The Unknown

Chapter One

Chapter One

Marin steps from the car before it fully stops, apologies tumbling out. The island sits in the middle of the lake, a black smudge on the horizon. She knows almost nothing about it, only that it will be her home for the next five days. Loretta, the producer, waits on the dock in black slacks, a black blazer, and black Wayfarers. Marin was supposed to arrive an hour ago, and the traffic snarl near Albany and her driver's fickle GPS are to blame. Loretta brushes it off with a smile that might be sincere or might just mask annoyance, pulling Marin into a half hug with air-kisses to both cheeks.

Across the street, a small crowd has gathered, phones clutched, eager to snap a picture of a movie star. One woman raises her phone, then stops, a strange look on her face that Marin reads as disappointment. But the woman keeps watching. Marin turns to face her fully. She is pretty in an unassuming way, twenties, slight build, brown hair in a ponytail. Her most striking feature is her large, round eyes, and they are fixed on Marin with something that no longer registers as disappointment. It is envy. Marin suspects she looked exactly like this woman a few days ago, angling for a glimpse of a blockbuster actress outside a Broadway theater. On a whim, Marin tries the gesture the actress used on her, a little wave and a finger-waggle. It feels forced and fake, especially when the woman looks away mid-wave. Marin turns back to the car, embarrassed.

Loretta tells her that Ronan and the others have already been taken to the island and cannot wait to meet her. Everyone is so excited. Marin exclaims the same, feigning enthusiasm while actually tired, slightly carsick, and so nervous her legs feel heavy as she shuffles across the dock. A man waits by the boat, a weathered old salt with a gray beard and a perpetual squint. Pete. He takes her suitcase and welcomes her aboard. Marin apologizes for making him take another trip, but he dismisses it, having had to make two trips for the earlier crew anyway. He asks if she is another one of them actresses. Yes, she says, and for the first time in her life, it does not feel like a lie.

She is an actress who, as of three days ago, was still working as a waitress, a profession she will likely return to in six weeks once filming wraps. The whole thing still feels like a fever dream. Exactly one week ago, her agent, Veronica, sent her a casting notice for a movie calling for a woman in her late twenties with a "period look." Director-speak for someone plain. Not ugly, but not conventionally beautiful either. Marin fits the bill. Her audition was a mistake, she thought. But it was a studio picture, a theatrical release, an elevated horror film directed by Ronan Peters and starring Violet Wright. A casting emergency. The original actress dropped out two weeks before production, and the director decided to go with an unknown.

In the audition room, Marin handed her headshot to the casting director, who purred "Who do we have here?" Marin admitted she did not know what role she was reading for, that she was given no sides. Then a man seated quietly behind the camcorder spoke. It was Ronan Peters himself. He told her not to be nervous, explained that the lack of pages was to prevent script leaks. He wanted an unknown because movie stars bring expectations. With this role, he wanted a discovery. He asked her not to think of it as an audition but as a conversation. Just the two of them getting to know each other.

He asked where she grew up. Pennsylvania. What her childhood was like. Lonely. No siblings? Marin split the difference with a simple, nonexplanatory "Just me," even though she has an older sister. One who was never there except for the times when Marin did not want to see her. Ronan misunderstood, saying he was also an only child. Marin let the misunderstanding stand. She told him she longed for another person in the house, someone capable of distracting her parents away from her. Because she was their sole focus, which was great when she was little, torture when it became clear she was not the daughter they wanted. They wanted someone prettier, smarter, more outgoing. Someone like her sister. Marin almost said the word aloud, but snapped her mouth shut, reversing course to say "someone without an overactive imagination."

Ronan told her that a vivid imagination is a good thing. He mentioned the original actress who dropped out, who suffered from a lack of imagination. Making a horror movie, he needed the opposite problem. He leaned forward and asked her to tell him a story. A ghost story. Something scary. Something dreadful. Marin's heart rattled. She happened to know a ghost story, a scary one, and she had never shared it with anyone. It felt appropriate. It felt like serendipity. "A long time ago," she began, "when I was just a little girl, I saw a ghost."

