05 Sep Why I Fear the Look-a-Me

When I was six years old, I followed a red bird into the woods. I didn’t think much about it, it just made a funny sound and I wanted to look at it. So I wandered off. My mother had fallen asleep on her sunbed after toting about in the garden, she was usually very attentive. Once the bird flew away I tried to turn back, only to realize I’d wandered off the trail, and I had no idea where I was. It was the first time I truly feared for my life. The forests of West Virginia can be so dense that they eat your screams; no one could hear me calling for help, and I couldn’t hear my panicked mother looking for me.

I ended up moving further and further into the forest. I went the wrong way. The sky slowly turned dark as the hours passed, and I found myself following a river. I was thirsty. It eventually got so dark that I couldn’t see my own feet.

At some point, I put my foot down wrong and twisted my ankle. It just broke me. I couldn’t straighten my leg out or put any weight on it. I just sat there by the river, completely devastated. I cried my eyes out, screaming for help, but no one came. It was just me, and the dark. And the dark was ready to eat me alive.

In the darkest hours of the night, as the fear had reached into the back of my heart, I just sat there; shivering. It was as if the panic had subsided into a sort of revelation. I imagined Death waiting for me at the other side of the river. I knew it was there.

I never saw it, but I painted a picture of it in my mind. I figured it had a really long arm, with a single painted nail. If I looked at it, or talked to it, that arm would grow longer.

But it wanted me to look. It wanted me to know it was there.

“Look-a-me,” it whispered. “Look-a-me, little boy.”

Sometime during the night, I passed out. They found me by the river just before sunrise.

And although my leg healed, my mind didn’t. And from that day forward, I’ve always had the sense that something lurks in the dark, just out of sight. Something that wants me to look. To find it.

To reach me.

Ever since, I’ve had an anxious relationship to the dark. Some would call it nyctophobia. A sort of fear of the unseen. I’ve always held that gnawing feeling of something waiting on the other side of the river, just out of reach; but one misstep, and it would get me. Even as an adult, I still get that sense of dread. An all-encompassing panic. The sense that you’re not getting enough oxygen, despite hyperventilating. Blood rushing to your head so fast it starts ringing in your ears. And then and there, in my most vulnerable moments, I can still hear it.

“Look-a-me, little boy. Look-a-me.”

Over the years, I’ve been to various therapists. I’ve had treatments. And honestly, just being open about my fears has helped tremendously. I’ve faced my fears time and time again and channeled them into creative outlets. That’s how I eventually became a screenwriter.

I worked my fingers to the bone. Sometimes out of ambition, but most often just to distract myself from that all-consuming darkness that sneaks up on me late at night. I moved to the West Coast in 2011. An internship lead me to a position as an uncredited assistant screenwriter on a popular sitcom. I can’t name any names, but I’m sure there were quite a few nerds enjoying our fourth season.

I got my first job at a movie set in 2016. I mostly worked on last-minute edits and consultation, but it was the first time I saw my name on the silver screen. I’m sure some of you horror fans out there enjoyed it. And to those of you who’ve gained a lifelong fear of dolls; I’m sorry.

I worked several stray projects until 2018, when I met a very influential man. Let’s call him Patrick, or ‘Pat’ for short. Pat and I met at the wrap-up party of another project, and we got a bit too drunk. We started talking about horror movies, and the two of us ended up talking about our fears and anxieties. It was a “drinking red wine from the bottle at 3-am” kind of talk.

I ended up mentioning my trauma. It sort of just slipped out. I mentioned my sprained leg, and sitting there at the bank of the river. I mentioned a presence in the dark. The long arm, growing longer the more I tried to see it.

“Wha… what’s it called?” Pat asked, flabbergasted.

And in that moment, I realized I’d just pitched my first screenplay.

Pat fast-tracked the whole thing. He was aching for a producer’s credit, and he genuinely loved the imagery of the ‘Look-a-Me’. A creature lurking in the dark with an arm growing taller the more you paid attention to it. He thought it was absolutely chilling, and he kept hyping me up about it several times a week.

I had a rough draft ready in two weeks. I tried to channel my childhood fears into a cohesive story, but instead of a kid stuck by the river it was more of a classic horror setup. A group of young adults who got lost in the forests of West Virginia, being relentlessly hunted by this primal force. That first draft was rough, but I got a good outline.

I worked with two other writers for the second draft. Kellan, who mostly worked crime drama, and Morgan. She was a comedy writer who wanted to break into a new genre. There was a lot of late night rewrites. Morgan was also an amazing concept artist, which brought every piece of our story to life.

I remember one night as we worked on the second draft. Kellan was rambling on and on about what the ‘Look-a-me’ represented.

“It’s too simple,” he sighed. “It can’t just be death. We’re not making a… a Jason Voorhees. It’s something new. It means something.”

