A Meta-Horror Satire for the Modern Age

Once a scream queen adored by millions, Jennifer Hawkins now clings to fading fame—until a fan’s offer to reboot her cult horror franchise thrusts her into a deadly new role. But when the cameras start rolling in a rundown amusement park, the line between fiction and reality vanishes, and Jennifer must fight for her life as a real killer stalks the set.

Dive into a razor-sharp, darkly comedic horror novel that skewers Hollywood’s obsession with nostalgia, fandom, and the slasher genre itself. Script to Scream is a love letter to classic horror and a biting satire of the price of relevance in an industry that devours its own legends.

Jennifer Hawkins is a fierce, flawed, and unforgettable heroine, forced to confront her past, her fans, and her own survival as the body count rises and the cameras keep rolling. Blending suspense, industry satire, and meta-horror, this novel delivers both chills and laughs in equal measure.

Inside, you’ll find:

• A suspenseful, darkly funny journey through horror nostalgia and Hollywood’s underbelly.
• A complex, razor-tongued protagonist confronting her legacy, her fans, and her own survival.
• A fresh, meta take on the “final girl” trope—perfect for fans of Scream, New Nightmare, and The Final Girls.

If you liked The Final Girl Support Group, My Heart is a Chainsaw, or Collecting the Simpsons, you’ll love Script to Scream.

Chapter 1

Zara Westbrook’s line stretched around the convention hall, snaking through booths of overpriced merchandise, tables overflowing with collectible figurines, and into the farthest reaches of the room—where Jennifer Hawkins sat, unnoticed, like a relic collecting dust.

Across the hall, a fan watched as Zara’s pen glided over a glossy 8x10 photo, her signature looping across her blood-soaked yet beautiful face. “Thanks for coming,” she said, flashing a flawless, practiced smile.

Before the fan could even stammer their thanks, they were hurried away by security, giving the young actress barely enough time to cap her pen before another stepped forward, a crisp hundred-dollar bill held out in their shaking hand.

Jennifer’s pen, however, lay unused atop a stack of untouched photos. But she wasn’t picky. You didn’t have to buy one of her photos. As long as you paid her forty-dollar fee, she would sign anything you put in front of her. She once signed a 1989 October issue of Penthouse when she was their “Pet of the Month.” Sure, the centerfold was suspiciously sticky, but she signed it all the same.

As Jennifer sat, picking at her long, manicured nails, she took in convention-goers of all ages, shapes, and sizes dressed as their favorite fictional characters. She counted three Freddys, nine Harley Quinns, fifteen Jasons, and one screaming toddler dressed as Chucky.

Some glanced her way, while others stared, trying to recognize her semi-familiar face before moving on.

This was getting embarrassing. Telling herself that they must have missed the large banner hanging behind her, Jennifer turned to straighten it in a bid to remind them. The ink had faded, and her finger traced the beginnings of another rip. She brought this banner to every meet-and-greet, and after years of being folded and unfolded, it was now 90 percent tape.

Jennifer Hawkins a.k.a. Rebecca Sommers—EVIL ELF I–V

She couldn’t resist stealing another look at Zara’s booth and her towering banner that stretched the entire height of the convention hall. Her face was twenty times her actual size and the freshness of the ink only enhanced the shininess of her dark locks, the brightness of her blue eyes, and the plumpness of her red, wet lips.

ZARA WESTBROOK—STAR OF TERRORDOME (2025)

FINAL GIRL OF THE YEAR!

Jennifer’s gaze lingered long enough to witness yet another one of Zara’s fan interactions, complete with the perfect hair flick and giggle.

Yeah, enjoy your prime real estate while you can, Jennifer thought. Give it forty years and your table will be hidden away in the shadows—just like mine. And that’s if you’re lucky.

Jennifer leaned on her table, which wobbled under her weight. She sighed, grabbing a copy of her memoir, Behind the Blade: Confessions of a Final Girl, and wedged it under the table leg. She could spare it; a towering stack sat in front of her, and an extra box permanently resided in the trunk of her car.