Thirty minutes later, she emerged onto a hot, crowded street, blinking against the August sun. She never expected to see Ronan Peters again. Two hours later, Veronica called, her voice thick with disbelief. Marin got the part. A hundred thousand dollars for six weeks of work. One week of rehearsal, five weeks of filming. Marin shrieked with joy right there on the sidewalk. A working actress with a SAG card and a screen credit and the potential for more. The catch: they needed her in Vermont on Monday. It was Friday. Now, after costume fittings and hair and makeup tests and requesting a leave of absence from the restaurant, here she is.

She still has not seen a script, told that Ronan wants to revise it to fit her better. That he can do this in a single weekend makes her assume the part is small, likely minuscule, someone who is not seen past the first act. But looming in the background is the tantalizing idea that this could be the start of something bigger.

Before stepping aboard, Marin checks her phone. A text from Veronica wishing her luck. Another from a number she does not recognize. "are you marin keane?" Yes, she replies. Who is this? "the woman you replaced." Marin sucks in a mouthful of lake air, surprised. She taps out an apology: "I'm sorry." Three dots ripple ominously. "that's not why i'm doing this." Then why did you contact me? Loretta calls from the boat: "You ready to go? Ronan just texted. He's thrilled you've arrived and is eager to get started." Marin shoves the phone into her pocket and steps into the boat, flashing a wide smile to hide her unease. There is nothing overtly worrisome about the texts. For all she knows, the woman could be congratulating her. Yet she cannot shake the sense that is not why she texted at all.

Pete pushes the boat away from the dock and brings the engine to life. Soon they are skidding over the lake, heading straight toward the island, which oddly never appears to get closer. It remains the same size on the horizon, a dark void surrounded by pristine water. Marin asks how far away it is. Two miles. Farther than she thought. She looked up Lake Faraday on Google Maps, a long, skinny triangle of water like a knife blade slicing through northwestern Vermont, stabbing toward Canada. The largest island, an amoeba-shaped thing, sits smack-dab in the center. She knew from her drop-off point it was her destination, but did not understand how much water stretched between the two. "That's...far." Pete sniffs. "Too far to be making a movie there."

Marin explains they are not filming yet. This is preproduction. A boot camp, of sorts, for the five actresses starring in the movie. Ronan explained the schedule over lunch with her and Loretta the day after she was cast. A fast shoot, down and dirty, small crew, natural light. He needs all five actresses to have a good grasp on their characters before cameras roll. Loretta called it obsessive. Ronan said the only way the story will work is if audiences feel transported back in time. Every detail, from the way costumes are sewn to the glass in the windows, must be authentic. That quest for authenticity extends to the cast. They will spend five days on an island in Vermont, living the way the women they are playing lived in 1926. No phones, no devices, nothing that did not exist in 1926. "It's a retreat," Marin finally says to Pete. "We'll be living the way our characters did." Pete asks if they will be talking to ghosts. Surprised he knows what the movie is about, Marin asks if he has heard of New Avalon. Pete nods, his eyes still fixed on the island. "Everyone around these parts has."

At the lunch, Loretta explained the story. New Avalon is an island in Vermont, not far from where she grew up. It used to be the summer retreat of the industrialist Roderick Semple, who got filthy rich making cannons and cannonballs during the Civil War. When he died, his spinster daughter, Ruth Hume Semple, turned it into a kind of commune. Every spring, she arrived with a small group of women and stayed all summer, with various women coming and going. What they did on the island prompted speculation. Some locals claimed it

Chapter Two

Chapter: "Chapter Two"

Marin looks up from her phone to find New Avalon looming directly before the boat, bigger and wilder than it appeared on the screen that morning. From lake level, the island is eerily asymmetrical: brush-covered land rises about fifty feet to a plateau of dense forest, with flashes of white buildings hidden among the trees, while the northern edge plunges into a sharp cliff above a beach studded with boulders whittled by erosion into jagged points that look like teeth. Even Loretta seems taken aback by those rocks, eyeing them with dread as if expecting Pete to lose control and drive them straight into the boulders. But Pete's hand stays steady at the wheel, and he steers the boat sharply to the left, into the island's shadow. The air goes colder, a stark shift from sun to shade, and a shiver zips down Marin's spine. Or maybe the chill is caused by the text she just received, still visible on her phone if she cared to glance at it, which she doesn't. Its message is loud and clear: this is a bad idea. A bad idea the actress who previously had her part likely realized ahead of time, backing out because she was smart enough to ask for more details. Marin just blindly went where she was told.

