(Last chap till October. That's when it will really start)
[Owen POV]
"Hey, O. You're taking the lead in the show, right? I'm so jealous!"
The young girl shook my hand in mock frustration as I practiced with a butterfly knife. She had a small mole beneath her left eye and wore a Victorian-era dress—the kind with puffed sleeves and lace at the collar.
The memory of my past life came to me in a dream.
I laughed and told her, "It's not that great being the lead. Honestly, it's really stressful."
I sat on a prop box at the edge of the stage, wearing a beret. I was tall—around 190 cm—muscular, confident, and by 1700s standards, quite handsome.
She puffed her cheeks and swatted my arm, then skipped to the center of the stage.
"Yes, it is stressful—but," she closed her eyes under the spotlight, smiling as if she were already there, "to be able to stand in front of a crowd… to tell stories that stay with people—maybe even change their minds, just a little."
She turned and smiled at me. "You should be happier to be the lead! I long for that. I'd do anything to—"
The memory shattered.
I was running—sprinting through crooked alleyways, lungs burning, heart pounding.
I reached the town square, pushing through the crowd.
There they were. Her body—and the rest of the troupe—hanging.
I stumbled forward, feet dragging, breath caught in my throat. Her lifeless eyes stared back at me.
Then her head tilted. The corpse smiled.
"Hey, O... are you still running away?"
"AHH!" I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, screaming. The sun peeked through the curtains, and a soft breeze drifted in.
I breathed hard to calm myself, then finally muttered, "Are you mad at me, Isabella? You're mad I rejected that offer, so now you haunt me?"
With a heart-wrenching smile, I added, "Well. Now I want to do it even less. That way…"
Maybe she would come and haunt me again.
I went for a jog that morning. The energy was fixing my defects, but I still needed to train my physical strength the normal way.
After the jog, I took out my satchel and sat by the park to draw book illustrations.
The park in South Pasadena was nearly empty, touched by the quiet calm of a weekday morning in mid-February. Pale sunlight filtered through the bare branches of sycamore trees, casting delicate shadows on the dew-slicked grass.
A few elderly joggers passed by, while the distant hum of a gardener's leaf blower mixed with the soft chirp of sparrows.
My sketchbook was starting to fill up as I created drafts for the book. It took me quite a while, and I took a break at lunch to eat my steamed potatoes and boiled eggs. Not a great combination.
Around 4 PM, more youngsters started arriving. They were throwing frisbees, riding bikes, and flying kites.
"Ugh. Youths," I groaned in disgust as I packed my things.
As I walked down the trail, a stray frisbee flew toward me. I caught it with my left hand just before it hit my head.
"Hey! Can you throw it back?" a few girls shouted from afar.
I glared at them. "Aren't you going to apologize?"
"Why? It didn't hit you!" the brunette snapped, annoyed.
"Okay then," I said, and tossed the frisbee in the opposite direction—so far that it would've been easier for them if it had hit me.
They stared at me in disbelief as I walked away casually.
"Asshole!" the brunette shouted, flipping me off. "Alison!" Her friend called her when she was trying to throw a stone at me.
"I should get a bike," I muttered as I began the long walk home. The Pawsadena Dog Park was great, but it was too far away from my house to walk daily.
It was Friday night, and by the time I passed a Blockbuster Video store, I was astonished to see a long line of people waiting to rent movies.
"Wait, Blockbuster is alive?" I muttered in shock. Still, I ignored it—I didn't even have a TV.
"Guess I should buy one. Maybe I'll watch that show—New Yorkers—in my free time."
As I went home, I saw that I had some messages on my answering machine.
"Hey, Owen. Again, please consider taking the leading role for the movie. I—" I skipped the message. It was George again.
"I talked with some guys. You don't even have to register with the union. Just use Taft-Hartley. You don't want the hassle, right? I'll handle it all for you—"
The next message was from Jessica. "Owen. I have finished writing the book. I'll bring the printed copy for you tomorrow…"
I nodded slightly like I was responding to her, but she added, "Also, I think you'll become a great movie star if you take that role—"
I deleted all of the messages.
