Chapter 6: Ghosts in the Machine

Will had drowned while scouting locations. The seventh day after death is when, by old superstition, a soul is at its most unstable—easiest to possess a living body. Was he trying to come back through me? The thought made my skin crawl.

After work, I called my mentor. I paced the motel room, heart racing, staring at my own reflection in the TV screen as I told him everything. He listened, then asked:

'What did the lighter look like?'

I described it: 'Long, thin, flame like an animal’s paw—black, and the flame was green.'

He sighed. 'That’s it. It’s a soul-stealing fire—made from a black cat’s forearm bone and ashes. Whoever lights a candle with it has their soul drawn out by the ashes’ owner. After seven days, the spirit can possess a body. If you hadn’t resisted underwater, Will would have come back through you.'

He said it flat, but his words chilled me more than the water ever could.

On set, we always kept a memorial table—candles, offerings, prayers. The table was tucked in a corner, red velvet cloth, surrounded by coffee cups and half-burned incense. It was half Hollywood, half backwoods faith, but everyone took it seriously.

I went to check. The cleaning lady was wiping the table, her voice hushed:

'Mr. Mason, these three candles are amazing—they’ve been burning for days and haven’t gone out.'

I picked one up. There were my fingerprints at the base, pressed hard from anxiety. I brought the candle near the cross, and all three flames went out at once. The air turned cold. The cleaning lady gasped, crossing herself.

The opening prayer had been at noon; now it was 9 a.m.—just shy of seven days. I’d barely escaped. But my mentor warned: a dead man can’t do all this alone. Someone living had to help.

As I pondered, a group of young assistants exclaimed—the crew was trending online! Phones buzzed with notifications. 'We’re viral!' someone shouted, half nervous, half thrilled.

My underwater struggle had gone viral, cut into a short video. Even before filming, Ace had hyped my 50th film online. Some psychic was making predictions, saying I’d die on the 49th day of filming. Rumors flew: that I was already dead, that everything now was a stand-in and AI face replacement. Fans argued in the comments, swearing they’d see for themselves.

I knew the leak was from inside. I thought of Ace—he’d wanted something to happen to me. I messaged him, left voicemails and texts. He finally replied, inviting me to a motel near the set. The parking lot buzzed with cicadas, the air thick with the smell of fried onions from the diner next door.

He grinned, phone in hand, scrolling through a string of numbers. 'You’re a gold mine, Ben. Know what this is?' He flashed the pre-sale revenue—already $45 million. The movie couldn’t hit theaters, so he’d made a streaming deal—$5 a pre-sale ticket, $10 after release. My cut was over $450,000. Enough to keep Danny cared for.

'All press is good press, right?' Ace said, slapping my back. But his eyes didn’t smile.

Before I left, I asked, 'You know Will Cooper?'

He shrugged. 'The unlucky kid who drowned. I had someone do a memorial. His family got paid.' Like it was just another line item on the budget.

I told him about what happened underwater and the candles. He joked, 'If it was me, I’d have waited till the end! AI face replacement is expensive.' He tried to laugh, but his voice cracked. For now, he was off my suspect list, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that danger was still lurking.

Back at my motel, my mentor called again. He warned me: the soul-stealing fire had drained most of my life force. I was vulnerable. Keep the cross close, avoid mirrors at night, sleep with the lights on. His fear was real, and it rattled me.

Then my wife messaged: the donor had passed, and Danny’s surgery was about to start. My hands shook as I read it. I whispered a prayer for both families, hoping someone up there was listening.