The air on set always felt just a little too cold. Not movie-set cold — real cold. The kind that bites into your bones and makes the hair on your arms rise even under five layers. Drew had joked about it on the first day: “Method chilling, huh?” We both laughed.

But that was before the chandelier.

Before the bruises.

Before we stopped joking.

The film is called EXORCISM. A gritty retelling of a real case from the 80s — a couple moves into a house that slowly, and very deliberately, eats them alive. Drew and I were cast as the leads. The chemistry? Immediate. Every take together felt electric. Natural. Even the more intimate scenes — ones you’d expect to be awkward — just worked.

But that’s not the part that keeps us up at night.

The flickering lights? Almost cliché. But it wasn’t the power. The gaffer swore everything was stable. And those “random” objects that fell during takes? Always close. Too close. On the third day, a lamp exploded right between us during a dinner scene. Glass rained across the table like sharp confetti. Everyone froze.

No one said “cut.”

I remember the worst day.

I was rehearsing a scene in the main hall, reading a passage from the Bible — you know, the one where I scream out scripture to “cleanse” the house. The moment I said “deliver us from evil,” something cracked above me. I looked up just as Drew screamed my name and yanked me backward.

A chandelier — massive, old, real — slammed into the floor exactly where I stood. Shattered. Dust and rage.

Everyone stood in stunned silence. The director finally muttered something about “paranoia” and “the energy we’re channeling,” like that explained anything.

Later that day, Drew pulled up his shirt in the trailer — five dark bruises across his ribs like fingers had grabbed him. No one touched him during that scene. No stunt. No fall. Just marks.

So yeah, things haven’t felt normal in a while.

Tonight, filming wrapped late. The rest of the crew had already gone. Me and Drew stayed back, packing our stuff, joking about take 9 where he dropped the prop Bible and called it “a bad omen.” I told him not to say that. Half-laughing, half-serious.

The studio lights were mostly off. Just the red “EXIT” sign blinking at the end of the hall.

“I swear,” I whispered, pulling on my jacket, “I keep feeling like someone’s watching us.”

He looked at me. Not with a smirk. Not with reassurance. But with something else.

Relief.

“You feel it too?”

We both went quiet.

Something creaked. Slowly.

The sound came from the upstairs set — the fake bedroom with the real bedframe they borrowed from the actual house the film was based on.

“Let’s not,” I said quickly.

Drew agreed.

We turned to leave — but the lights buzzed once, then all cut out. Complete black.

My phone light barely pierced the shadows. I grabbed his arm. Hard.

“Okay, not funny.”

“I didn’t—” he started, but then we heard it.

A soft scratching sound.

Not distant.

Right behind us.

We turned.

No one there.

But on the floor… dragging itself across the concrete, was a page from the script. Only one.

Scene 13.

The sex scene.

The one where, in the story, the demon enters the wife for the first time.

Drew picked it up. Read the line aloud, half-choking: “He kisses her like she’s already gone.”

And then — every door in the studio slammed shut at once.

The Bible fell off the table again. But this time it wasn’t open.

It was burning.