The next morning, I took the bus to a department store—Sears.
It was quiet inside—just a few families wandering the aisles, and the hum of fluorescent lights above. I walked past the car stereos and cordless phones, heading straight for the TVs.
A clerk in a red vest, messy hair, and a stubby beard glanced at me.
"Need help with anything?" he said, sounding bored.
"I need a TV. Something decent. And a VCR. And a computer I can write on," I said. I didn't want to waste time.
His eyes lit up. "Really? What model do you want?"
"What models do you have?" I asked.
He looked at me in disbelief. "You didn't do any research first? Compare prices across stores, pick a model that suits your needs?"
"No. I just have some money. Now, do you want that sale or not? Or should I find another sales assistant—"
"NO! No, no!" He stopped me immediately. "Alright, alright. Jeez. You're so impatient," he added.
He led me over to the televisions. "This one's a Sony Trinitron. Thirty-two inch. One of the best right now. Sharp picture, good color. A lot of people rent movies, so pairing it with a Hi-Fi VCR makes sense."
"How much?"
"TV's $799. VCR's around $150."
I nodded. "Alright. I'll take both."
His jaw dropped, but he didn't say anything—just wrote the model numbers down on a clipboard. He glanced at me and said, "You really don't want to hear the others—?"
"No," I replied decisively. It was all the same anyway. After watching movies from an 8K OLED screen in my past life, the electronics in this era felt like fossils.
Then we went to the computers. Beige towers and boxy monitors lined up on folding tables.
"This one's been selling well," he said, pointing to a Compaq bundle. "Pentium processor, sixteen megs of RAM, CD-ROM drive. Comes with Windows 95 and Microsoft Office. You'll have Word on there if you're writing."
"How loud is it?"
"They're all kind of loud."
I tested the keyboard. The keys had some resistance, but it would do.
The salesman watched me type, frowning. "Dude, are you typing randomly?" But when he glanced at the screen, he paused—there was a neat paragraph.
I tried another keyboard. "Add that one too."
He blinked. "You want help loading it into your car?"
"I don't have a car."
"Oh—so, home delivery, huh? I can help with that. Since you're spending over $3,000, I can waive the delivery fee and throw in a few appliances for free—like this blender!" He held up a bulky green thing with chrome edges.
"I don't cook."
"You could use it to make cocktails—oh, right. You're a kid. What about a waffle maker?" He lifted another box.
"Can I only pick appliances? What about a bicycle? Can I get one of those—or maybe a discount?"
He paused, narrowed his eyes. "You seem naive, but you've got some skills. Wait here—I'll get my manager. I think we can get you a free bike."
I handed my credit card to the cashier. After getting that twenty grand from Ralph Macchio, I applied for a credit card. Surprisingly, I got it.
It was easy to apply for anything in this era. The salesman even pitched me a Sears home mortgage. I guess getting a house loan was just as easy.
I bought an entertainment unit for the TV and a desk for the computer. Picked up some books from the bookstore too.
"Maybe I can borrow VHS tapes from Jessica. But for the full New Yorkers set—should I go to Blockbuster?" I muttered, cycling home on my new red bike.
It was small enough for my frame, but it made commuting easier.
I'd spent about $4,000 today. I didn't bother saving—didn't know if I'd even get to spend it all before I had to go. With $200,000 still owed to me by Jessica and George, I could finish the book and coast my way until the end.
While turning onto my street, I spotted someone in an alley. The stove installation guy—forgotten until now—was leaning close to a nervous teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen, clearly pressuring him into continuing whatever deal they had going.
'Hmm. I'd deleted you out of my mind, but it looks like fate wants you gone,' I thought, eyes narrowing.
Excitement stirred where my anger had been. The familiarity of it all was quite healing for me.
I cycled off while thinking about my first real hunt.
Jessica and George were waiting at my door when I arrived. I grimaced at the sight of George, then unlocked the door and stepped inside.
