Chapter 3: Charms and Crossroads

There was a film once, shot deep in the Appalachians—a place famous for hauntings and old legends. The director insisted on using real occult rituals, even soul-calling rites that attract the wrong kind of spirits.

I’d heard stories about those mountains—old towns swallowed by kudzu, places where folks still left milk out for ghosts. On that set, every wind through the pines felt like a warning.

To keep everyone safe, my mentor went to a mountain church and asked an old pastor for a wooden cross. The pastor carved it by hand, soaked it in holy water for a week, then blessed it. My mentor wore it every day on set, rubbing it before every take. Some folks thought he was acting. I knew better.

After that film, my mentor quit. Said he could feel death getting close. That cross was his lifeline—he wouldn’t sell it, not for anything. Now, he was giving it to me.

He’d shown it to me before, but never let me hold it. I’d seen a big-name director try to buy it—no dice. If he was parting with it now, I knew I was in deep.

Normally, I’d have laughed off these rituals—I used to joke about them as a rookie, rolling my eyes at every lucky charm. But now, with everything at stake, I took the cross and the red string he handed me, feeling a mix of shame and gratitude. I tied that string around my waist the second I got back to my car, thinking maybe luck was all I had left.

After saying goodbye to my mentor and visiting my wife and Danny at the hospital, I joined the crew. I knew it’d be rough, but I didn’t expect the bad luck to start so fast.

Leaving the hospital, I watched my wife behind the glass, her hand pressed to the window, Danny sleeping beside her. My chest felt hollow, but I tried to smile as I drove away—fields blurring past, my own reflection staring back from the windshield.

At the set’s prayer ceremony, the candle in my hand just wouldn’t light. When it finally caught, it blew out after one prayer—a terrible omen. Sweat slicked my hands, and the damn lighter kept slipping—like the universe itself wanted me to fail.

My hands shook so bad, I nearly dropped the candle. The crew shot glances my way—some rolled their eyes, some whispered. Every time the lighter clicked and the flame died, my shame got sharper.

The staff whispered, embarrassed or excited or just plain scared:

'Ben Mason might really have an accident on set. I’ve never seen a candle refuse to light!'

'Even God doesn’t want to bless him!'

'I used to think it was all superstition, but now... maybe there’s something to it.'

Their gossip made my nerves worse. Just then, a thin young guy with dark circles under his eyes squeezed through the crowd and offered me a lighter. His hoodie sleeves nearly covered his hands, and I noticed a bitten fingernail as he fidgeted, voice a little shaky:

'Mr. Mason, it rained yesterday and the supply truck leaked. Maybe these candles are damp. Here, try this one.'

He handed me a weird-looking lighter. For the first time all day, I felt a weird relief—someone treating me like a person instead of a bad omen.