She drops the phone back into her pocket and taps Loretta on the shoulder, asking if they are really going to do this on New Avalon itself. Loretta says yes, insisting she and Ronan already told her that. They absolutely didn't. Loretta adds that maybe they just assumed she knew; where else would they do it? Marin wants to reply with the obvious answer, anywhere else. Literally anywhere. Instead she says, "Don't you think it could be dangerous?" Loretta cocks her head. How so? Marin brings up the women who vanished, allegedly killed by something evil. Loretta asks if Marin really believes all that. She doesn't, not really, despite the claims of Pete's grandfather and her own past experiences. More likely those poor women got lost, or drowned, or fell into a cave and starved to death. That is the real reason this strikes her as a bad idea: being so far from civilization. What if something goes wrong? Loretta reassures her, saying the island has a reputation, deserved or not, but people have spent summers here for decades and not a single thing went wrong. If there were even the slightest hint of danger, the studio lawyers wouldn't allow it. Besides, Loretta and Ronan will be there the whole time. Loretta is actually looking forward to it. It will be just like summer camp. Marin pretends to share that enthusiasm, even as Pete guides the boat parallel to the shore and all she can think about is how those women are probably still on the island, dead for a century. That strikes her as another reason to avoid the place. It's like having a picnic in a graveyard. Sure, you could do it, but why would you want to?

At the dock

Pete steers the boat to the island's far more welcoming southern end, where a dock juts into the water. A smaller boat with an outboard motor is moored there, and a man stands beside it, waving as they pull up. His outfit, T-shirt, cargo pants, and a Red Sox cap, screams Young Steven Spielberg, making clear he hopes to someday become a director. With a spray of freckles across his youthful face, he seems right out of film school, hungry for success. He radiates energy as he helps Loretta out of the boat, then introduces himself to Marin as Brad Brillstein, the production assistant. "Welcome to New Avalon."

Marin pauses at the side of the boat, reluctant to take that final step onto the dock. If she does, will she regret it, as the ominous text promised? She is more likely to regret not getting out. Refusing to take part in this boot camp will cost her the part, which might be what happened to the actress who had it before her. Are any reservations worth losing a role in a movie directed by Ronan Peters and starring Violet Wright? Of course not. Especially when it also means giving up a hundred thousand dollars, a SAG card, and a screen credit other than "Bridesmaid with Eczema." Filming that commercial was one humiliation after another: spending an hour in makeup as an unsightly rash was painted onto her upper arm, the other actors keeping their distance as if she were contagious, the strange looks she still sometimes gets on the subway when people recognize her. She thinks about the first time her parents saw it, how they watched in embarrassed silence, her father speaking for both of them when he said, "Well, now I hope you finally realize how stupid that acting dream of yours was." This movie could change that. All she needs to do is step off the boat and spend five days on an island where something bad once happened, which doesn't mean it will happen again. As for the texts, maybe the actress who sent them is the one full of regret, feeling stupid for giving up the opportunity, trying to scare Marin off and squeeze her way back into the movie.

On the dock, Brad clears his throat, waiting. While Marin waffled, Pete piled her bags onto the dock and now sits behind the wheel of the boat. The way he looks at her makes clear he senses her hesitation and even seems to understand it. But instead of reassurance, Pete simply shrugs. The choice is hers alone. Marin steps off the boat, and the dock wobbles slightly beneath her feet. She tries not to take it as a sign she has made the wrong decision, which of course she does. By then it's too late. Pete is already pulling the boat away, the gap of water between them widening.

Loretta stands on the dock with a hand on her hip. "Are we ready?" Marin nods, ready as she'll ever be. Good. Before they start, Loretta needs Marin to sign two documents. The first indicates that Marin has been notified of and accepts all risks associated with spending time on New Avalon. Marin points out, with rightful annoyance, that Loretta just told her there weren't any risks. Loretta adjusts her sunglasses, irritated. She told Marin everything will be fine, because it will. This is just a standard waiver the studio makes everyone sign when they go anywhere off the lot. It doesn't mean the island is dangerous. Potential for danger exists anywhere on earth, like tripping over tree roots or snakes. The second document is an NDA, forbidding Marin from talking about the next five days without express permission from Loretta, Ronan, or the studio. Some directors, Ronan included, think certain aspects of the filmmaking process should remain private. Violating the NDA opens up the possibility of a lawsuit. Marin stares at the pages, wondering more than ever if she should have stayed in the boat with Pete. But the answer, despite the legalese, remains no. Refusing to sign, just like refusing to set foot on New Avalon, would end her career before it begins. She would instantly be branded "difficult," a label that never affects men but has destroyed the careers of too many women to name. Having no choice but to trust Loretta, Marin lays the papers flat against her suitcase and, using a pen borrowed from Brad, signs on the dotted line.

