"It's quiet tonight. Did I guess wrong?"
It was just past two in the morning when Christian made another lap around the crew's camp.
He climbed a nearby ridge and sat with a view of the valley below, gnawing on a strip of jerky that felt more like dried leather than food.
His gaze swept the forest line, cold and thoughtful.
There was something about Vinales Valley that didn't sit right. He'd felt it when they arrived—like the land was holding its breath.
And when he'd dug deeper and uncovered the unsolved disappearance of the former director, Alan McElroy, and the lead actress, Eliza Kunis, he stopped doubting.
Two years ago, people had started vanishing in this area. The reports were quiet, buried. But Christian saw the pattern.
"This place is eighty percent haunted," he muttered, half amused.
It wasn't paranoia—it was opportunity.
For someone who understood the occult but rarely got to flex those muscles, this place was practically a film set delivered by fate.
If he could capture a real ghost on camera? That wasn't just a special effect—that was legacy.
Christian had been using magic in his productions for a while—quietly, surgically.
Not the showy kind.
Just enough to add an edge. A presence.
Spells to deepen shadows, raise the temperature of a scene, and tilt the mood.
He'd used it to unsettle unruly actors, to conjure atmosphere where the budget fell short.
One example stood out. The opening scene: two rock climbers, a man and a woman, meeting brutal ends on a cliff's edge.
It was a nod to the original Wrong Turn, where the opening served more as a preamble than a punch.
But Christian didn't want a polite introduction. He wanted dread.
So he buried a dead rooster at the cliff's base, just out of sight. A simple ritual. An old one.
It was enough to stir the faint spirits drifting through the valley, thicken the fog, and twist the wind into something sharp.
The result? Cinematic gold.
The mist curled in, spectral and slow. The air chilled.
Even the crew, hardened by long days and practical effects, felt a weight settle on their shoulders.
It was exactly what he needed. He and Addison, the cinematographer, leaned into it, capturing long, creeping shots that felt more Silent Hill than standard slasher flick.
The scene shifted perspectives with precision.
The male climber reached the summit—safe for all of three seconds—before something unseen hurled him from view.
His body flew past the female climber still clinging to the cliff face.
The tight and visceral shot placed the audience directly in her shoes.
Addison had watched the footage back and whispered, "Jesus Christ."
Christian just nodded.
Of course, making it work took effort. The actor playing the male climber, Brandon Fisher, was hoisted up and lowered again and again by the props team to sell the fall.
Distant shots used a dummy, but the close-ups were all Brandon, his face locked in a frozen scream.
After the final take, Brandon stumbled over, rubbing his lower back.
"Hell of a fall," Christian said, lighting a cigarette.
"But you nailed it. Keep going like that and you'll go far."
"Thanks," Brandon said, wincing as he sat.
"But after this, I think I'm sticking to action flicks. Guns are better than cliffs."
Christian smirked. "We lowered you slowly. Added suspense. We'll speed it up once it hits the edit bay—make the fall hit hard. Could've gone old-school and tossed you like a sack of bricks."
Brandon grimaced. "Thank God we're not making martial arts films."
Christian didn't respond, just exhaled smoke into the cold air and looked back at the valley—still and dark, but not silent.
Never silent.
Something was here.
And he planned to use it.
Christian leaned against the railing, cigarette barely lit, watching the smoke curl into the cold night air.
Fisher was still going on about martial arts movies.
"They always felt like science fiction to me. I mean, people flying through trees, walking on water? Come on."
Christian gave a dry chuckle. "Doesn't mean it's unrealistic."
Fisher blinked. "You think it's real?"
"I think reality's stranger than most people can handle."
Fisher once told him he believed everyone from the East knew some secret fighting art.
Christian had just stared at him, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Is that so?"
It reminded him of the time Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon won that Saturn Award for science fiction and horror.
Fitting, in a weird way. People didn't know where to place things that didn't fit their tidy categories.
Christian wasn't a fan of martial arts flicks—not really. He could sit through them, but magic had changed his perspective on fantasy.
Learning to twist the fabric of the world, even a little, made cinematic kung fu look like shadow puppets.
"You think magic turns you into a goddamn superhero?" he'd once snapped at Fisher.
["The kind that punches out ten guys in slow motion? Think again. The spells I taught you—they're misdirection, glamours, tricks. Real magic's subtle. It's quiet. It's about knowing what to bend without breaking the world or yourself. It's not street brawling. It's sleight of hand with blood in the ink."]
He'd inherited that disdain from the old ghost who trained him.
The old ghost hated it when people treated magic like a weapon.
Christian understood now. Power had a price, and in this world, you always paid it in advance or blood.
"Even if I wanted to throw down with it," he muttered, "that ship's sailed."
Magic in the modern age? A joke. The spiritual energy had thinned, like trying to start a fire with wet matches.
Back in the '80s, maybe there was a little more spark. But now? Against a Glock? Forget it.
You couldn't hex a bullet midair. Not reliably. But ghosts?
Ghosts were still vulnerable if you knew where to jab the knife.
Which is why he'd been patrolling the film set every damn night.
Officially, he was "keeping an eye out" for vandals or safety hazards.
Unofficially, he was hunting.
So far, nothing had taken the bait.
"Heroes are useless," he muttered, questioning why he ever thought this job was a good idea.
Usually, he could sense something by now. The air here was wrong—dense. Charged. Like the feeling before a thunderstorm, only colder.
It reminded him of old places—fields soaked with blood and stories best left untold.
The disappearance count in the area was off the charts. It reeked of something ancient and angry.
Christian narrowed his eyes, scanning the tree line. Then—a faint click.
A twig snapping underfoot.
He froze.
Could've been anything. Deer. Crew member sneaking off for a smoke.
Maybe a couple of interns are looking for privacy. It happened. He didn't like to pry.
Then he saw them—two figures moving slowly through the dark.
Feminine silhouettes. One of them laughed, just a whisper on the breeze.
But they were coming from the direction of the prop house—the one the crew had dubbed the cannibal's cottage.
Built for effect, but sturdy enough. Running water.
A grim little set piece dressed up to scare tourists.
He squinted. Something wasn't right.
He opened his Sight. It took a second—the usual sting behind the eyes, like trying to focus through a migraine.
And then he saw them.
Two pale shapes drifting just behind the women. Not human. Not solid. Not there in any way that made sense.
Just impressions of faces, all cheekbones and hollow sockets, staring past skin and into the soul.
"Well, hell," Christian muttered, reaching into his coat.
"Guess tonight's not a total waste."
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References-
1. Silent Hill- Horror Series
2. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon- Martial Arts Movie (2000)