“I think it’s trauma,” said Morgan. “Like, how it gets worse the more you poke at it. The more you look at it. It’s painful.”

“What the hell kind of message is that?” Kellan scoffed. “Are we telling people not to confront their fears?”

“No, we’re… we’re telling them to not get… goaded into it. To do it on your own terms, you know?”

It felt like a good and bad conscience chattering into my ears. But at the end of the day, it was my script, and it came down to my decision. Kellan wanted to paint the picture of a threat, something symbolic. Morgan wanted to send a message, using the Look-a-me as a tool. Neither of them was getting the point.

“There’s nothing to it,” I finally said. “It is not a message. It is not a symbol. It’s there, and it hunts. Just like a bear, or a shark.”

“So we’re just making a monster movie,” scoffed Kellan. “Jaws 4, deep forest boogaloo?”

“There was a Jaws 4, actually,” smiled Morgan. “It was called The Revenge.”

“Oh please.”

They argued back and forth. They argued about how bad the script could get if we continued down this path. They argued about the clichés we were wandering headfirst into. And it dawned on me; they were just scared of the dark. They didn’t have control. I did.

“I got it from here,” I said. “Take the night off.”

So they did. They were still arguing in the hallway, on their way out. Moments later, Kellan turned back. He leaned in and gave me a final look.

“You know you have to show it, right?” he said. “No matter what, we can’t just have it hidden in the dark. We have to show it.”

That’s where my writing stopped. No matter how I twisted and turned it, I couldn’t picture the Look-a-me. All I saw was this long arm reaching towards me, coming out of the dark. A woman’s hand, with a single painted nail.

“Look-a-me, little boy.”

But the more I thought about it, the more my anxiety spiked. I knew I could see it in my mind, if I wanted to. I could. But looking at it too closely, in any way, would give it the power to reach me. My mind wouldn’t let me see it. My reptile brain was reaching through my anxiety to rattle me into looking the other way. To turn my mind away from the page.

I couldn’t describe it. All I got was that… that long arm.

And I could’ve sworn I felt it brushing against the back of my neck.

The second draft stalled for a couple of weeks. Pat was getting impatient. He called me into the office one rainy Wednesday afternoon to have a “serious conversation” about the rewrite.

When I got there, I was ambushed by a whole gaggle of writers. An entire team. A room full of people, who’d all been briefed. They all had printed-out copies of the first draft, and both Morgan and Kellan had told them about the issue with the rewrite. Pat wasn’t playing around; he wanted this done.

I barely got a word out before we were ushered into our seats and pushed into finishing the draft. There were about a dozen of us. Some were pretty big industry names, called in to give some pedigree to the script. One of them had worked on prosthetics for a big zombie show, and he came out swinging.

“Let’s just expand on what we got,” he suggested. “Instead of a long arm, why not several? Just… all arms.”

“Yeah,” someone chimed in. “Like it, a… saves them. The arms, I mean.”

“It adds to itself,” someone laughed. “A literal growing fear.”

“Ringu meets The Blob. Love it. Love. IT.”

They were all talking over me. Through me. Past me. They didn’t know any better, and as a collective, they all looked at the Look-a-me. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. They were bringing it into focus. And even there, in the bright lights of that film studio meeting room, I could feel that darkness coming over me. My breath growing shallow. My vision turning into a pin. And in the back of my mind, I heard it.

“Look-a-me, little boy.”

I ran out of the office, locked myself in the bathroom, and puked my guts out. I screamed into the toilet bowl, waiting for the panic to stop. I could feel that long arm reaching for me. And the more I thought about it, the closer it got.

“Look-a-me,” it hissed, its voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. “Look-a-me!”

I didn’t return to that meeting. I got in my car and went straight home to take my backup anxiety meds. I hadn’t used them in a while. I fell face-first into the bed and just collapsed into a nightmarish mid-afternoon nap.

Later that day I poured myself a bath and a glass of red wine (non-alcoholic); even brought out some bubbles. I figured I’d stay in for the rest of the day and get takeout.

Just a few minutes into the bath, my phone started buzzing. Turns out Pat had run out of patience. They’d finished the second draft, and they were going ahead with it; with or without me. I was invited to add to it, but they weren’t gonna budge on what the ‘consultants’ had come up with.

I skimmed it. And there it was.

They had been poking at the Look-a-me for hours. There was concept art, vivid descriptions, and even a storyboard sketch.

The Look-a-me. A hundred arms from a hundred victims. An eldritch Medusa. Ringu meets The Blob. They had comparisons, charts, mood boards… one of them already had a casting suggestion for the voiceover.

Then the power went out.

With a snap from the ceiling light, I was enveloped in complete darkness. In a heartbeat I went from a screenwriter back to a little boy; lost and alone in the dark. I imagined myself submerged in that forest river. I scrambled to get out. I kept slipping, as I felt the bathtub give way for river stones. I could feel them. I could smell the algae.

