The Girls from the
Horror Movie

You’ve seen my face before. Late-night on your television screen, maybe even in your nightmares afterward. I’m the giggling little girl from the horror movie.

You know the one. Big haunted house, frazzled family, no way out. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m the cute kid that everybody hopes will survive to the end credits. No, I’m the tiny monster who keeps the others from making it that far.

I’m only in one scene, but it’s a badge of honor to make it through my two-minute screen time without covering your eyes. (You probably failed on your first try, but that’s okay. Most people do.) Because once you witness me, it’s an image you’ll never escape.

God knows I can’t.

I’m sitting behind a table at a horror film convention when I see myself across the room. Lavender cloak, long hair in tangles, hands stained red—this version of me hasn’t existed in years, not since the director yelled cut for the last time.

“Is that really you?” A man is looming over me, but he’s not looking at the little girl. He’s referring to the 8x10 pictures on my table, the ones I’m signing for five bucks a pop.

“Yes, it’s me,” I say, fidgeting. Why would I be autographing a photograph of a stranger?

A fluorescent light flickers overhead, and the man squints at the decades-old picture before glancing again at my middle-aged face.

“I guess I can see it,” he says finally, and then wanders off without buying anything. Typical. Only the true believers are here when the doors open on Friday afternoon, and most of them don’t believe in me anymore, the creepy little kid who did the stupid thing and grew up.

I look across the room again, but the girl dressed as me is gone. My stomach clenches, and I tell myself it was nothing, just a really good costume. Everybody knows people love to dress up at these cons. Make-believe is all that matters here.

The hours dissolve around me, and a few more attendees shuffle through the front door. I pose for selfies with them and sign a VHS or two. A newbie director with low-budget ideas and a low-rent jacket buys me a hot dog from a concession booth and pitches his latest project.

“It’ll screen at all the festivals,” he promises, the same way they always make promises that nobody ever keeps.

I should have told him no the moment he approached my table, but I’m hungry, and the 8x10s aren’t selling like they used to. Plus, these days, any opportunity is better than none.

He slurps down a drink of flat Coca-Cola. “Do you think we