Acetate and Regret
For their last film project, Noah and Julie find an unlabelled reel of Super 8 film. The footage shows a ghost at a town festival, a forgotten transaction, and a face that is impossibly familiar.
INT. ATTIC - NIGHT
Dust motes dance in the cone of light thrown by an old Bell & Howell 8mm projector. The beam hits the slanted ceiling, projecting a flickering, silent home movie.
SOUND: The gentle, rhythmic CLICK-CLACK-CLICK of the projector.
NOAH (17), meticulous and focused, adjusts a knob. The image sharpens: a young man with a terrible moustache trying to win a coconut at a fair.
Across from him, JULIE (17) sits cross-legged on the floor, knees hugged to her chest. Her face is washed in the shifting light.
JULIE
Look, there’s your dad.
(a beat)
God, the hair. That is a truly criminal moustache.
Her finger bisects the beam, her shadow a giant puppet on the ceiling.
NOAH
(laughing softly)
It was the eighties. Moustaches were a legal requirement.
Julie’s smile fades as she watches the ghosts on the ceiling.
JULIE
It’s weird seeing them all like this. Like they had whole lives before we existed.
NOAH
That’s the point. Every town is a haunted house.
He lets the reel run to its end. The film leader slaps against the gate, a frantic, repetitive rhythm like a tired heart.
SOUND: The flapping leader, loud in the quiet room.
Noah flips a switch. The lamp dies. The attic plunges into a dim, dusty reality, lit only by a single bare bulb.
NOAH (CONT'D)
That’s the last of the labelled ones. The ‘Founder’s Day’ box is done.
Julie points to a small, metal film canister sitting alone on a stack of magazines. It’s unmarked, unlike the others.
JULIE
What’s in that one?
NOAH
I don’t know. Bottom of the chest. Probably my grandparents’ trip to Niagara Falls.
JULIE
Only one way to find out. Thread it, filmmaker.
Her eyes gleam with curiosity. Noah sighs, but he’s already reaching for it.
INT. ATTIC - MOMENTS LATER
Noah’s fingers, practiced and delicate, guide a brittle strip of celluloid through the projector’s gate. He flips the motor switch, then the lamp.
SOUND: The CLICK-CLACK-CLICK resumes.
Light flares on the ceiling. The image is shaky, overexposed. Then it settles.
It’s another Founder’s Day. But this one is in faded, washed-out COLOR. The clothes are early nineties.
The camera pans across a crowd of familiar faces, all twenty years younger. Mayor Thompson flipping burgers. Mrs. Gable from the library winning a huge teddy bear.
JULIE
Hey, stop. Go back a bit.
Noah stops the motor and carefully cranks the film backward by hand.
NOAH
What is it?
JULIE
There. By the bandstand.
He finds the spot. Plays it forward. The camera zooms unsteadily. To the left of a local band, half-hidden by a tent flap, stands a man. Old. Wearing a dated but well-kept suit and a fedora. He isn’t watching the band. He’s scanning the crowd.
CLOSE ON the projected image of the man. High cheekbones, a sharp nose, deep-set eyes.
JULIE
(a low whisper)
Do you know who that is?
NOAH
He looks like… old Mr. Abernathy. The one they named the park after.
JULIE
Exactly. And when did old Mr. Abernathy die?
Noah’s face pales in the projector’s glow. His blood runs cold.
NOAH
Nineteen eighty-seven. A fire at his workshop.
JULIE
Right. And this footage, judging by the cars and the clothes, is what? Ninety-two? Ninety-three?
They stare at the flickering image of the man who shouldn’t be there. He casts a shadow. A gust of wind lifts the brim of his hat. He’s real.
NOAH
It’s not him. It’s someone who looks like him. A relative, maybe.
JULIE
He had no relatives. He was the last Abernathy. That was the whole point. He left everything to the town.
ON THE CEILING - The impossible figure of Mr. Abernathy steps out from behind the tent. His eyes find something. The camera pans clumsily, following his gaze.
It settles on a LITTLE GIRL, maybe five or six, holding a pinwheel. She has dark, curly hair and wears a red dress.
Abernathy walks towards her. He kneels, his face level with hers. He smiles, says something they can’t hear.
He reaches into his jacket pocket. Pulls out something small, dark, that catches the light strangely. He presses it into the little girl’s hand.
The little girl looks up at him, down at the object...
And then she looks directly, unnervingly, at the camera.
CLOSE ON JULIE’S FACE - Her breath catches. Her eyes are wide with horrified recognition.
JULIE
(a choked whisper)
Oh my god. Noah. That’s me.
Noah stares from her face to the image on the ceiling. The same dark eyes. The same turn of her mouth. It’s her.
NOAH
That’s not possible. You… this is… it’s a mistake.
JULIE
(voice strained)
Look at the dress. The red one with the white collar. There’s a photo of me wearing that at my fifth birthday party.
They are silent. The only sound is the steady click-clack of the projector.
ON THE CEILING - The tiny ghost of Julie closes her hand around the object from the ghost of Mr. Abernathy. The camera zooms in, shakily, on their clasped hands.
At that exact moment—
SOUND: The projector motor STRAINS. The click-clack stutters, becomes a high-pitched WHIR.
The film jams. The image freezes.
A bright, intense spot of light appears in the center of the frame—on their hands. It grows, turning the celluloid brown at the edges. The acrid, chemical smell of BURNING FILM fills the air.
NOAH
No, no!
He lunges for the projector, fumbling with the switch.
SOUND: A sharp POP as the film breaks.
Noah kills the lamp.
The attic is plunged into absolute DARKNESS. The only sound is the faint, metallic TICKING of the cooling projector bulb.
