set. She was a petite woman, but you hardly noticed when she was stomping toward you in a leather jacket and Doc Martens.

Teddy’s eyes widened as she approached, and I silently cheered her on, hoping she’d give him the dressing-down he deserved.

Instead, she simply motioned toward the set. “Over there. Now. We’re running behind and we haven’t even started blocking, for Christ’s sake!”

“Sorry. Yes, ma’am.”

Natasha gave him a withering look. “Never call me that again.” She spun around to take her place behind the camera, motioning for everyone else to get moving.

The whole room shifted. Actors moved toward the set, crew members headed toward the lighting rigs and sound systems, and PAs scurried to get out of the way.

Meanwhile, I prayed Teddy wouldn’t remember me.

Our interaction earlier that summer had been so brief.

So meaningless, so nothing. I hadn’t even given him my name.

Ideally, he wouldn’t recognize me and we’d never have to address what happened.

After all, my character did wear a wig. I could assume a fake identity and remain in the wig at all times.

That was it. The new plan.

Before I could leave, Teddy broke away from the wardrobe assistant who had been taking her time double-checking the fit of his tee-shirt and locked eyes with me.

Something like recognition flashed across his face — a startled raising of his eyebrows and opening of his mouth.

Panic flared in my chest, and even though my brain told my feet to flee, they remained rooted in place.

A second later, a body crashed into me — and my entire torso was suddenly soaked in boiling hot liquid.

I screamed and tore at my sweater. It was hot, way too hot.

I tried to rip it over my head, but the wet material merely bunched on itself and I only got it half off.

I was no longer being boiled alive, but I was stuck with my sweater wrapped around my head and my arms twisted helplessly in the fabric.

Which meant I was now standing in front of the entire cast and crew in my jeans and a soaking-wet bra.

And the person with a front-row seat to this spectacle was Teddy.