Brad grabs her suitcase, and Marin follows him across the dock, taking stock of the island from the ground. It looks less threatening than it did from the water. Remote, yes, and clearly wild, but also pleasing in the way nature can be when experienced in the full embrace of afternoon sun. The long, slow slope to the top is a tangle of green dotted with bursts of wildflowers in shades of purple, yellow, and gold. Trees take over where the land flattens out: a thick wall of evergreens, shimmering birches, maples with trunks as thick as tractor tires. Amid all that unruly nature are signs of habitation, the same buildings she spotted from the boat, their pitched roofs peeking over the foliage. A clear path leads from the dock to the top of the island, zigzagging up the hill before ending in a set of stone steps at the tree line. Loretta takes the lead, and Marin brings up the rear, first-day jitters returning in full force now that she has reasoned away her trepidation about the island itself. She is going to be in a movie, directed by Ronan Peters, starring an honest-to-God legend, whom she will be meeting in a matter of minutes. The idea that Violet Wright might be waiting for her at the top of the hill makes her legs tremble as she climbs.

To distract herself, she peppers Brad with questions. Did he just get here today? He has been here since Friday, spending the weekend prepping the place for their arrival, all by himself. Nothing scary or supernatural happened. Personally, he thinks all of that is overblown. New Avalon is just a regular old island, pretty comfortable all things considered, lacking certain creature comforts but with worse places to spend a week. Who owns the island now? The state. They bought it from Ruth Hume Semple's brother, who inherited it when she... Brad's voice trails off, almost as if he's afraid to say aloud what really happened, that Ruth Hume Semple vanished along with four other women. Even though he claims the stories are overblown, Marin gets the sense Brad believes at least a little of it. Ever since, New Avalon

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

From the cottage, Brad leads Marin to the main house for the table read. On the porch steps, she notices a strange carving in the stone foundation: a circle enclosing a six-petaled flower. Brad says he has seen others. Marin spots an identical symbol above the front door, nearly erased under layers of paint. Brad thinks they are hex signs meant to ward off evil spirits. Marin feels uneasy. Why so many? The Semple family, Brad suggests, was superstitious. Another symbol is carved just inside the door.

The main house is a Victorian maze of dark woods, bold wallpaper, and massive furniture, dusty and museum-like. Brad explains that when the state bought the property, anything easily carted away by boat was removed. Everything else stayed. Brad points toward an arched doorway beyond a sweeping staircase, warning her about the terrifying kitchen, but she is expected in the parlor.

Ronan and Loretta wait in a short hallway. Brad leaves. Ronan asks if Marin is excited to finally see the script. She is, though she has kept her expectations low, grounding herself in the certainty that her role is tiny. Ronan steers her toward the parlor, and she spots one more symbol etched into the doorframe before entering.

The parlor is one of the grandest, strangest rooms Marin has ever seen. The front half is walnut trim and florid wallpaper; the back half is a semicircular atrium of iron and glass framing a view of pines and the cliff she saw from the boat. Golden sunlight floods the room, landing on an eccentric collection: a sideboard with brass candlesticks, a player piano with yellowed keys, a gilded harp with broken strings, framed butterfly specimens, and a taxidermied peacock mounted on the wall, dust coating its drooping feathers. At the center sits a perfectly normal round table bearing snacks and water bottles.

Three women are already seated there, and Marin recognizes all of them. Julianne Brown, the regal character actor with silver hair and a Tony for The Seagull. Heather Benchley, known for playing competent cops and doctors. And Susie Hutchinson, the former Disney Channel tween star who went on to make a thousand TV movies as singing princesses, ballerinas, and figure skaters. Marin, the same age as Susie, grudgingly admits to herself that she watched all of them, multiple times, and lip-synced Susie's songs into a hairbrush.