A perfect, melted hole has been burned through the one frame they needed to see.
Dust motes dance in the cone of light thrown by an old Bell & Howell 8mm projector. The beam hits the slanted ceiling, projecting a flickering, silent home movie.
SOUND: The gentle, rhythmic CLICK-CLACK-CLICK of the projector.
NOAH (17), meticulous and focused, adjusts a knob. The image sharpens: a young man with a terrible moustache trying to win a coconut at a fair.
Across from him, JULIE (17) sits cross-legged on the floor, knees hugged to her chest. Her face is washed in the shifting light.
JULIE
Look, there’s your dad.
(a beat)
God, the hair. That is a truly criminal moustache.
Her finger bisects the beam, her shadow a giant puppet on the ceiling.
NOAH
(laughing softly)
It was the eighties. Moustaches were a legal requirement.
Julie’s smile fades as she watches the ghosts on the ceiling.
JULIE
It’s weird seeing them all like this. Like they had whole lives before we existed.
NOAH
That’s the point. Every town is a haunted house.
He lets the reel run to its end. The film leader slaps against the gate, a frantic, repetitive rhythm like a tired heart.
SOUND: The flapping leader, loud in the quiet room.
Noah flips a switch. The lamp dies. The attic plunges into a dim, dusty reality, lit only by a single bare bulb.
NOAH (CONT'D)
That’s the last of the labelled ones. The ‘Founder’s Day’ box is done.
Julie points to a small, metal film canister sitting alone on a stack of magazines. It’s unmarked, unlike the others.
JULIE
What’s in that one?
NOAH
I don’t know. Bottom of the chest. Probably my grandparents’ trip to Niagara Falls.
JULIE
Only one way to find out. Thread it, filmmaker.
Her eyes gleam with curiosity. Noah sighs, but he’s already reaching for it.
INT. ATTIC - MOMENTS LATER
Noah’s fingers, practiced and delicate, guide a brittle strip of celluloid through the projector’s gate. He flips the motor switch, then the lamp.
SOUND: The CLICK-CLACK-CLICK resumes.
Light flares on the ceiling. The image is shaky, overexposed. Then it settles.
It’s another Founder’s Day. But this one is in faded, washed-out COLOR. The clothes are early nineties.
The camera pans across a crowd of familiar faces, all twenty years younger. Mayor Thompson flipping burgers. Mrs. Gable from the library winning a huge teddy bear.
JULIE
Hey, stop. Go back a bit.
Noah stops the motor and carefully cranks the film backward by hand.
NOAH
What is it?
JULIE
There. By the bandstand.
He finds the spot. Plays it forward. The camera zooms unsteadily. To the left of a local band, half-hidden by a tent flap, stands a man. Old. Wearing a dated but well-kept suit and a fedora. He isn’t watching the band. He’s scanning the crowd.
CLOSE ON the projected image of the man. High cheekbones, a sharp nose, deep-set eyes.
JULIE
(a low whisper)
Do you know who that is?
NOAH
He looks like… old Mr. Abernathy. The one they named the park after.
JULIE
Exactly. And when did old Mr. Abernathy die?
Noah’s face pales in the projector’s glow. His blood runs cold.
NOAH
Nineteen eighty-seven. A fire at his workshop.
JULIE
Right. And this footage, judging by the cars and the clothes, is what? Ninety-two? Ninety-three?
They stare at the flickering image of the man who shouldn’t be there. He casts a shadow. A gust of wind lifts the brim of his hat. He’s real.
NOAH
It’s not him. It’s someone who looks like him. A relative, maybe.
JULIE
He had no relatives. He was the last Abernathy. That was the whole point. He left everything to the town.
ON THE CEILING - The impossible figure of Mr. Abernathy steps out from behind the tent. His eyes find something. The camera pans clumsily, following his gaze.
It settles on a LITTLE GIRL, maybe five or six, holding a pinwheel. She has dark, curly hair and wears a red dress.
Abernathy walks towards her. He kneels, his face level with hers. He smiles, says something they can’t hear.
He reaches into his jacket pocket. Pulls out something small, dark, that catches the light strangely. He presses it into the little girl’s hand.
The little girl looks up at him, down at the object...
And then she looks directly, unnervingly, at the camera.
CLOSE ON JULIE’S FACE - Her breath catches. Her eyes are wide with horrified recognition.
JULIE
(a choked whisper)
Oh my god. Noah. That’s me.
Noah stares from her face to the image on the ceiling. The same dark eyes. The same turn of her mouth. It’s her.
NOAH
That’s not possible. You… this is… it’s a mistake.
JULIE
(voice strained)
Look at the dress. The red one with the white collar. There’s a photo of me wearing that at my fifth birthday party.
They are silent. The only sound is the steady click-clack of the projector.
ON THE CEILING - The tiny ghost of Julie closes her hand around the object from the ghost of Mr. Abernathy. The camera zooms in, shakily, on their clasped hands.
At that exact moment—
SOUND: The projector motor STRAINS. The click-clack stutters, becomes a high-pitched WHIR.
The film jams. The image freezes.
A bright, intense spot of light appears in the center of the frame—on their hands. It grows, turning the celluloid brown at the edges. The acrid, chemical smell of BURNING FILM fills the air.
NOAH
No, no!
He lunges for the projector, fumbling with the switch.
SOUND: A sharp POP as the film breaks.
Noah kills the lamp.
The attic is plunged into absolute DARKNESS. The only sound is the faint, metallic TICKING of the cooling projector bulb.
A perfect, melted hole has been burned through the one frame they needed to see.