By Rod A. White

The rain was coming down in sheets, a reminder that some things can’t be undone. I stood in Stage 7, watching my team tear down the set where Vivian Cross died three months ago.

“Cut!” I’d screamed that fateful night, but the cameras kept rolling. As they always seemed to do.

The insurance money finally came through—enough to rebuild, reshoot, and finish the picture. But it wasn’t enough to bring back my leading lady, my wife, my reason for making movies in the first place.

“Mr. Reeves?” The voice belonged to Tommy Chen, my assistant director. The kid had promise, but his hands shook when he held the viewfinder. A death on set tended to do that to people. “The new actress is here for wardrobe.”

I turned from the demolition, unable to watch them tear down the bedroom where Vivian had taken those pills between takes. The coroner had called it accidental―a prescription mix-up. The studio called it tragic, but manageable.

I called it my fault.

The replacement stood in the doorway like a ghost in the flesh. Same platinum blonde hair, same smoky eyes, same red lips that could sell a million tickets. The resemblance was uncanny, professional. Hollywood magic at its most cynical.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, extending a gloved hand. “I’m Elsie Stark.”

I didn’t take the hand. “You’re here to wear a dead woman’s clothes and speak her lines.”

Stunned, Elsie stood frozen, her hand dangling unwanted in the air. Finally, she dropped her hand and her eyes, placing her attention on smoothing out the glove in an attempt to act unphased.

“I’m here to help you finish your film.” Her voice carried the same husky whisper that had made Vivian famous. The casting director had earned his blood money.

The next two weeks passed in a fervor of reshoots. Elsie moved through Vivian’s parts like she’d studied every frame, hitting her marks with mechanical precision. The studio relaxed. The crew breathed easier. The movie would be finished on time and under budget.

But every night, when the set fell quiet and the ghosts came out to play, I would find Elsie standing in that rebuilt bedroom, staring at the spot where they’d found Vivian.

“Tell me about her,” she said one night.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not her, and pretending I am is killing us both.”

I poured two glasses of bourbon from the bottle I kept hidden behind the camera equipment. “She was going to leave me. The night she died, she said she couldn’t pretend anymore. Said the marriage was as fake as everything else in this town.”

Elsie took the glass with steady fingers. “And you think that’s why she took those pills?”

“I know it is. I pushed her into this life, this industry, this prison of lights and cameras. She wanted to go back to Kansas, teach school, have babies.” I drained my bourbon in one burning swallow. “Instead, she died chasing someone else’s dream.”

“What if we changed it?”

“Changed what?”

“The ending. Her ending. What if instead of the character dying, she escapes? What if she gets to live?”

The studio would never approve it. The original ending was tragic, Oscar-worthy, guaranteed to make audiences weep and critics swoon. But as I looked at Elsie, I saw Vivian’s eyes, and I understood something I had missed.

This wasn’t about replacing Vivian. It was about saving her.

***

We reshot the final scene on a Sunday night with a skeleton crew of true believers. Instead of the character taking poison to escape her loveless marriage, she packs a suitcase and walks out into the rain. Instead of dying for love, she chooses to live.

When the studio executives saw the footage Monday morning, they threatened lawsuits, career ruin, financial destruction. But Elsie had already vanished, leaving only a note: Some things are worth redoing. Thank you for letting her live.

The film was released six months later with both endings―the studio’s tragic finale for the wide release, and our redemptive version as a “director’s cut” that played in art houses and revival theaters. Critics called it pretentious. Audiences called it beautiful.

I never saw Elsie Stark again. Some said she was an actress from Chicago. Others claimed she was a studio plant sent to help with the transition. The truth is, I never bothered to find out. Sometimes, the magic works better when you don’t look behind the curtain.

On one quiet night, when the rain was falling heavily, I watched that final scene with Elsie’s face and Vivian’s voice.

I swore I heard someone breathing behind me. I turned, certain I’d see her there, one of them―or both, but the room was empty. No sound but that of rain hitting the glass.

With shaking hands, I poured two bourbons and set one beside the television. By morning, it was empty.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rod A. White has operated a full-time writing/ghostwriting/editing business since 2010, providing articles, blog posts, ebooks, books, and other writing services to a global clientele. Rod also enjoys creating his own short stories, novels, screenplays, comic books, graphic novels, etc. He’s had several short stories accepted for publication recently.

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