Talented Maestro

Chapter 13 – This Is Practically a Horror Movie Set

Wayne sat behind the monitor, frustrated, eyes locked on the playback of the earlier footage. He was trying his best to focus, to distract himself—otherwise, he feared he'd explode and start shouting.

Suddenly, a cup of coffee appeared in front of him. He looked up—it was Naomi.

"Thanks," he said, accepting the cup. "You feeling okay? How's your stomach? If anything still feels off, you need to go to the hospital right away. You know what happens if you're injured—the entire crew would have to halt production to wait for you."

He looked at her seriously.

"I'm fine, really. Much better," Naomi said, nodding. "Honestly, I was half-expecting something like that. That b*tch and I have had it out a few times already. She once said I only landed the lead role by, you know, being good on my knees. She's just jealous I got the protagonist role and she's stuck playing the villain."

Talking about it clearly fired her up, and she continued.

"I know my job, so I've never let her provoke me on set—just argued with her in private a couple times. I don't want any of that drama messing with my performance."

Wayne regarded her with a touch of amusement. The full story, he knew, was likely more complicated. But one thing was clear: neither of these women was "simple." If Naomi had merely argued with Uma privately, there's no way Uma would've just accidentally tripped like that.

"I've already warned her," he said flatly. "And now I'll say the same to you: enough. I don't care how deep this feud runs—leave it off the set. You need to think carefully: if this film gets derailed, you're just destroying your own opportunity."

"Of course. I swear I won't retaliate against that b*tch. My focus is entirely on the role," Naomi replied, expression sincere.

Wayne gave her a small nod and motioned for her to get ready. When they resumed shooting, the scene was finally nailed in a single take. Everyone could see the fire in Wayne's eyes—no one dared stir up trouble now. One spark and he'd go off like a powder keg.

"Good job, everyone. That's a wrap on all the school scenes," he announced. "Take the day off tomorrow. We move to the abandoned hospital the day after. Luke, lock up the footage and put it in the safe—don't screw this up."

While everyone else headed to bars or crashed to rest, Wayne stayed behind at the motel, sketching out new storyboards and blocking shots.

Knock knock.

Two taps at the door. Wayne called out, "Come in."

Naomi Watts stepped in, holding a bottle of red wine. She closed the door behind her.

"Hey, Wayne."

"Hey, Naomi."

He twirled a pencil in his hand, watching as she casually set down the wine and started rummaging for a corkscrew. She popped the bottle open, grabbed two glasses from the cabinet, poured, and handed one to him.

"You're way too hard on yourself, Wayne," she said. "You need to loosen up. A little relaxation makes you work better. Haven't you noticed? You've lost weight these past few weeks."

Wayne glanced down at himself and shrugged.

"Maybe you're right. Honestly, I haven't had a decent night's sleep since pre-production. But I've kind of gotten used to the pressure. Damn it… If I ever do this again, I'm not doing everything by myself."

Naomi downed her glass in one gulp. Then, slowly, she knelt onto the carpet.

"Pressure?" she repeated, her voice low. "Then maybe it's time you dropped that pencil. I might know a way to help you relieve some of it."

Wayne leaned back in his chair, let out a long breath, and closed his eyes.

Wayne woke early the next morning, sitting up to check the time—it wasn't even 7 a.m. Remembering that today was a day off, he lay back down. The bed was empty now. Naomi was gone, and he had no idea where she'd slipped off to.

He frowned to himself. Was it a racial thing? In his previous life, he definitely hadn't been this hormonally charged.

"You're awake?" Naomi's voice called out from the bathroom. "I ordered breakfast. It's in the living room. Want to come eat something first?"

She stepped out in a bathrobe and sat down on the bed beside him, reaching out her hand.

Realizing he wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon, Wayne took her hand, got up, and began dressing.

"Okay, okay. My stomach's about to cave in. And stop tempting me—you were right. A bit of relaxation did help. I slept like a baby. And I have to admit, you were... incredible last night. Way better than I expected."

As they ate the hotel-delivered breakfast, Naomi asked him casually, "So, what's your plan for the day off? We could drive down to the coast if you want. I heard there's a quiet beach nearby—not as crowded as Malibu."

"Sure, sounds fine. When do you want to head out?"

Wayne wasn't really invested in either beaches or shopping—none of it appealed much to him.

"Right after breakfast," she said cheerfully. "I brought a swimsuit. If the weather holds up, I might even catch a bit of sun."

Wayne gave her a strange look. Sunbathing in a swimsuit? At the end of November? In greater Los Angeles, where it was clearly getting colder? Was she not cold?