"I told you—I'm not taking the role," I said, sighing as I looked at George, questioning his audacity.
"I know. I'm here to talk about something else—your money."
"Hmm…" I narrowed my eyes at him, then sighed and stepped aside. "Come on in."
"Owen, is that a new bike?" Jessica's attention had been elsewhere the whole time. "Can I try it? I feel like I can ride it."
"Your butt's too big for it. Don't ruin his bicycle," George said cheekily.
"I won't ruin it!" she protested.
Once we were all inside, I nodded for George to speak first—Jessica had asked him to go ahead. The topic concerned both of them anyway.
"So, the hundred grand each you asked us to pay," George began slowly, wearing that scheming face of his. "Don't worry—we're not trying to talk our way out of it. We're paying you."
"But how do we do that without you getting flagged by the IRS?" Jessica chimed in, playing helpless. "We could wire the money, but then we'd be the ones getting flagged."
I already knew where this was going, but I played along.
"So, what's the alternative?" I asked. I was pretending to be calm, but truthfully, I was a little shaken—I'd already planned on using that money to survive.
"We can do it like this: you take the lead role, and we hire you for $250,000. Ten grand is your actual fee, but the rest—that's the payment."
George added, "You can use forty grand to pay your income taxes. And even then, I'll give you a 10% cut of the movie if you take the role."
"So you'll still make money if the movie doesn't," Jessica blurted, nodding in understanding, as if she'd just processed what George said.
George looked at her, utterly betrayed.
Jessica realized what she'd done and stammered, "B–But no. Money but. You can get money. Movie will be- success." She gave two thumbs up and spoke like a caveman.
Then she glanced at George, smiling as if she'd just saved the situation.
I rolled my eyes. "You don't have to pretend. I'm not that dumb. I already figured it out. The film's an auteur piece—bleak, heart-wrenching, and full of controversial elements… including child suicide."
"Even if you had the money to distribute it—which you don't—it won't pass the NC-17 rating. It'll get a severely limited release." I gave him a dirty look.
I added, "If you sell it to a studio, you might break even, but they'll tear it down to the bone to recoup their investment. So either you sell it and bomb at the box office, or you don't sell it, and still bomb at the box office."
"But it's a whole other thing if I submit it to TIFF," George argued, unfazed—he clearly knew this already.
(TIFF = Toronto International Film Festival. Known for launching arthouse and independent films into critical acclaim. Winning or even being shortlisted could lead to Oscar buzz and studio deals. It's held in September. George couldn't make it in time for Sundance.)
My eyes lit up slightly. "Sure. That's the best route for the film to actually make a splash."
Jessica chimed in, "In fact, that's the only plan."
I nodded in understanding. George fiddled with his fingers, nervous about my silence.
I sighed again and said honestly, "George. I actually have to tell you something. I'll be like this, just for another two to three weeks. Then, I'll grow up intensely."
Jessica narrowed her eyes in confusion and said, "Grow up? Like becoming taller?"
I nodded and said, "This form is actually temporary though. In less than two months, I'll be around 5'4" (161 cm). The movie will take 8 weeks to shoot, right? I don't think you can make it."
George widened his eyes slightly and he contemplated my words. Jessica sighed and said, "George. You're screwed. There's no actors who dare to take the role, even if you showed them the new script."
"Two weeks?" George suddenly said, ignoring Jessica and looking straight at me.
"Yeah." I nodded.
"If we didn't make a mistake, then I guess we can film it in two weeks. You, me and Jessica, we already know what the movie will look like. So we won't make any unnecessary shots. We can finish your scenes and then do the snakes later on."
"Or you can change the snake scene to a mirror scene. Jacob will stand in front of the mirror, and in his reflection—himself, but with scales," Jessica pitched an idea.
George was startled again, and then he accepted the idea quickly. "That's great, Jess. Want to be my writer? I need a writer to help me with this."
"I'm already registered with the WGA, so yeah," Jessica replied with a smile.