Jennifer tucked her hands under the table, only to brush against a furry ball of gum on its underside. She gagged.

Around her, the other booths were manned by faded, forgotten faces from Hollywood’s past. They all looked as bored as she felt. The only one who was enjoying himself was Douglas King, her old Evil Elf costar. But, to her horror, he was committing one of the cardinal sins of conventions—interacting with fans in front of his table.

Maintaining a barrier between herself and her fans was integral—unless, of course, they paid for a photo. This would grant them the privilege of leaning across her table for a quick snap.

But there was Douglas, back in the rubber Plucky the Elf mask, waving a plastic knife at a fan who crouched to match his four-foot height. Nearby, the fan’s friend took photos on his phone, tapping away incessantly.

Douglas peeled off the mask, revealing a flushed red face and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Though his copper curls had faded to gray, he was still the same guy she had met on set four decades ago—cheerful, playful, and far too generous with his time.

Across the room, he caught Jennifer’s eye and waved. She returned the gesture with a raised palm and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her gaze drifted to her cracked phone screen. Ten in the morning. It was going to be a long day. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, but as she tipped one into her hand she heard a weak cough beside her. It was the young girl the convention organizers had assigned to her. Jennifer had forgotten she was there—a small, quiet thing who had introduced herself that morning as Sarah…or was it Susan?

Jennifer couldn’t recall which one it was, and frankly did it matter?

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hawkins, but you can’t smoke in here,” she murmured.

Jennifer sighed, tucking the pack back into her tight jeans. She missed the good old days when you could light up wherever you wanted, back when she was a Zara. Red carpet rolled out, a hefty appearance fee, security, the lot. Now, Jennifer had to pay out of her own pocket to appear at these crappy conventions and have a crummy booth. Sure, a couple of fan interactions would cover the cost, but she also knew the demand for her was dwindling. Would today be the day that she couldn’t break even?

As Jennifer ruminated on her career’s demise, hope arrived in the form of two men sporting matching Pennywise shirts.

The men shifted their gazes from her banner to her face, then back at the banner again. Jennifer had gone to great pains—and great expense—to combat aging: a consistent skincare routine, chemical peels, lasers that zapped away lines and veins, and regular salon visits to salvage a fragment of her “blonde-bombshell” persona. But as they scrutinized her with such intensity, all those efforts felt wasted.

They shuffled over to her table as Jennifer pretended to blink herself out of a daze, a convincing smile spreading across her face. She was still a great actress.

“Hi there,” she said.

“Uh, are you Rebecca Sommers from the Evil Elf movies?” one of them asked, as if the answer wasn’t already emblazoned on the banner behind her.

“Uh huh,” she replied through a smile.

“Told you,” the other blurted out.

“Ah man, I loved those movies,” the first guy exclaimed before turning to his friend. “Do you remember watching them in college? Man, we’d get so wasted.” His voice was loud enough for a few heads to turn. He continued, recounting every rule of his drinking game on his fingers. “Drink every time she falls, when someone has sex, when someone can’t open a door, when the weapon’s left behind for Plucky…and wait, oh no, they’re having sex again, better take another shot—”

“It’s always great meeting a fan,” she interjected. “So, who should I make it out to?”

She clasped her pen and paused, waiting expectantly.

“Huh?”

She pointed to the pricing sheet on her table.

“Oh, right.” He dug into his back pocket and thrust out four warm, crumpled ten-dollar bills.

“She handles the money,” Jennifer said, jolting her pen toward the young volunteer beside her. Susan/Sarah took the money and counted the bills before nodding.

“My name’s Brian.”

Jennifer began writing his name in gold ink on a glossy photo when her wrist twinged. This stiff, dull ache again. It had been creeping in more and more. She persevered.

Dear Brian, Stay Spooky. Jennifer Hawkins. X

Jennifer slid the signed photo across the table, pulling her hand back before it could touch his. But the motion sent a sharp jolt right through her wrist again. She winced.