Seeing Susie in person is surreal. It dawns on Marin how out of her league she is. She does not belong here. Heather and Susie look up from their phones with confusion as she shuffles in. Ronan presents her like a surprise, gripping her shoulders and nudging her forward. He announces Marin Keane as making her film debut in their little movie. Marin manages a single word: hi. Heather waves a friendly greeting. Julianne bows and welcomes her aboard. Susie, instead of greeting, sizes her up like a suspicious small dog. Where has she seen her before? Marin says she hasn't. Julianne asks if this is her first acting job. Not the first, but close. Susie suddenly remembers: Marin is the bridesmaid with the rash from a pharmaceutical commercial. Marin blushes. Heather shares that her own first commercial was for tampons. Everyone laughs except Susie, who glares at Marin. The woman Marin once idolized as a relatable kid now comes off as a quintessential mean girl. Marin feels let down and nervous about meeting Violet Wright, the one person on the island who truly is her idol. What if Violet is just as standoffish? Or worse?

Violet appears a few minutes later, sweeping in with breathless energy and perfume that smells like violets. The others go still and silent, like peasants in the presence of royalty. Violet asks if she is late. Ronan says she is right on time. She explains she was walking in the woods doing vocal exercises, likely looking like a madwoman. Then she zeroes in on Marin. Marin can barely breathe. Being observed by someone she has watched almost her entire life stops the world. Violet Wright, the screen legend, the greatest actress of her generation, reaches out a delicate hand and introduces herself simply as Violet, as if Marin is the known quantity. Marin is tongue-tied. She fumbles out a greeting, certain her palms are sweaty. The parlor feels too hot. On the edge of her vision, Susie rolls her eyes.

Violet tells Marin the pleasure is all hers. She is excited Marin is here. She predicts they will make something very special together, though she makes sure to include the whole room in the statement. Marin wants to believe Violet is still talking only to her.

Everyone takes seats at the round table. There is only room for six, so Loretta sits unobtrusively in the corner while Ronan takes the last chair. Brad returns with a stack of bound scripts and a black Gucci backpack that probably costs more than Marin makes in a month. He plops it on the table like it came from Walmart. He announces that before they start, he needs everyone's phone. Violet objects. It seems extreme. None of them plans to leak the script. Brad clarifies it is not about script security. Once the table read is over, they will be living exactly the way the women of New Avalon did. No phones. No laptops. No technology whatsoever. Ronan reminds them this is what they agreed to. Susie protests that she did not agree. Loretta, seated behind Ronan, steeples her fingers. Then Susie did not read her contract. The one she signed and will be in violation of if she does not hand over the phone.

Brad holds up the backpack, unzipped and puckered open. He pulls out several velvet drawstring bags, each embroidered with initials, so they can track whose phone is whose. VW for Violet. SH for Susie. Ronan gets one too. Marin's bag reads LG. No doubt intended for her predecessor, the actress she is replacing. Brad apologizes. There was no time to get a new one made.

Marin hesitates. This seems like a terrible idea. No one moves. Ronan reminds them they were instructed to tell friends, family, and loved ones they would be off the grid for the next five days. Marin tried. She called her parents this morning, got no answer, and left a message saying there was no need to call back. Susie worries about emergencies. Heather adds that they are on an island with no way to call for help. Brad says he will have his phone on him the entire time. Loretta will too. Their representatives know how to reach her. Authorities on the mainland know where to find them. Marin asks the obvious question: how will they keep their phones charged? There is no electricity. Brad produces a shiny black rectangle the size of a deck of cards, a solar power bank. He and Loretta each have one.

Violet looks at her phone, then at Ronan, and asks if he really thinks all of them unplugging for a week will help the film. Ronan believes it will. Less distraction means deeper connection to their characters. By the end of the week, all of them will know the women they are playing inside and out. Violet is convinced. Art does not come without sacrifice. She drops her phone into her velvet bag. Julianne follows. Heather and Susie take grudging last looks at their phones before complying. Marin checks her phone one last time, hoping for another text from the mysterious LG. There are no texts, from her or anyone. She drops her phone into the velvet sack and hands it to Brad, who places it with the others in the Gucci backpack, which Loretta holds in her lap, daring them to change their minds.

