Page 4 of The Unknown

“In my opinion, having a vivid imagination is a good thing,” Ronan said. “That’s why we’re holding these auditions at the last minute, as I’m sure you’ve heard. The original actress who was cast suffered from a lack of imagination. And seeing how I’m making a horror movie, which I’m sure you also know, I need someone who has the opposite problem.”

He peered at me, more attentive than ever. “Tell me a story. A ghost story. Something scary. Something…dreadful.”

My heart rattled against my rib cage, anxious yet also oddly overjoyed. Because I happened to know a ghost story.

A scary one.

At least it was to me.

Also scary was the fact that I had never shared it with anyone. It was too personal to be told around a Girl Scout campfire or in the wee hours of a beer-soaked Halloween party. Yet in that audition room with Ronan, with both the casting director and the camera trained on me having faded to nothingness, it felt appropriate. It felt, in fact, like serendipity.

“A long time ago,” I began, “when I was just a little girl, I saw a ghost.”

Thirty minutes later, I emerged onto a hot, crowded street, blinking against the bright August sun. I couldn’t believe the things I’d said during the audition, if it even was an audition. It had truly felt, as Ronan suggested, like a conversation. One of those rare, fleeting moments in which two strangers are completely honest with each other, likely because they know their paths will never cross again. I certainly never expected to see Ronan Peters again. Not after that.

Yet two hours later, Veronica called, her voice thick with disbelief. “Marin, you got the part.”

I shrieked with joy right there on the sidewalk. It continued as Veronica detailed the contract. I’d be paid a hundred thousand dollars for six weeks’ work. One week of rehearsal, five weeks of filming. But it was more than just the money that had me squealing. It was the fact that I was about to become a working actress. One with a SAG card and a screen credit to my name and the potential for more.

“There’s one catch,” Veronica said. “They need you in Vermont on Monday.”

I let out a shocked huff. It was Friday.

Now, after two days of costume fittings and hair and makeup tests and requesting a leave of absence from my job at the restaurant, I am here, about to be whisked off to an island in the middle of a lake in Middle-of-Nowhere, Vermont. The whole time, I’ve been trying to keep my expectations in check. I have yet to see a script, which I’ve been told is because Ronan wanted to revise it to fit me better. That he can do this in a single weekend makes me assume the part is small. Likely minuscule. Someone who isn’t seen past the first act. That would explain the unusual casting process. Ronan probably took one look, found me appropriately old-timey, and in a fit of desperation decided to cast me.

But looming in the background is the tantalizing idea that this could be, if not my big break, at least the start of one. It’s a movie, after all. Helmed by the hottest director in Hollywood and starring the greatest actress of her generation. No matter the part, this is a film that could get me noticed, leading to bigger, better roles. Thinking about that now doubles the nervous weight in my legs, making me all but hobble into the boat.

Loretta has already climbed inside and now sits next to Pete, frantically tapping out a text on her phone. Before stepping aboard, I check my own phone. There’s a text from Veronica wishing me luck, plus another one from a number I don’t recognize.

are you marin keane?

Yes, I reply.Who is this?

the woman you replaced

I suck in a mouthful of lake air, surprised. Why is the actress who had the role before me now sending me a text?

I tap out two words that I hope will appease her:I’m sorry

Three dots appear on the screen, rippling ominously until a response appears:that’s not why i’m doing this

Then why did you contact me?

From the boat, Loretta says, “You ready to go? Ronan just texted. He’s thrilled you’ve arrived and is eager to get started.”

“Sorry,” I say before shoving the phone back into my pocket and stepping into the boat. Once seated behind Pete, I flash Loretta a wide smile, hoping it hides my unease. There’s nothing overtly worrisome about the woman’s texts. For all I know, she could be congratulating me on getting the part and saying that there are no hard feelings.

Yet I can’t shake the sense that’s not at all why she texted.

Pete pushes the boat away from the dock, sending us adrift for a moment before bringing the engine to life. Soon we’re skidding over the lake, heading straight toward an island that, oddly, never appears to get closer. It remains the same size on the horizon, leading me to think the place is bigger than I first assumed. There are certainly no new details to see. It continues to be a dark void surrounded by pristine water.

“How far away is the island?” I ask Pete.

He nods toward the horizon. “Two miles.”

Farther than I thought, even though I looked up Lake Faraday on Google Maps before being picked up this morning. The satellite view showed a long, skinny triangle of water that reminded me of a knife blade slicing through northwestern Vermont, stabbing toward Canada.

Only a few islands dotted the lake, the largest one an amoeba-shaped thing sitting smack-dab in its center. Although it wasn’t labeled on the map, I knew from where I was being dropped off that it was my destination. What I didn’t quite understand was how much water stretched between the two. It all makes me more than a little nervous.