I asked her, "Why did you register? You weren't a member just a few days before."
She replied, "Yes, since I finished the screenplay yesterday. Um, I had an idea after the demon thing—for a child detective who fought ghosts. Disney loves the screenplay and they bid against Universal for it. I sold it for 150 grand to Universal."
An ordinary writer would get maybe 60k to 90k per screenplay if the studio decided to buy it. Her first script, it was already a highly successful deal for her.
I furrowed my eyebrows, leaning forward and asked anxiously, "Child detective fighting ghosts? Me? You wrote it about me?"
She smiled and said, "I used the dream two nights before to work everything out while you guys were working on the movie. It turned out quite well."
"How– How did you even sell it that fast?" I asked, shocked and bewildered.
"Lenny is working with Disney. He's also working on a film with Tom Hanks right now—what's it called again? That Thing You Do?" George interjected, turning to Jessica, snapping his fingers as he tried to remember.
Then I remembered Lenny's career wasn't affected much by the taint. One of the reasons was because two of his uncles were working at Disney, one of his relatives worked at a prestigious PR firm, and he had industry connections.
One could find the Sloane name everywhere in the industry.
So nepotism trumps demonic possession.
Lenny also worked in sound effects, so the taint didn't really affect him, since he reused previously made soundbites. He'd been working with Disney for years now on their sitcoms and original movies.
"It only took a day to sell it, since Lenny pitted Universal against Disney, and they didn't want Disney to launch a new project with franchise potential," Jessica added with a cheeky smile.
Basically, the studios got played.
The script may never even see the light of day after this. Sometimes, studios just buy another screenplay to screw with their competitors.
Maybe Disney thought that if they tweaked the script, they could make something like Wizards of Waverly Place. Jessica had that childlike characteristic, so it was easy for her to write about youths and their trains of thought.
The new book — that was pretty great, to be honest.
But without Disney, who were marketing the show mainly for kid audiences, the script wouldn't get made at Universal.
The deal had just been finalized, though the money hadn't been sent over to her yet. She'd use that to invest in the movie, which allowed George to smoothly funnel it over to me as an actor fee.
They'd thought this out cleverly. It seemed their cognitive ability had returned — sharper than before the demonic parasitism.
"Give me two days," I told George.
He was startled and said, "Two days to start?"
"Two days to decide," I told him with a disturbed expression. "I'll need to think about it."
George was still elated. He pumped his fist in the air and screamed, "Yeah!"
It was a huge success for him to turn a definite "no" into an "I'll think about it."
Jessica went on to check out the apartment after we'd finished the details of the book. I showed her the sketches. Now I only needed to color them.
The illustrations would be scanned by the publishers, who'd turn them into a children's book.
It would take me two weeks, tops — but if I said yes to the movie, it might take longer.
"Why do you need two days?" Jessica asked after George left to meet his friend who would help with the movie.
She chuckled. "Are you going to hunt another demon?" She amused herself with the thought — but froze when I replied.
"Yes."
She turned to me slowly and asked, "Really? Wh– what type of demon is it now?" She hugged her body, slightly fearful.
I smirked. "Demon in human skin."
That night, I was watching an episode of New Yorkers while tweaking a sleeve blade — a hidden weapon I would use in my next hunt. In front of me were various poisons I had slathered onto my needles.
"Lastly, the sheepskin parchment for the contract. I can't do it without that. Where can I even find that thing? I wouldn't need to skin a sheep now, would I?"
My computer was already set up, and as the internet dialed up for me to search for it, I was already bored of waiting.
Luckily for me, I could blackmail a Chinese shop owner to find it for me. But that wasn't necessary, since the butcher I'd bought chicken blood from before could provide it.
Finally, I called the stove guy and said with imminent rage, "They fired me! I want in. I'll work for you. Just bring me to your boss. I have a hookup in Hollywood that he'll definitely want to hear about."
"Whoa-whoa-whoa, slow down, who is this?" The stove guy asked, hints of excitement in his tone.
I smirked as I realized he had taken the bait.