Ronan thanks them for their cooperation. Their commitment shows. But it does not stop with phones. Once they are done, he wants them to change into their characters' costumes. For the rest of their time on the island, they should try to live like these women, connect with them, know them as well as they know themselves. This experience will not be easy. That is the point. They are here to tell the truth about these women, so they need to live it. If they endure together, they will bring that experience to the set next week and make something very special. Violet applauds, and the rest join in. The hierarchy is clear: Violet leads, they follow. Marin even notices Susie stop mid-applause and start again, trying to emulate the way Violet claps.

Brad passes out scripts, starting with Ronan and Violet. Marin sees the title on the cover in silver letters: Darkness. Generic, she thinks. No indication of what the movie is about. Ronan's first film, Mercy, was the same way and it did just fine. Marin hoped for something more specific. Marin Keane Has One Line might be a terrible title, but at least she would know what to expect. When Brad places a script in front of her, she eagerly flips to the cast breakdown. Violet is at the top, playing Ruth Hume Semple, the island's owner. Susie plays Katrina Fiske. Heather plays Jonquil Collins. Julianne plays Phoebe Minafer. Marin's name is near the bottom. She is playing Daisy Rue.

She stares at the name, rapt. Daisy. Her first character in a movie. Daisy was a real person who lived on this island, in the same cottage Marin is living in. Marin feels protective of this stranger and responsible for doing right by her

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Marin stands in the woods behind her cottage, halfway down the slope toward the lake, wearing her blue period dress and trying to become Daisy. It feels impossible. She is too present in her own skin, too consumed by her own roiling thoughts. The table read ended an hour ago, but it lingers like a hangover. Not because the script is bad; it's very good, spooky and atmospheric and thoroughly indie. The role of Daisy could be career-making, and the script is so tightly constructed that one false note could collapse the whole movie. Marin understands that she could make or break this film. The table read gave her no insight, just felt like a test she hadn't studied for. When she looked to Ronan afterward, he responded with a single nod that she knows means "You're welcome." She has one week to figure out how to play Daisy, and that thought prompts a panic she tries to stave off with a mental pep talk.

She moves through the woods, noticing the way the setting sun warms her face, how the leaves crunch under her boots. She decides Daisy would have walked timidly, like a deer alert to every threat, and she tries it out. Near the wrought iron arch, she spots the same strange symbol she saw at the main house, carved into a tree trunk. Then another tree. And another. Every single tree bordering the village at the top of the island carries a hex sign, a wall of symbols surrounding the center of the island. It's unnerving. She follows them like trail markers past the back of her cottage until she sees Susie and Heather standing behind the cottage next door, both dressed in stylish "island clothes" that make Marin feel like an Amish woman stumbling onto a Gatsby set.

Susie produces a vape and says, "Do you really think this is going to work?" Heather says it should, and that it depends on Marin. Hearing her name, Marin edges back into the woods, crouching behind an unmarked tree where she can still hear them. Susie calls the script good, better than the stuff she's been offered lately, and Heather notes that for once the Black girl doesn't die first. Susie swats her arm and says she would kill for the role of Daisy, that she should be playing it, and she has no idea what Ronan was thinking when he cast that nobody. Heather disagrees, saying Marin did fine, that she was impressed by the table read. But Susie presses on, questioning whether Marin can express character through body language, whether she can emote. She mentions her own Disney Channel pedigree, her resentment that Marin was chosen over literally everyone else, and then she brightens: "Do you think she slept with him?"

The question shocks Marin so much she nearly gasps, clamping a hand over her mouth. Heather says she wouldn't jump to that conclusion. Susie says she bets Marin did, or else Ronan thinks she's willing to, and Marin better not be, if she knows what's good for her. Marin retreats farther into the woods, too hurt and angry to hear the rest. She isn't mad that they questioned her acting ability; she's a novice and so much is riding on her performance. What irks her is the assumption that she slept with Ronan to get the part. She would never do that. And it's a ridiculous notion anyway, since Ronan is objectively hot and certainly not lacking for romantic partners. She's not the kind of actress directors try to seduce. She's the kind who gets cast as the bridesmaid with eczema. Yet Susie's words itch like a rash. Why did Ronan hire her? Why did he give her, an unknown with only a humiliating commercial to her name, the role of a lifetime, especially when someone else had already been cast? She can't stop thinking about the ominous text from the previous Daisy, the mysterious LG: don't set foot on that island. if you do, i swear, you WILL regret it. Maybe Susie's threat, that Marin better not want to sleep with Ronan, means Susie wants him for herself. And maybe Susie felt the same way about LG and drove her off the film. Marin needs to know now, not after filming begins, because she doesn't want to spend six weeks with Susie's unwarranted anger distracting her from the role of her career.