“Thanks.” He lingered for a few moments. “I’ve seen all the Evil Elf movies. And, sure, they were crap fests, but they were enjoyable crap fests, you know? I hope that doesn’t offend you.” Brian looked at her for reassurance.

She didn’t offer any.

“To me, they’re comforting. Like those movies where you can smoke a joint, switch off your brain, and laugh with your buddies. Know what I mean?” Brian chuckled.

Forced to reply, Jennifer sighed. “Sure.”

“Although the last one was absolute trash,” Brian said. “The one in space. Like, not even ironically bad—just awful. No offense. But then again, you weren’t in that one, were you?”

Jennifer shook her head.

“You must have smelled a stinker when you read the script and dipped. Don’t blame you. I remember watching it with this girl I was trying to date and I would say…”

As Brian rambled on, Jennifer nodded, making sure to maintain a polite smile. She had learned early on that horror fans could be very blunt when they disliked a movie, which was often the case with her work. Fortunately, she had no illusions about the quality of her filmography—choosing instead to protect herself with a quiet pride in her acting ability. A talent often praised, and one that she could adapt for a variety of roles. Like pretending to be interested in Brian’s pedantic critiques.

“Can I get a photo?” Brian asked, already pulling out his phone.

She pointed to the price list again.

He pulled out another couple of crumpled bills; they unfurled in his sweaty palm. Sarah/Susan took the money.

Jennifer didn’t bother to stand up, so Brian passed his friend the phone and squeezed his way around the table. With the last barrier between herself and Brian broken, all she could do was stare at the lens. Realizing she wasn’t going to stand, he contorted himself into a crouch beside her, his knees popping as he bent.

“Say Evil Elf,” his friend directed.

“Evil Elf,” Brian huffed.

Jennifer forced a smile.

“Okay, one more.”

After what seemed like the hundredth snap, Brian stood up and made his way back around the table.

“Thanks,” they said in unison.

Before they had even turned their heads, Jennifer reached for the nearby bottle of antibacterial gel and squeezed a generous amount into her hands before lathering it up her arms like sun lotion. The aroma of alcohol filled her nose, and she could almost taste a tall glass of something that awaited her back at home.

“Ms. Hawkins, I know you’ve been hearing this all day, but I really am such a big fan of your work,” Sarah/Susan said. She said this with such conviction that Jennifer was convinced that the assistant had been building this conversation up in her mind.

“Aw, thanks,” Jennifer replied, looking down at her phone again. How has it only been five minutes?

“Do you think they’ll do another sequel?” she asked.

“Six not enough for you?” Jennifer said, flexing her aching wrist. Had her veins always bulged like that?

“I’ve always wanted to be an actress,” Susan/Sarah pushed on.

Jennifer turned to study the girl. Her skin was soft and smooth without a single line or blemish, except for freckles that kissed the apples of her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

“Got any advice?” the girl asked, her bright green eyes sparkling with hope.

“Yeah, get a good agent so you don’t wind up doing this in thirty years.”

Sarah/Susan tugged on her sleeves before excusing herself to use the restroom.

Alone at last, Jennifer took a sip of her coffee, spotting the remnants of red lipstick on the plastic lid. She ducked under the table to rummage through her handbag for a touch-up.

“Ms. Hawkins?”

She jumped, banging her head hard against the underside of the table.

“Son of a—” Jennifer yelped, clutching her scalp.

The sudden movement dislodged the book balancing the table, sending her photos and the rest of her books into a sprawling mess on the ground before her eyes.

A young man’s head popped into view.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Here, let me help.”

Jennifer pushed herself to her feet as the boy stacked the now coffee-stained photos into a loose, uneven pile. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

Just when she was about to let him have it, his T-shirt caught her eye. It was the most worn, threadbare Evil Elf shirt she’d ever seen. The fabric was faded to near transparency, but Plucky still grinned over the washed-out Vegas skyline. Then she noticed his arms, both inked with Evil Elf tattoos. She could even spot the bottom half of her face, peeking out from under his sleeve, her expression in a silent scream—Jennifer’s iconic pose from the first film’s poster.

