Chapter 7: Graveyard Shift

I came back to the crew. Next up: filming in a real cemetery. The director’s team had found a mass grave for the shoot. The grass was slick with dew, and the only sound was the crunch of gravel under our boots. Headstones leaned like crooked teeth, and the air felt colder than it should.

I was furious. Spirits without proper rest are the most vengeful. With my body so weak, running through a graveyard felt like walking into a wolf’s den. The director used Ace to pressure me, claiming it was his request. They even wanted to use the behind-the-scenes footage for online hype. Once again, my survival didn’t matter.

My agent pushed back, but the studio held the cards. All I could do was grit my teeth and nod. Money talks, and fear listens.

The shoot was set for midnight. I tied the cross tight and braced myself. Before we started, my wife called: Danny’s surgery had gone well, and he was awake.

I almost dropped my phone, hands shaking. For a moment, the world was bright again. I called her back, heard Danny’s sleepy voice, and cried right there in the craft services tent, blaming it on the cold.

I told her: we should thank the donor’s family, leave flowers at their grave, set up a memorial at church. Gratitude and sorrow in equal measure.

She promised she would. I heard her tears too. The world is brutal, but sometimes it gives back.

Filming began. Dozens of people milled around, lights blazing, but I couldn’t shake the chill. I kept wondering: were all these people really alive?

Every shadow seemed to move, every face blurred at the edges. I kept my back to the lights, eyes darting for movement where there shouldn’t be any.

As soon as I stepped into the graveyard, my waist heated up and the cross trembled. The unease dug in deep.

It felt like wading through molasses. My heart pounded, and the cross at my waist burned. I whispered another prayer, desperate.

First, we shot a fight scene with a ghost. Before I was ready, an actor in ghost makeup lunged at me, pinning me down. The stench was overpowering—like roadkill left to rot. I shoved him off, half-joking, 'Jeez, man, did you roll in roadkill, or is that just method acting?'

The crew snickered, but the actor only stared, eyes hollow, lips curled. He didn’t answer—just let out a low growl. A chill went through me. Then the director’s voice crackled in my earpiece:

'Mr. Mason, your rehearsal was good, but you got up too early. Let’s try again! Ghost actor, get ready!'

The real actor stepped out from behind a tombstone—still adjusting his fake fangs. I glanced back. The ground was empty. Cold sweat beaded on my neck. I’d just seen a real ghost.