She moves through the woods and emerges near the iron archway, marching beneath it toward the main house, passing each cottage. Inside the main house, she heads to the parlor, where she finds Brad fiddling with the candlesticks and mahogany box on the sideboard. Her sudden entrance startles him. He's getting ready for tonight, he says; Ronan wants to hold a séance. "When in Rome, and all that." Marin thinks about the séance in the script, the inciting incident from which all the horror flows. Re-creating that in the same location where it allegedly happened strikes her as a very bad idea. She asks if everyone has to take part. Brad says Ronan's orders. She asks where Ronan is; Brad points to the ceiling. His room upstairs, last door on the left.

She takes the stairs two at a time. The upstairs hallway is tighter than the one below, hotter too, the narrow walls and low ceiling trapping the late-August heat. Sweat beads on her brow as she reaches the closed door at the end of the hall. She pauses to collect her thoughts. She has no idea what she's going to say. Maybe it's not a good idea to say anything. But she has too many questions and concerns to remain silent, so she knocks.

Ronan answers immediately, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, a faint hint of a smile that tells her he's been anticipating her arrival. "Why did you hire me?" she blurts out. He says because she's a great actress. She's never seen me act, she protests; she only told a ghost story. Ronan says that's all he needed to make an informed decision. She says it's such a big part. He asks if she's saying she no longer wants to do it. "I'm not sure I can do it," she says, which is her real concern. "Then why did you audition?" he asks. "Because I didn't think I'd get cast."

Ronan opens the door wider in silent invitation. She enters a master suite the size of her entire cottage, broken into sitting room, bedroom, and a bathroom larger than her own, oil lamps lighting the space, windows open against the heat. Ronan leaves the door open, a small but important sign that Susie is wrong and he doesn't plan on seducing her. He closes the bedroom door, another gentlemanly gesture. She drops into a chair in the sitting room, and he takes the one farthest away from her. "Marin, it doesn't matter if you think you can do it," he says. "What matters is that I think you can."

She asks why the actress previously cast as Daisy quit. He asks why that matters. "Because she texted me today." Ronan's mouth forms a perfect O of surprise. "Lindy texted you?" Her name is Lindy Garrett, he says. The name isn't familiar to Marin, making her assume Lindy is just like her, an unknown. Ronan says Lindy is likely pissed about being fired. Marin is confused; she was told Lindy dropped out. "Because that's nicer than saying Loretta got rid of her." The news lands like a grenade. Loretta fired her? Ronan explains that Loretta is the sole producer. He gets a say in casting, but not in this case. A week ago, out of the blue, Loretta told him she'd fired Lindy, adamant that Lindy had to go, even though filming was about to start. Marin asks if Loretta said why. "All she told me was that Lindy wouldn't work out," Ronan says, "and that it was my job to find a better replacement. Immediately." Marin asks if she seems like a more suitable choice than Lindy. Ronan says it's impossible to compare. "Lindy was intense. During her audition, she came off slightly deranged. Which I thought absolutely worked for the character of Daisy. But none of that matters now. You're here, I'm happy that you're here, and I think you're going to be great." She presses: why is he so certain, when she has zero experience? He says that's why he's here, to guide her performance. Her job is to remain open, fearless, and in the moment, just like during her audition. But it wasn't an audition, she insists, more frustrated than when she entered. She told a story. What about that impressed him so much?

Ronan takes a moment, tugging at the handkerchief around his neck, a nervous tic she wonders if he's aware of. "You allowed yourself to be vulnerable." It's true. During her audition, she revealed her darkest secret, her private pain, partly because she was swept up in the moment, an actress with nothing to lose in a small room with a big-time director she'd never see again. But mostly she needed to unburden herself. Ronan, with his keen interest and intense gaze, made it easy. He uses that same expression now as he tells her not to fight her nervousness but to use it. "Let your vulnerability be Daisy's vulnerability. Let your fear be hers."

It sounds so