Die-hard fans like this, who literally wore their fandoms on their sleeves, were common at movie conventions. But they weren’t common for her movies. But when they did show up, they spent big.

The boy was turning into a dollar sign before her eyes. Jennifer’s growing headache, along with her worries about old gum stuck in her hair, slipped from her mind.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she said, still rubbing the sore spot on her head as she flashed her well-practiced smile. “I’m used to doing my own stunts.”

The fan relaxed into a laugh. “You sure do. Like when you wrestled with Plucky on top of the Empire State Building in Evil Elf IV. No stunt double, just you. Now that’s what a ‘final girl’ looks like.”

In reality, Jennifer almost never did her own stunts. She fabricated this detail for her book, after hearing that Sigourney Weaver had done hers in Alien.

“Well, it wasn’t really the Empire State Building,” she said, before picking up a copy of her book. “It was a set built out of cardboard, which we filmed inside a warehouse. But it was still dangerous…which I discuss more in my book.”

“Yes, I know. I already have it.”

“Oh,” she said. “Then how about a signed photo?”

“No, thank you, I have lots of those too.”

Jennifer blinked, unsure of her next move.

“Did you bring something you wanted me to sign, then? Just to let you know, custom items cost extra.”

“That’s kind of you, but you’ve already signed all of my Evil Elf merch.”

“We’ve already met?” She figured she should feel embarrassed for not remembering him, but all she could think about was the money she wasn’t going to make.

“Three times, in fact,” he replied. “My name’s Vincent Shepard, and I’m here to give you something.” He pulled out a plastic binder from a satchel slung over his shoulder and set it on the table.

Jennifer flipped it open. “A script?”

The fan grinned. “I called your agent a few times, but seeing as I didn’t hear back, I thought I’d come here to see you in person.”

She glanced at the script. “Okay…what’s the role?”

“You’re already well acquainted with her. It’s Rebecca Sommers.”

Jennifer considered Vincent. “Wait, you’re from the studio?” she asked. “I didn’t know they were interested in bringing the franchise back.”

The latest update she’d heard was that the children of the original—now deceased—writer were squabbling with the studio over the franchise rights.

Vincent shrugged. “I’m not affiliated with the current rights holders.”

Jennifer raised an eyebrow.

“It’s an independent, unlicensed project. A fan film, to be more precise,” he rushed his words out, as though ripping off a Band-Aid. “And I want you to reprise your iconic role.”

“You’re saying you want me to star in your student film?”

He shook his head. “Fan film.”

“What’s the difference?” Her eyes flicked toward the restroom, silently urging Susan/Sarah to come back and rescue her from this conversation.

Vincent wasn’t deterred by Jennifer’s obvious impatience. “There’s a few. For starters, we know what we are doing. And, most importantly, we have a budget. A rather big one. We’ve raised over $80,000 from dedicated, hardcore fans of Evil Elf.”

He paused, allowing for the most important parts of his pitch to sink in. “Fans are sick and tired of waiting for the franchise to return. They want this. They need this. Plus, we’ve even got some of your old costars on board too.”

Jennifer scoffed. Most of the Evil Elf cast were even worse off than she was. She had made up her mind. “Well, that’s great. But I’m afraid I don’t work in student films—”

Vincent opened his mouth, but Jennifer cut in. “—or fan films, and I certainly don’t work for free.”

“I’m not asking you to work for free. We’ve got a proper budget, and I’m offering you $60,000 for the role.”

“$60,000?”

Jennifer’s hand shot for the script. She began skimming the words, then she froze, meeting his gaze. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

Her eyes flicked to the script, then back to him. “When does filming start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

$60,000 was more money than she made all of last year doing conventions. Then again, a lifetime in Hollywood had taught her to be jaded, and, from experience, if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. She set the script down on the uneven table, her fingers lingering. When she looked up, Vincent had disappeared into Zara Westbrook’s ever-growing line.

And within a few moments, Jennifer’s booth was swallowed in its shadow.