Chapter 2: Ace and the 50th Curse

Ace didn’t hide what he was after. He wanted to milk my breaking of the '49-film rule' for all it was worth, to make a killing off the publicity. He even joked, voice slick as oil:

'Hey, if you really do kick the bucket on set, this movie’s gonna sell like crazy. Don’t sweat it—your family gets every dime. I’m not that heartless.'

His words crawled under my skin, but he grinned like it was just another pitch meeting. Only in America, I thought, could someone look you dead in the eye and talk about your death like it was just another marketing angle. Tragedy and money, waltzing together—straight out of Hollywood.

Before Ace came along, I’d borrowed from everyone I could. People started dodging me, stopped picking up my calls. The hospital let me know: the organ donor was slipping, and surgery had to happen soon. They wanted the money ready.

There were days I sat in the ER with a cold cup of vending machine coffee, scrolling my contacts, thumb hesitating over each name. I knew what I’d ask, and I knew what answer I’d get. Everyone’s got their own problems. Even old friends ducked out. In the end, all I had were voicemails and silence.

Saving Danny was all that mattered. I signed the contract with no second thoughts. The money hit my account before Ace finished his coffee. Seeing that $150,000 transfer, my hands started shaking. A chill ran up my spine. For a second, I flashed back to those hospital bills on the kitchen table, the sleepless nights, the way hope starts to feel like a warning. This was the price for my life—no question.

People think acting is just following a script, but in this line of work, you learn quick: props, rituals, and superstitions test the line between the living and the dead. Mess up, and you might piss off spirits—or God Himself.

I remember once, a grip refused to roll camera until someone found his lucky rabbit’s foot. We all joked, but no one started filming until that charm turned up. Superstition runs deep out here.

Every film started with a ritual. We’d gather in some old church, candles flickering, praying for a safe shoot. After twenty years, I’d seen plenty I couldn’t explain. I always figured I was lucky—born under a good sign, able to turn bad into good more times than I could count.

I remember standing in a creaky Georgia chapel, crew crowded shoulder to shoulder, candles lighting up the stained glass. Even the biggest cynics went quiet. You don’t tempt fate, not in this business.

Before joining the crew again, I visited my mentor—the one who first spotted something odd in my birth chart and dragged me into horror films. He said I could only make 49. Go for 50, and disaster would follow.

He still lived in that old house outside Pittsburgh. A Steelers flag hung limp over the porch, and an old lawnmower rusted in the weeds. When I walked inside, the air was thick with coffee and cedar. He looked at me the same way he did when I was twenty. 'You made your choice, Ben,' he said quietly, 'but you come see me first.'

When I told him I was doing my 50th, he went silent. He didn’t argue—like he’d seen it coming all along. He reached deep in his closet and pulled out a small box, handing it to me as if it weighed a ton.

His hand trembled, lines on his face cutting deeper. 'It’s your turn now,' he murmured.

'Take this. It can protect you from one disaster.'

The box felt warm in my palm, almost alive. For a second, I wanted to hand it back, but the look in his eyes said this was the only way forward.