Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

James Hicks is a media producer, author, and lifelong film enthusiast with a Bachelor of Arts in Media Production from the University of Lincoln. He is the co-creator of the hit YouTube channel The Simpsons Theory, which boasts over 560,000 subscribers and a passionate global following. James is also the co-author of the acclaimed pop culture book The Simpsons Secret: A Cromulent Guide to How The Simpsons Predicted Everything! His work blends sharp wit, deep fandom, and a love for storytelling across genres.

Lydia Hicks is a writer, researcher, and pop culture aficionado who shares a deep love for horror, satire, and all things cinematic. Together with James, she has co-authored books and contributed to the vibrant community around The Simpsons Theory, bringing a unique blend of humor, insight, and creativity to every project.

Together, James and Lydia Hicks craft stories that celebrate genre, nostalgia, and the fans who keep cult classics alive. Script to Scream is their latest collaboration--a darkly funny meta-horror novel that explores the thrills and terrors of fame, fandom, and survival. They live in Kent, England.

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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...