inbatmansvoice-imdaredevil

[inbatmansvoice-imdaredevil]

I will never go back to Oswego, Illinois.

“Oh it’s just Oswego. Nothing bad happens in Oswego,” they say. Their comfort dulls their senses and blinds them to the truth.

It started out innocent enough. I was hired to design an independent film. It seemed like a fun project and, most importantly, it was paid.

I was tasked with converting a bedroom in an empty rental house into the bedroom of an ‘80s teenage boy. It was mid June and I had only my older brother to help me accomplish this but I was excited. My first real gig as a production designer. I had so many ideas floating in my head I couldn’t wait to turn them into reality.

My brother and I show up to the property a week before filming is supposed to start. The producer, director, and cinematographer are all there and the cinematographer lets us in. Her grandparents own the place and the previous tenant moved out two weeks ago. We were given free rein to do whatever we wanted. A production designers dream.

We walked around looking at the rooms and determined what would be shot where. The bulk of the work would be prepping that bedroom but there were some changes to be made to the kitchen and living room as well. Before they left us to it, the producer warned us to stay out of the basement. “There’s a lot of mold down there. Stay away from the basement.”

Easy enough. We had plenty of work to do upstairs. The first day went by rather smoothly. We started painting the bedroom and planning out what needs to get done before shooting. We briefly talked about staying the night in the house so we could get an early start the next day, but ultimately decided against it. When we were done, we called the cinematographer to come and lock up behind us and went home without another thought.

The next morning, after the cinematographer let us in, we continued the task of painting the room. We quickly realized something was off though. Brushes were in a different place than where we left them. Paint cans had been moved. Maybe we simply forgot where we had put them? It was a long day yesterday after all. My brother and I joked that the place was haunted and shrugged it off.

The rest of the day passed without incidence. And most of the next day did too. In the afternoon, we paused our work to head to Home Depot with the cinematographer to get some supplies needed for one of the shots. When we made it back to the house, we headed upstairs. And discovered someone had painted blue on the white door.

My brother and I shared a glance. Odd. We definitely didn’t do that. I don’t think the cinematographer quite believed us. We finished up the rest of the day in a tense and quiet unease. As we finished, we watched the cinematographer lock the house behind us and left.

The next day came and with it the deadline loomed ever closer. We were now only two days away from filming and so much still needed to get done. We met the cinematographer outside the house like we had every morning prior. She went to unlock the front door and paused. “I locked this door last night, right?” She asked.

We nodded. We had watched her lock it and test to make sure it was locked. “Well it’s unlocked now.” A deep sense of dread filled me. My brother felt it too. “I must have not locked it like I thought I had,” she brushed it off. But deep down we knew something was wrong.

I tried to shrug off the feeling that something wasn’t right. I had bigger issues to worry about. I was beginning to worry everything wouldn’t get done on time. And that’s when I realized- I forgot a crucial prop for a key scene. Panicked, I begged my brother to run out and get it while I stayed and finished up at the house. “I have no idea what you’re wanting though,” he argued. “Just come with.” Reluctantly, I agreed. A quick stop to Michael’s wouldn’t hurt. Looking back, it probably saved my life.

An hour later and we’re back outside the house. We go the head inside, but it’s locked. Impossible. We have no key to lock it. The only way to lock it would be from the inside.

That overwhelming sense of dread came back, stronger than before. This was no silly ghost haunting. Someone was inside that house.

After a few phone calls, the cinematographer, her dad, and the producer arrive to check it out. They unlock the door and do a quick sweep of the place. “There’s no one here,” they say. “It’s Oswego. Nothing bad happens here, everything is fine.”

My brother and I aren’t convinced. Did they check the basement? “I walked down and took a quick glance around. No one was down there,” they claim.

“But there are lots of nooks and crannies to hide in down there,” my brother argued.

“Like I said, nothing bad ever happens here. You probably bumped the lock on your way out.” With that, they drove away.

Later, after the project was over, the cinematographer admitted that the lock on the outside was broken and ended up needing to be replaced.

My brother and I were unsure what to do. On the one hand, we knew we didn’t “bump into the lock.” On the other, we had a job to do and the producer wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Armed with pocket knives and the promise to stick together, we decide to get in and get out as quick as possible. No one will be staying in that house alone.

By some miracle, we manage to finish the last day without any incident. We show up to the house for the last time on the first day of shooting. Even with a large number of people there, we carry our pocket knives. The day starts with a safety meeting. “No one is allowed in the basement. There’s mold down there.” Everyone agrees to stay away from the basement.

As the night wears on, I find my guard start to slip. There’s 20 people here, what could happen?

We break for lunch and all sit outside to catch a break from the stuffy house. As we start to go back in, I hear the producer and director whispering in the kitchen that a walkie talkie is missing.

The night goes on. I’m in the kitchen with the script supervisor, standing by the basement stairs. “Quiet on set!” The AD yells.

“Action!”

Everyone collectively holds their breath as the scene starts to take place. The room is silent. Then we hear it.

Footsteps.

Coming up the basement stairs.

They stop about halfway. The script supervisor, who has no knowledge of the previous events, looks at me freaked out. Who’s down there? She mouths. She glances down the stairs but they turn a corner so she can’t see the bottom. The footsteps retreat back down the stairs. Everyone is accounted for upstairs.

“Cut!”

I immediately run to tell my brother. He grabs his knife and like a character in a horror movie who dies first, decides to go investigate. He heads down the steps. As he approaches the last step, he sees a flash of movement across the room. Something had darted behind an exposed wall panel. He decides to head back up the steps. We agree to stay as far away from that basement as we can.

Miraculously, when we wrap for the night and start to head out, the missing walkie talkie is found on the kitchen counter. Right by the basement stairs.

I don’t know who was in that basement. Or why they were there. I shudder to think about what would have happened to me, a young woman, had I chosen to stay at the house while my brother ran to the store. Or if we had chosen to stay the night. I’m glad I’ll never know. And I’ll be glad to never go to Oswego, Illinois ever again.