Even Jodie Foster, well-versed in horror tropes, found herself growing curious.
She shot a glance at Christian, who simply tilted his head, signaling her to look down at the screen again.
In the original Wrong Turn, the killers — mutants twisted by generations of isolation — were grotesque, but little more than that: ugly, brutal, forgettable.
Christian's version was different.
Collaborating with the Wrath Tiger, Christian had altered the mutants' design.
Elements of the mandrill — ancient, totemic, almost religious in symbolism — had been woven into their appearances.
They remained monstrous, yes, but now they carried an eerie dignity, an unsettling aura of worship twisted into savagery.
As Christian once explained to Annika, the lead makeup artist:
"They're not just beasts. They're relics of a lost faith. Something sacred, and broken."
When Jodie finally caught a full glimpse of the mutant onscreen, she drew in a sharp breath.
She had expected the grotesque.
People instinctively associated ugliness with terror — an old, unfair bias, as old as The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
But she hadn't anticipated the weight behind these designs.
The mutants weren't just ugly.
They were mysterious.
Every subtle line of makeup, every strange adornment on their bodies suggested rituals, beliefs, things older than memory.
Jodie found herself leaning closer, almost despite herself, trying to read their story in their faces.
"What remarkable work," she murmured, admiration slipping into her voice — and not just for Christian.
She made a mental note to personally compliment Annika later.
But it wasn't just the monsters.
It was how the survivors behaved.
Two of the group had already fallen — brutally, suddenly — but the remaining four?
Their fear felt real.
Jodie was impressed — and more than a little unsettled.
How had Christian managed it? The set design — the grimy, rotted cabin, the jars of human teeth — was effective, sure.
But that wasn't what made the tension crackle through the screen. It was something deeper.
Something in the way the danger seeped into every frame, thick and inevitable.
"Maybe this guy actually knows how to make a damn good horror movie," Jodie thought, sneaking another sideways glance at Christian, revising her estimation upward.
Still, a question gnawed at her.
Pausing the footage to rest her eyes, Jodie turned to him.
"Hey," she said casually, "those blood symbols painted on the floor — they look like... a dark magic circle. Am I imagining that?"
Christian smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said he enjoyed being asked.
"You're not wrong," he said.
"It's a magic circle. The design's pulled from old European occult. This one spells 'North.'"
"'North?" Jodie frowned.
"Wait, wasn't Wrong Turn originally a straight-up splatter flick? No magic, no mysticism?"
"It was," Christian admitted, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
"But horror... evolves. Blending in a darker mythology gives it more weight. The circle's not just set dressing — it's a breadcrumb. It ties into our secondary storyline."
Jodie blinked. "Secondary storyline? I didn't see that when I invested."
Christian didn't elaborate.
He just winked.
"Watch the movie a few more times. You'll find it."
Jodie shook her head, half amused, half frustrated. Classic.
Christian leaned back in his seat, mind drifting to the night before — and the strange visitor he hadn't told anyone about.
The memory was still fresh.
Late that night, after the crew had wrapped, Christian had been alone in his tent — the desert air cold, the wind whispering through the seams of the canvas.
Without warning, the air grew still.
He felt it before he saw it.
A pale figure materialized, stepping through the fabric walls like mist.
An old man's silhouette, eyes hollow and lips moving without sound.
Christian sighed without surprise.
He had gotten used to spirits — at least the ones that didn't bother to manifest beyond a whisper.
"Ghosts," he muttered, irritated, "always so dramatic."
The figure resolved more clearly: Alan McElroy — or what was left of him.
The former director, long dead, consumed by the Wrath Tiger.
Now, little more than a puppet, an extension of something much older, much hungrier.
Christian didn't bother standing. He stayed slouched in his chair, arms crossed, waiting.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice low, almost bored.
The ghost smiled — a brittle, alien gesture — and answered, voice like a breath against the skin.
"I'm here to remind you... You made a promise."
Christian exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.
Promises. Deals made in the dark, whispered too close to things better left forgotten.
He hadn't forgotten.
He just hoped he could survive keeping them.
"Of course not," Christian said coolly, stretching his legs out with studied nonchalance.
"The runes painted on the mutants' faces, the magic circles on the cabin floor — all crafted to your liking. Reflections of who you are."
Christian gave a lazy shrug, his voice tinged with dry regret.
"When audiences are terrified — when they stand in awe of the creatures and the cabin — that awe doesn't just vanish. It latches onto something. Enough of it builds up, and then..."
He smiled thinly.
"You ascend. From bogeyman to full-fledged god."
Christian shook his head, feigning disappointment.
"It's just a pity you won't show yourself properly. Your real form? You could shake the crowd to their bones without all this smoke and mirrors. No middlemen. No slow drip."
The ghost chuckled, a low sound that seemed to leech the warmth out of the air.
"You think I'd be foolish enough to step into the light?"
Alan — or rather, the thing wearing Alan's face — smirked.
"You know exorcism. You know what it costs to slip up. Do you take me for some minor spirit?"
Christian leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, utterly unbothered.
"You're not stupid," he said.
"But you're not half as clever as you like to think, either."
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, voice cool.
"Did you really think I hadn't figured it out, old crow?"
The words hung in the tent like a curse.
For a moment, silence.
Then the ghost laughed — a deep, ugly sound, thick with ancient malice.
"It's been a long time," he said, almost fond.
"I haven't been called that in ages. How did you guess?"
Christian raised an eyebrow, looking bored.
"Was it supposed to be difficult?"
He ticked off casually on his fingers.
"First, your obsession with old pagan rites. Second, the way you divided power, east, west, south, and north. Third, the rituals you used to twist men into beasts. Classic Old World trickery."
He gave a slow, mocking clap.
"And the magic circle you had me carve on the floor? It wasn't just random sigils — it spelled 'North' in the old tongue. Your old seat."
Christian tilted his head, smirking.
"You might have changed faces, but the rot underneath's the same."
The ghost's expression flickered — for the first time, real surprise bleeding through.
"You," it rasped, "a mortal... reading the First Scripts?"
A second later, it laughed again, colder, crueler.
"Yes. I am the North King. The one they prayed to... and bled for."
Its eyes gleamed, old and hungry.
"What now, little magician? You've unmasked me. Will you strike?"
Christian yawned theatrically, rubbing at his jaw like he was half-asleep.
"What else? We stick to the plan."
He jerked his thumb lazily toward the roof of the tent.
"You're powerful, sure. And I've got spells... but picking a fight with something clawing its way back to godhood? That's a fool's game."
He leaned back, tone cutting sharply.
"Besides, you don't scare me."
The ghost studied him for a long moment. Alan's face smiled thinly, like a bad mask stretching too far.
"Very well," it said at last, with something like regret.
"But if you cross me again..."
Its grin widened into something predatory.
"...your little blonde friend won't get away next time."
Christian waved the threat away like smoke.
"You're barking up the wrong tree there, mate."
Then, casually, like discussing the weather:
"Since we're keeping the arrangement, mind doing me a favor?"
The ghost cocked its head, curious.
"A favor?"
Christian nodded, his grin sharpening into something wolfish.
"Promotion," he said simply, tapping his temple.
"I'm going to need your current face for a little... marketing stunt."
------------
References-
1. The Hunchback of Notre Dame- is a French Gothic novel by Victor Hugo, published in 1831. (Animated by Disney in 1996)