“Look-a-me, little boy,” the darkness hissed. “They gave me a body. They look, little boy.”

A long nail brushed against my neck.

“You made them look-a-me. And now I can reach much, much further.”

A warmth against my cheek, as something leaned in. Sticky lips parting, like slowly pulling off a band-aid. It was right there, in the dark.

“Thank you.”

As the lights came back on, I felt my heart skip a beat. Every square inch, every bathroom tile, every towel and shampoo bottle; it was all covered in handprints.

And for the first time since I was six years old, I screamed like my life depended on it.

Like a part of me was still stuck in those woods, hoping for my mother to find me.

Over the next few days, my fear of the dark kicked into overdrive. Every time I stepped out of the light, I heard it. Little remarks, snickers, and laughter. Just closing my eyes was all it took for the sound of tapping fingers to creep closer.

I couldn’t help but to imagine it. It was no longer just an arm in the dark, it was this… this amalgamation. It poured out of every dark corner of every room. It had so many more things to say, and its arms were so much longer.

And no matter how many lights were on, and no matter how much light I let in from the windows, I could still sense it. Out of every unseen corner, out of every closed door; it was there.

And it wanted me to look.

I was getting regular updates. They were on a third draft. Kellan and Morgan had completely taken over the writing, and I was turning more and more into a “consultant”. The project was running away from me. More concept art. More lines. More dialogue.

They were looking at it. I had pointed it out to them, and now they were all looking.

I was in a feverish panic. I could feel it growing stronger, bigger, more assertive. It was no longer just something lurking in the back of my mind, it was reaching across the river. And at every turn, at every corner, there it was.

“Look-a-me, little boy.”

I’ll be honest, some of those days are a blur. I remember a rainy evening in the middle of the week. I was sleep-deprived, exhausted, and mentally torn.

I don’t even remember going to see Morgan. I just had this drive to stop her from looking too closely. I had to stop her from whatever was going to happen if she looked for too long.

I had to save her.

The moment I put my hand to her door, it opened. Morgan looked at me with sleepless eyes, her hands shaking. For a moment, the two of us just looked at one another.

“I, uh… I thought you were sick,” she said. “They said you were.”

“You don’t… don’t look too great yourself,” I said, forcing a chuckle.

Every light in her apartment was on. Even her TV, a flashlight, and her laptop. Her curtains had been torn down and spread across the floor. It might’ve been evening outside, but her place was bright as day. I could put two and two together, but it felt strange saying it out loud.

“You’ve… you’ve seen it. You’ve looked, I mean.”

Morgan nodded, her head shaking up and down like a bobblehead. Poor thing was exhausted.

“It’s real,” she stammered. “How… how can it be real?”

She invited me in. I sat down on her sofa, on top of a flowery curtain. Morgan’s hands were shaking so bad I could hear the spoon in her cup of tea rattle back and forth.

“It, uh… started a few days ago,” she said. “And it just… it never stops. The more I try not to think about it, the more real it gets.”

“It wants you to look,” I said. “It wants-“

“It wants to become this… this real thing. It wants us to create it. It has lived in the back of your head for years, and now it’s clawing its way out.”

“That’s… yeah. Something like that.”

“So how do we stop it?” she asked. “What, do we… do we kill you?”

She sat down next to me, holding her cup tight with both her hands.

“I don’t, uh… I don’t think so. It’s already out there.”

“But we can’t un-look at it. It’s done. It’s… it’s happening.”

And the thought hit me.

What the hell would happen once an audience of thousands, or tens of thousands, or hundreds of thousands, watched it? How long would it grow, just from test screening? How far across the river could the Look-a-me get, if everyone was eager to watch it?

A cold chill went up my spine. Maybe this was the plan. Maybe this was what it wanted. Maybe it pushed me towards writing to begin with. Maybe it lived in me, putting me on a path to birth it onto the world stage.

I felt sick.

“I… I can’t let this happen,” I said. “If that… if it… if we shoot anything. A promo, a… a trailer. Anything. If we do the goddamn casting, or there’s a leak, or… or…”

“Oh my God.”

Morgan covered her mouth, her eyes going wild.

“D-do you think-“

I just nodded. We were thinking the same thing. This… this mind-creature, if brought to the public, would be unstoppable.

We got our coats and got out of the apartment. We had to see Pat. Maybe he was experiencing something similar. Morgan fumbled for her keys and almost stumbled over her own feet. I could hear her swearing with frustration.

The moment we got out of her apartment, it was as if time stood still. Morgan was right behind me, but something happened. There was this strange ammonia smell in the air. I slowly turned around, holding my breath.

I hadn’t thought about it, but the hallway light outside her apartment was broken. And for a moment, we were standing in darkness.