But before they could even leave, their plans were quite literally washed away—a heavy downpour began. Rain was rare in this part of California, known for its year-round sunshine, yet it was now coming down in sheets.

Stuck inside, Wayne spent the whole day at the hotel reviewing the footage they'd already shot. He just hoped this storm wouldn't drag on for days—otherwise, all the time they saved filming at the school would be wasted here.

Fortunately, by midday the next day, the rain had eased into a light drizzle, and by evening, it stopped entirely. They'd only lost a day—lucky.

By 8 a.m., Wayne was driving his pickup truck, leading the caravan of vehicles out of the small town and into the outskirts. About five or six kilometers from Orange County's center stood an abandoned psychiatric hospital. No one knew exactly when it had been deserted, but to Wayne, always hunting for ways to cut costs, it was a goldmine—he saved a fortune by not having to rent a studio.

American infrastructure, built back in the '30s and '40s during FDR's response to the Great Depression, had aged poorly. After a night and a day of rain, the already-bumpy dirt roads had turned into muddy pits.

A short 10-kilometer trip took them over an hour. They parked in a weedy field. Wayne looked up at the looming, decrepit hospital.

The white paint on the outer walls had mostly peeled away, revealing mottled patches of mold and mildew. Dark blotches and curled remnants of old wallpaper covered the structure. Cracks in the walls and windowsills were filled with overgrown weeds.

"Oh my God!" Lily exclaimed beside him. "Wayne, I swear—even if this wasn't supposed to be a horror film, just shooting here would turn it into one. This place is like a ready-made haunted set. If a pack of cannibals or serial killers burst out right now, I honestly wouldn't be surprised!"

Wayne could only nod. Yeah, the place was creepy. Straight out of a B-grade American horror flick. He wasn't thrilled either—but he trusted Luke and Ross.

"Relax, Lily. Luke and the others already set up the first floor. It looks like any regular hospital now. We're only using a small portion of the space. If it makes you uncomfortable, let's work fast and get out of here."

He said it casually and led the way inside. To be honest, American slasher flicks, cult horror, or anything designed to scare Western audiences never did much for him.

Sure, this place looked eerie from the outside. But even if monsters did jump out, Wayne wouldn't be shaken. What got under his skin was the spiritual side of horror—the ghost stories, the creeping dread, the kind that played with your imagination. Eastern horror, with its atmosphere-heavy dread, was a different beast altogether.

He remembered watching Mountain Village Teacher on a bootleg disc as a kid. That movie had him sleeping with the lights on for nearly half a month. Meanwhile, American gore-fests that sprayed ketchup everywhere just made him feel queasy, not scared.

Inside, Luke and the set crew had done an excellent job. As long as they stayed within the designated set, the space looked indistinguishable from a real hospital.

Wayne walked around, checking equipment setups while the crew finished arranging props. The shoot here was simple—short, fragmented scenes, with minimal acting complexity. As long as no accidents happened, he was confident they could wrap up quickly.

Today's main scene was the death of the female lead, Theresa, inside the hospital. There were also a few supporting shots—like the handsome teacher who stirred jealousy in the secondary female character, ultimately leading to Theresa's murder.

"Okay, are we all set? If so, let's roll. Scene 74, take one—action!"

Everyone gave the signal that they were ready. The room fell into silence. The boom mic descended slowly, capturing the ambient stillness. No one dared make a sound, not wanting to ruin the take.

The now-seasoned crew slipped into a seamless rhythm. Lighting, color, props, and performance all flowed perfectly through the camera lens. Wayne nodded to himself. Right from the first shot, the crew had hit their stride.

But just as he was thinking that, a soft click—the door opened at the back. Low voices drifted into the room, slicing through the silence like a knife.

Steve, holding a light, froze. Luke, manning the boom mic, looked stunned. Naomi and the actor playing the killer both grimaced.

Uma Thurman, who'd been observing from the side, turned to see the two temporary props assistants chatting as they walked through the door. Her face darkened instantly, and she instinctively covered her ears. The volcano was about to erupt.

The two assistants, each carrying a bundle of costumes—lab coats and other props—had assumed filming hadn't started yet.

"Cut!" Wayne barked, exasperated.

Realizing their mistake, the two quickly dropped the costumes and approached Wayne apologetically.

"Sorry, Director Garfield. We were moving costumes and didn't hear any sound. We thought shooting hadn't started yet."

It was the kind of moment that made Wayne feel like he'd just swallowed a dead fly. He couldn't yell at them—it wasn't entirely their fault. These things happened, despite everyone's best efforts.

He gave a small nod, accepting their apology, and motioned for the actors to reset. Time to shoot the scene again.