"Rise"
The word hit like a strike of thunder.
"Rise."
It wasn't loud, but it sliced through the quiet and settled into Charlize's bones, dragging her up from unconsciousness.
Her eyes fluttered open. The world returned in pieces—dim light, the scent of old incense, and Christian standing before her like some half-remembered figure from a fever dream.
She'd only known him for a few days. And yet, here he was, standing like he owned the shadows.
Christian Booth… are you a fraud, or are you really what you claim—a master of exorcism?
She didn't know anymore. It all felt unreal, like she'd been dropped into some twisted fantasy.
A gritty, broken version of Narnia, if such a thing existed.
Like Susan, grown-up and jaded, walking through doorways that led not to wonderlands but to horrors. (Susan- Character from Narnia)
When he asked her to help with ghost-hunting, she should've laughed and walked away.
But she didn't. Somewhere between fear and fascination, she said yes.
'Maybe I'm still dreaming,' she thought.
Some childhood dream clawing its way back through the mess of adult life and turning into something darker.
Charlize tried to rise from the chair, but her body didn't respond.
She felt weightless. Not in a peaceful way—more like a marionette, limbs floating without strings.
Even her emotions had drifted somewhere far away.
'Is this what an overdose feels like?' she wondered vaguely.
'If I'd known it was this calm, I would've skipped the bars. Hangovers are worse than this.'
For a moment, she drifted in that numb haze.
Then her mouth opened.
"Sir, where am I? Who are you? What do you want?"
The words came in her voice, but she hadn't spoken them. Panic gripped her.
She was a passenger in her own body.
"What? Have you forgotten?" Christian snapped.
"Miss Alexis, this is the audition room. You're here to read for the part, remember?"
His voice was sharp, clipped, worn from too many cigarettes and too little patience.
It wasn't cruel—but it was cold, the way someone sounds when they've seen too much and care too little.
"You said you weren't feeling well earlier. Are you good now?"
That last word—good—was loaded with dry sarcasm.
Charlize's instincts flared. This was the trigger—the signal.
Christian's plan.
She remembered now.
He'd explained it the night before, in that smoky motel room with the flickering lamp and the ashtray full of burned-out matches.
"When I call her—Alexis—she'll take control," he'd said.
"You won't be driving anymore, but you won't be locked in the trunk either. Think of it like… possession with visitation rights."
"I'm supposed to imagine my way through this?" she'd snapped, doubting everything.
"You're not a priest," he said.
"You're an actress. Imagination's your weapon."
She hadn't answered then. Her pride wouldn't let her admit that her acting chops were paper-thin.
Half-baked student gigs and rejected pilot scripts didn't exactly make you Meryl Streep.
Still, Christian pressed on.
"Think of it this way. Ghosts don't knock politely. They crawl in through the cracks in your head—your fears, your guilt, your fantasies. They don't need strength. They need you to believe."
"So you're saying I trick the ghost by dreaming harder than it does?"
"Something like that."
Now, caught between worlds, Charlize heard his voice again—clear, commanding.
"Imagine, Sally. You're in a high-stakes audition for Mary Jane. James Cameron's reboot. You want this. You need this. You've been running lines all night, skipping rent, scraping by on ramen and Red Bull. Feel the room—the stale coffee breath of the casting directors, the cheap folding chairs, the way they don't even look up when you walk in. You've been here before."
And suddenly, she had.
It rushed back with all the force of a broken dam.
Running lines in cramped bathrooms. Smiling through rejection.
Drinking alone after every failed callback. And yet, I continue to show up and still hold on to hope.
This is the audition.
Not just for a role. For everything. For survival. For control.
And this one? This one didn't come with casting couches or second chances.
There was no makeup to cover mistakes. No tricks. No shortcuts. Just her. Her voice. Her will.
This was Christian's battlefield stage, and he'd dragged her onto it.
She saw herself now, one among dozens of flawless faces, every girl there believing she was the one. Charlize stood taller.
Let Alexis watch. Let the ghost try to take over. This was her scene.
Her moment.
"May the strongest win, little bitches."
As the tension eased, something changed inside her.
For the first time, Charlize began to wield her imagination deliberately, not as an escape but as a weapon.
The world shifted.
Her bedroom dissolved like fog at sunrise, replaced by the sterile interior of a soundproof audition room.
The walls were padded with faded acoustic panels.
The air carried traces of cheap perfume—desperation bottled and sprayed by the girls who came before her, each chasing the same fleeting dream.
Christian was gone.
In his place sat a man, middle-aged, round in the middle, but solid in the shoulders. His impatience clung to him like a second skin.
He was the casting director now, watching her like he knew she'd disappoint him.
"I can do it, sir."
The words escaped her lips, but they weren't hers.
It was Alexis.
Charlize could feel it—her mind syncing with the ghost's. They weren't just sharing a body now; they were overlapping like two radio frequencies bleeding into each other.
Thoughts drifted from one consciousness to the other until they were indistinguishable.
Her imagination had become the fuel—volatile, flammable.
And Christian, or whatever presence had prodded her from behind the curtain of this illusion, had sparked the flame.
The result wasn't controlled exactly, but a combination of words, emotions, and movements caught fire instantly.
And in this fire, she burned as Alexis.
"I can begin the audition," she said, steady.
She didn't smile, but Charlize raised a fist for herself somewhere inside—a silent cheer.
The casting director's scowl softened. Barely.
He passed her a single sheet—thin script, thinner patience.
"Start from the top," he said, settling back into his chair. Hands folded beneath his chin. Watching.
Don't be afraid, she told herself. You've done harder things.
She opened the page.
"Please perform the scene where Mary Jane is rescued by Spider-Man. She's grateful, enchanted. They kiss—upside down, in the rain."
A kiss scene?
She blinked. Not what she expected. But the look on the casting director's face—a faint, predatory smirk—told her everything.
"No one will be reading opposite you," he said.
"Spider-Man will be composited in later. We need to see your ability to sell it on a green screen. Can you handle that?"
"Of course."
A kiss scene. Cheap trick. No scene partner. She wasn't some fresh-off-the-bus amateur. This wasn't a challenge.
This was a test of presence, of poise under pressure. Let them watch.
"May I start?"
The man didn't answer, just raised a hand in a flat, theatrical gesture—permission or dismissal. Either way, it hit her like a switch flipped in her chest. The air was charged.
Her body trembled.
Not from nerves, but from the echo of what had just happened. The ghost. The possession. Her blood still buzzed with adrenaline, her muscles still tight with the lingering fear.
But she stood.
And she imagined.
She looked ahead, not at the green screen or the casting director, but at the space where her mind placed him. Spider-Man. The hero.
Mysterious, magnetic. He hovered upside down just above her, rain running in streams over his mask. And she—Mary Jane—stood in the storm, soaked, shivering, her breath catching not from cold, but awe.
She stepped closer.
Gratitude, affection, something more stirred behind her eyes. Her breath hitched. She reached for him slowly, carefully, fingers brushing the edge of his mask.
He flinched—not from fear, but from uncertainty. Still, he let her continue.
Her hand found the hem of his mask and tugged gently.
Just enough to reveal his lips.
She hesitated.
Not because she was afraid, but because the moment demanded it. The tension, the anticipation. And then—
She leaned in.
Their lips met—cold skin. Warm breath. Sparks.
And even though it was just her, standing alone in a bare room with nothing but stale perfume and the hum of fluorescent lights, the kiss felt real. Raw. Charged.
For a moment, she forgot the script. Forgot the audition. Forgot the ghost.
She was Mary Jane.
And she was alive.