One by one, the lights in her apartment went out. Twinkling on and off, like dying stars.

A pair of pale fingers dug through her hair; a single painted fingernail poked out behind her ear.

So many fingers.

Morgan gasped. We looked at one another, breathlessly.

It could reach all the way across.

It could reach across the river.

In a heartbeat, the door slammed shut. There was a visceral tearing, and the sound of something rolling across the floor. And outside, the lights were starting to die.

“Look-a-me, little boy,” the dark said. “Look-a-me.”

Long pale arms crawled out of every corner, reaching for me. It wasn’t even dark yet. It didn’t care.

It laughed.

I refused to get trapped in the elevator, so I ran down the stairs , feeling the sole of my boots trample curious fingers with every corner I rounded. I could feel them nipping at my clothes, grasping for my neck.

I burst through the exit to the street level, knocking over a middle-aged couple as I scrambled towards my car. I didn’t even hear their insults. All I heard was my heartbeat, and that little voice growing louder every time I left the safety of the streetlights.

I drove past red lights, broke every speed limit, and went down the wrong end of a one-way street. I was in a frenzy and ended up frantically knocking on Pat’s front door.

I tried to compose myself, but there was no use. My eyes were wild, and I couldn’t stop my legs from shaking. My lips quivered, like I was hypothermic.

Pat was having a small party, just like the one I’d first met him at. He was about to invite me in, but he stopped himself. Clearly, I wasn’t well.

“We gotta… we gotta stop this, Pat,” I said. “We gotta stop production.”

“What are you talking about?” he smiled. “There’s no reason to-“

“No, you’re not hearing me. This… this is not a-a… a debate.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let you talk to me like-“

I heard it. That snickering, pleading little voice. Asking me to turn around, to look into the dark of the night.

“Look. Look-a-me.”

I snapped.

I shoved the door open and forced my way inside. I picked up a small wine glass from a nearby table, stomped into the living room, and tapped it with my phone for attention.

It could be a thousand times worse. Ten thousand. A hundred thousand.

No.

I barely even noticed the glass breaking, and everyone staring. At least three dozen industry professionals. People I’d looked up to my entire professional career. Hell, one of them was an A-lister.

“We’re, uh… hi,” I stammered. “We’re cancelling all production of the, uh… The Look-a-Me.”

There was a murmur in the crowd. Little smirks and pitying smiles.

“It’s happening,” I said. “It’s done. It’s gone.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” groaned Pat. “I’m calling the police.”

“Do whatever you want, but if I see a single goddamn still from that production, I’m burning the goddamn studio to the ground.”

“You gotta be-“

I grabbed Pat by the collar and pushed him up against the wall, rattling his wine glasses.

“I’m burning. The goddamn studio. To the ground.”

Career suicide.

Complete, absolute, career suicide.

I collapsed back into my car, still holding the broken wine glass. I turned on the dome light to drown out the darkness, but it didn’t work. I flicked it a couple times, but nothing happened.

A pale hand pushed down on my door lock.

Click.

“Time to look-a-me, little boy,” a voice whispered from the back seat, as a cold hand stroked my cheek. “Time to look.”

I thought back on that night from so many years ago. That absolute terror. That certainty of death. And just like then, there was this moment where fear gave way to revelation.

Of course.

“You can’t kill me,” I said. “I’m the only one who’ve… who’ve really looked. I’m the only one giving you this reach.”

Cold fingers curled around my neck.

“That’s it, isn’t… isn’t it? It’s because of me. Otherwise you would’ve killed me. You would’ve stopped me from going in there.”

There was no response. Just a tightening grip. Long nails brushing my hair, grabbing at it.

“Without me, and without that show, there’s no one to look. All the drawings will be tossed. The script forgotten. It’ll just be you and me, and… and if I’m gone… there’s just you. And you’re nothing. You are, literally, nothing. You never were anything but… but nothing.”

And I turned around to look, at the look-a-me.

And all I saw was a pale white hand retreating into the dark.

Now, it’s… it’s been a while.

I’m no longer under a studio NDA, but I’m not taking any chances. No charges were pressed, no production came to pass. It was easier to just shut it down and move on.

You might’ve heard about Morgan. The details were graphic. And no, of course that’s not her real name. They said she had some kind of episode, and the results were… tragic. How you can do something like she did to her own head during an “episode” they conveniently left out. But I know.

I’ll always know.

Some things out there defy our explanations. Our rationale. Some things aren’t a message, or a monster, or a theme. It just is. It exists because we make it exist. And it wants to be seen.

To me, I don’t know where the Look-a-me came from. Maybe it came from me. Maybe it is me. Or maybe it was just something that found me in the dark, and decided to stick around.

But now I know that as much as I will be stuck with it, for the rest of my life, at least that thing is equally stuck.

With me.