From there, the real work began.
Amanda focused on preparing PR materials and quietly building the plan for hype through niche film forums, newspapers, magazines and indie press contacts.
She worked late into the night, coordinating with freelance publicists about haunted stories that publicists might have, planning the planting of rumors, and writing of anonymous articles by hiring a few interns by using her family connects.
Meanwhile, Ben dove into production. He reviewed the shooting schedule obsessively, ensuring that the documentary-style filming would appear authentic yet controlled.
He ordered outdated camcorders to match the aesthetic, tested night-vision lenses, and oversaw the building of the fake mythology surrounding the Blair Witch legend.
They scouted forest locations just outside the city, searching for the perfect setting—remote, eerie, and believable. Ben insisted on shooting in chronological order to maintain continuity and help the actors stay immersed in their roles.
He worked with a minimalist crew, each member doubling up on responsibilities to reduce costs. Props were mostly handmade. Costumes were second-hand clothing tailored to look like something actual film students would wear.
Ben spent hours with the cinematographer and sound designer, experimenting with how to make mundane sounds—the wind through trees, footsteps on leaves—feel terrifying.
They prepped backup plans for every scene. No excuses for delays.
On Friday evening, just as Amanda was preparing to leave for the day, her phone buzzed.
It was Helen.
Amanda answered. "Hello?"
Helen's voice was curt but not unkind. "Tell Ben that George Lucas is willing to meet. Tomorrow Saturday for lunch. Don't be late."
----- Flashback ------
It was a quiet Friday afternoon when Helen arrived at the secluded Napa Valley estate that George Lucas often retreated to when he wasn't working. The vineyard rolled behind the house like a painting, bathed in the soft golden light of California's early spring.
Helen was greeted at the entrance by a familiar face. George himself stepped out from under the stone archway of the old house, casual in a light blue shirt and chinos, his graying beard trimmed with precision.
"Helen!" George beamed, opening his arms for an embrace. "Helen, my favorite niece who's not my niece. You're glowing. Hollywood treating you well?"
"Trying my best not to drown in the flood," she quipped.
Helen smiled warmly and hugged him. "Uncle George. You look great. Retirement suits you."
They both laughed as they sat down. He chuckled. "Semi-retirement. You know I can't sit still for long. So, how's Star Talent Brokerage treating you? Still shaking up the industry?"
"We're trying," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "We're still young, but we've been bringing in some really exciting people. Some with real potential."
George chuckled. "That's the spirit."
George led her into the sunroom, where the windows opened up to views of the vineyard. A tray of tea and snacks was already laid out. "So tell me, who's the lucky talent that earned you a trip out here?"
Helen reached into her bag and pulled out a USB stick. "There's one in particular. A young director. Just graduated. From USC, actually. I wanted to show you something he made. Just a short film, but… it's different.
"
That got George's attention. "Oh?" he said, settling into his chair. "Let's see what the Trojans are cooking up these days."
She plugged the drive into the sleek flat-screen on the wall, and moments later, the opening frames of Buried began to play.
The screen flickered to life. A few seconds later, the experimental short film "Buried" began to play.
George watched quietly, arms folded, his expression unreadable. When the final frame faded out, he sat still for a long moment.
The short film was stark, shot mostly in black and white with handheld footage, sharp jump cuts, and unnerving silence that wrapped around moments of sudden, almost primal fear.
George watched without a word, his hand occasionally drifting to his chin.
When the credits rolled, he sat back and nodded slowly. "Well," he said finally, "that's art."
Helen grinned. "You liked it?"
"If he enters that at Sundance, he's walking out with at least two awards. Maybe three if the jury's feeling bold. It's raw, it's rough around the edges, but the vision is unmistakable. That claustrophobic sequence with the dirt collapsing around the character? Inspired. So who's this mysterious filmmaker?"
Helen hesitated for a beat, then said, "His name's Ben Gosling, but… you might know him as the troublemaker from the Forrest Gump set. The one who kept shoving this short film into everyone's faces."
George blinked. "Ben Gosling... wait a second." His brow furrowed. "You mean that obnoxious kid from the Forrest Gump set a month ago? The one who kept shoving a short film into everyone's hands like it was the Ark of the Covenant? The one security"
Helen laughed, a little embarrassed. "That's the one."
"You're telling me that kid made this?"
Helen laughed. "The very same."
George shook his head with a chuckle. "Well, no wonder this film was called Buried. The poor thing didn't stand a chance with Ben digging its grave every time he opened his mouth."
Helen laughed, nearly snorting her water. "Apparently he was so persistent and irritating that no one even looked at the tape."
George leaned back, shaking his head in disbelief. "Unbelievable. And nobody picked up on this?"
Helen gave a wry smile. "He was too annoying. No one wanted to give him the time of day. So now I'm giving him one."
George leaned back. "That's… actually tragic. Because that was good. I mean really good. You found a gem, Helen. A little unpolished, but this guy might actually make it. So… what's the favor? I can feel it coming."
Helen put her hands together like she was praying. "I want you to meet him. Just once. And maybe take a look at his next project."
George raised a brow and gave her a look. "And why do you need my help?"
"Please, Uncle George. Just a lunch, okay? No more than that. Help my company grow. I'm the one giving him a loan to make his next film."
George blinked. "You?! You're funding him?"
She exhaled. "Call it instinct. But I need to know if I'm throwing money into the wind or investing in the next breakout."
He was silent for a long time processing the new information thrown at him and then gave her a measured look. "So, what's the budget for his next project, Helen?"
"Less than fifty grand."
George looked amused. "You don't even get catering for that on a real set."
"That's why I need you to meet him. It's not about the script, honestly. It's the whole project. Just meet him once. Saturday lunch. I'll handle everything."
George sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright. You owe me a Skywalker Ranch picnic."
"Deal," Helen said, beaming.
George narrowed his eyes slightly. "You came all the way here for that?"
Helen leaned forward, more serious now. "Look, I'm the one fronting the loan for the film. It's barely fifty grand, but I still need to know that I'm not throwing money into a fire. If you meet him and say he's a lost cause, I'll pull back."
George sat in thought for a moment. Then he smiled. "You really believe in this kid."
George gave a dry laugh. "You're always a little crazy. It's part of your charm."
"I do. And you taught me to trust my instincts."
He sighed, then grinned. "Alright. Saturday. Lunch. But he better not try to shove me a tape to my face. USC or not, I'm not interested in getting tapes shoved to my face."
Helen laughed in relief. "Fair. No tapes. Just the project to read."
"Alright, fine! Saturday it is. Let's see what this troublemaker's cooking up now."
They toasted to the upcoming meeting, one eye on the past, and the other fixed on the uncertain, flickering light of the future.
----- Flashback Over ----