The set looked cursed even before anyone died on it.

The fake fog machines hissed and churned as a crew member dragged a blood-splattered dummy across the gravel. Spotlights cast sharp white shapes against the trees, and the air smelled like sweat, rubber, and burnt coffee. Sam squinted down at the crumpled newspaper in his hand, flipping between obituaries and grainy photos of the crime scenes. Dean was a step behind, biting into a chocolate bar like it owed him money.

“I’m just saying, the stunt guy’s head shouldn’t have come off like that,” you muttered, tugging the lanyard that marked you as a PA. “It was a plastic blade.”

Dean smirked. “Hell Hazers II: The Decapitating? Now that’s cinema.”

Sam ignored both of you, his brow furrowed as he scanned the articles. “Three deaths in the last two weeks. One in post-production, two on set. But there’s more—local archives say there’ve been incidents here going back eighty years. Crew vanishings, freak accidents, even a suicide on set in the ‘50s.”

Dean glanced around, half-interested. “Poltergeist?”

“Maybe,” Sam replied, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm. “But that kind of energy repeating this long, over decades? That’s not just rage. That’s anchored.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Anchored to what?”

Dean shrugged, licking chocolate off his thumb. “Well, time to find out. Let’s split up, snoop around, try not to get murdered by a fog machine.”

The director barked orders in the background, oblivious to the invisible weight hanging in the air. Somewhere off-screen, a blood-curdling scream sounded—not part of the script.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me that was a sound check.”

You answered before Dean could. “Nope.”

They exchanged a look. Then you moved—Sam with his calm urgency, Dean with his usual swagger, and you close behind, your breath catching slightly as the set swallowed you whole.

Whatever haunted this place wasn’t just replaying a tragedy.

It was building toward something.