"Congratulations, you've been promoted to the lead."
Since that moment, Charlize had been drifting through the days like someone caught between a dream and a nightmare.
Even on set, when she easily slipped into character, the unreality crept in the second Christian Booth called,
"Cut."
"I'm the lead? Am I dreaming again?"
She kept asking herself, as if saying it enough times would make it feel real.
But the answer was obvious. The camera lingered on her more than anyone else.
And the looks she got from Erica and Vivienne—once her peers in supporting roles—spoke louder than any confirmation.
Not friendly, not curious. Just cold, envious glares.
Their welcome had been less like a warm embrace and more like dancers stuffing broken glass into the slippers of a rising star.
Charlize couldn't help but label them privately as little truth-tellers—sharp, bitter, and not to be trusted.
The rumors spread like wildfire. People whispered about her sudden promotion.
They didn't see talent or hard work—just a woman sleeping her way to the top.
They had names for her now.
"Director's Pet."
"Blonde Sellout."
Or worse.
The "Director" in question was Christian Booth—27 years old, already directing his first major indie project, and carrying himself like he'd seen too much too soon.
He didn't talk much, but when he did, people listened.
He wore cynicism like a second skin, smoked like it kept his heart beating, and had a gaze that made liars choke on their words.
Power suited him. With one word—"Again"—he could break an actor or elevate them. Charlize had seen it happen.
Erica and Vivienne tried to stir up drama, pushing back against her and Christian.
It didn't last. After a brief meeting behind closed doors, they were reassigned to a remote location cabin.
They came back changed.
The cabin itself wasn't your standard temporary film set. It was an old ranger lodge tucked in the Vinales Valley, a sturdy wooden structure repurposed for the film.
The crew nicknamed it The Cannibal, after the script's location—a stronghold for deranged mutants in the movie.
With money tight and no big stars to anchor the production, RVs were rare, and tents were the norm.
That cabin became the prize everyone wanted but few enjoyed.
Charlize had stayed there for two nights, sharing the space with Annika, one of the makeup artists.
Being the new lead came with perks, after all. But once whispers about her and Christian started circling, he made a show of fairness: a rotating schedule so every woman on set could get a night in the cabin.
Charlize saw through it. It was damage control.
Weak, she thought. Disappointing, coming from a man who once seemed untouchable.
The man who intrigued her.
Her opinion shifted the morning after Erica and Vivienne spent a night there.
"You sleep okay?" Charlize asked, barely hiding her smirk as the two women shuffled into makeup, pale, twitchy, and exhausted.
They didn't answer. They looked like they hadn't slept at all.
Christian had a plan. He wasn't just some fresh-faced director fumbling through a set.
He wanted to shoot the film in script order—rare in the industry, but easier on the actors.
It was practical for a man dealing with limited resources and a green crew. It also had unintended consequences.
During Charlize's stay, they'd been filming the early road scenes.
The cabin had been untouched—just a regular, creaky wooden house.
But by the time Erica and Vivienne's turn came, the crew had moved into the cabin scenes.
Props had been placed: grimy butcher knives, blood-smeared walls, jars filled with fake teeth and bones, human-skin books splayed open like warnings.
The entire interior had been transformed into a shrine of horror.
Charlize knew the props were fake. So did everyone.
But knowing didn't stop the fear when the lights were out and the shadows danced.
Some places made you feel watched, even when you were alone.
And Christian? He lit another cigarette, squinted at the monitor, and muttered, "Let's keep rolling."
The two supporting actresses had endured a long, sleepless night, convinced the horrors around them were real.
They didn't realize the teeth, blood-stained knives, and flesh-bound books were props, crafted with enough detail to haunt the imagination.
Charlize took a quiet satisfaction in their misery. She didn't laugh aloud; not because she felt bad for them, but because it simply wasn't worth the energy.
By morning, with dark circles under their eyes and nerves frayed raw, Erica and Vivienne cornered Christian between takes.
They made a polite—but—desperate request to remove the "disturbing set pieces" from the cabin.
Christian didn't even look up from his cigarette.
"I already shot the cabin scenes," he said flatly.
"We spent hours dressing that interior. We're not wasting crew hours resetting everything just because someone's scared of rubber teeth."
He finally met their eyes, voice dry.
"They're props. Nothing more. If they still keep you up at night, feel free to move out."
They didn't. Not because they weren't terrified—everyone had heard them screaming through the last two nights—but because leaving would've meant public defeat.
And for actresses trying to claw their way to stardom, ego weighed heavier than fear.
They stayed. And the second night was even worse.
The next morning, Christian delivered the kill shot in front of half the crew.
"If you're scared," he said, exhaling a ribbon of smoke, "move out early.
These ghost-wails of yours are screwing with everyone's sleep. That's a problem. A tired crew is a slow crew. And I hate delays."
His gaze didn't waver.
"Charlize and the others will stay in the cabin. As for you two… maybe I'll cut a few of your scenes. Just to keep things moving."
For actors, that kind of threat hits deep. Losing screen time isn't just a hit to pride—it's a blow to relevance, exposure, and money.
Most don't have the luxury of stealing a film with twenty minutes of brilliance.
They need every second of footage to climb the ladder.
Erica and Vivienne said nothing, but the look in their eyes said it all.
Rage swallowed by fear. Christian had them boxed in.
And just like that, the gossip mill slowed. His authority tightened like a noose, and even the crew started giving him sidelong glances of earned respect.
Charlize saw it. She even admired it.
Still, the cabin's new additions gave her pause. The production team had added more props—subtler ones this time.
Symbols scrawled into the walls. Crude totems hanging in corners.
Details meant to sit on the edge of the frame, just long enough to gnaw at your subconscious.
Even Charlize, who'd seen her fair share of horror sets, felt a ripple of unease.
"Don't worry," Christian said when he caught her eye.
His smirk was casual, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"It's not that scary."
It wasn't the most comforting reassurance, but there wasn't much choice.
Charlize returned to the cabin that night with Annika, the makeup artist.
Despite the unsettling atmosphere, they managed to sleep restlessly, but without incident.
At least, for a while.
Somewhere between dreams and wakefulness, Charlize felt her mind drifting.
Strange thoughts came and went.
She remembered the way Christian had looked at her—how his eyes always seemed to see through the surface, into the part of you you didn't want anyone touching.
Did he do something? She wondered hazily.
'Something more than set design? Some weird trick? A ritual?'
Her thoughts spiraled, half-formed.
Then, across the dark room, Annika stirred.
She sat upright in her bed, face pale in the moonlight. Her voice was flat, distant.
"He's calling me."
----
References-
1. Cabin In The Woods- Horror movie(2011)