Chapter 3 – The Director’s Rules

Maricar awoke with a jolt.

It was still dark. The soft flicker of candlelight danced on the cracked walls of the ballroom, casting long shadows that moved just a little too slowly, like they were resisting the light. Around her, the other influencers slept in scattered positions — some curled under blankets, others still in the clothes they wore while exploring the mansion.

Her livestream phone was still clutched in her hand.

She blinked.

It was still streaming.

Battery: 86%.

Signal: full bars.

Viewers: 11,247.

💬 “She’s awake! Did you see that shadow?!”

💬 “Girl you been streaming for 6 hours???”

💬 “Not even joking, we saw someone sit beside you.”

Maricar froze and scanned the cot next to her.

Empty.

No impression on the mattress. No sign anyone had ever been there.

Except…

A faint scent of camphor and tobacco.

Just like her Lola’s altar back home.

She slowly sat up and whispered into her mic. “Mga ka-vibes, if you’re still watching… something’s wrong with this place. I don’t think we’re just filming a show anymore.”

The screen flashed again — briefly, like a blink — and a frame showed her own face, but older. Wiser. Tattooed across the forehead in ancient Visayan script.

And then it was gone.

The next morning, the influencers were summoned into the mansion’s library — a circular room with a domed ceiling and a spiral staircase lined with books. The windows were blacked out with velvet drapes. Someone had lit dozens of candles, but it still felt cold, like the walls themselves rejected the sun.

The Director stood at the center.

His suit was the same, but his expression had changed. Tighter. Less composed.

Behind him, several crew members stood stiffly, their faces pale and lips pressed into uneasy lines. None of them held equipment. None of them blinked.

He raised a hand.

“Welcome to the second stage,” he said calmly. “The viewers are watching. The mansion is… awake.”

Everyone glanced at each other.

“Wait, what do you mean 'awake'?” Kenji asked, folding his arms.

The Director smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You see, this show was meant to push boundaries. Reality and fiction. Fear and fame. But sometimes…” He looked toward a dark corner of the library. “Sometimes stories bite back.”

A long pause followed.

Then he raised a clipboard.

“Today’s challenge is simple,” he said. “Retrieve a script from the attic and bring it back down. Easy, right?”

“Script?” Nikki echoed. “For what?”

The Director tilted his head. “It’s not written for you yet. That’s the point.”

Jasper frowned. “So we’re just supposed to grab some random paper in a haunted attic and hope we don’t get possessed?”

“I mean,” Maricar said, checking her livestream again, “that is the show.”

💬 “Yall better not go alone 😭”

💬 “She’s got 15k viewers now, holy crap!”

💬 “Protect Maricar at all costs.”

The Director handed Maricar a brass skeleton key.

“You first,” he said. “The house seems to like you.”

The attic door was hidden behind a warped painting of a Spanish friar. The staircase behind it wound upward into darkness. No lights. No windows. Just air so thick it tasted like dust and decay.

Maricar led the way, phone in one hand, the key in the other. Nikki followed close behind.

At the top was a wooden door carved with symbols — not Spanish, not Catholic. Ancient. Familiar.

Maricar touched one and flinched.

It burned.

She unlocked the door.

The attic was a cavern of old trunks, shattered furniture, and forgotten heirlooms. Cobwebs stretched across every corner. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, something dripped — slow and steady.

Nikki turned on her flashlight. “Why do I feel like we just walked into a trap?”

Maricar didn’t answer. She was staring at a wooden table near the center of the room.

One piece of paper lay on it.

A script.

She approached it slowly. Her stream viewers dropped thousands of comments per second.

💬 “Don’t pick it up!!”

💬 “This is some cursed-ass found footage horror!”

💬 “Something’s behind Nikki!!”

She grabbed the script and turned it over.

Her name was on it.

MARICAR SANTOS

Scene 3A: Descent

Status: Marked

“What the hell—” she whispered.

Then came the sound.

Dragging. Shuffling. Behind the trunks.

Nikki screamed and pointed.

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

It was wearing a production headset. A black shirt with the show’s logo. But its face was wrong — sunken, eyeless, its mouth stretched too wide, as if something had tried to mimic a human and failed.

It raised a hand.

And spoke in the Director’s voice.

“Scene 3A… begin.”

They ran.

Down the stairs. Past the painting. Through the halls, breathless and trembling. The figure didn’t follow — but they heard it whispering in the walls.

They burst into the ballroom, where the others were waiting.

Maricar slammed the script down onto a table.

“I think the house is writing the show now.”

The Director stepped forward slowly, his face unreadable.

“You retrieved the page?” he asked.

“It had my name on it,” Maricar snapped. “And something marked me. You said this was a game. It’s not. What the hell is this place?”

The Director sighed and took off his headset.

He looked… tired.

“I made a deal,” he said quietly. “To make the best horror livestream in the world. Real fear. Real energy. Real ghosts. It worked. Sponsors, followers, cash… but now…”

He looked at Maricar directly.

“They’ve noticed you. The blood. The gift.”

Everyone was silent.

“What gift?” Kenji asked.

Maricar’s voice was steady. “I’m the granddaughter of a Babaylan. And this place… recognizes me.”

The Director nodded once. “Then you’re the only one who can finish the script.”

That night, Maricar sat on the floor near the fireplace, viewers still watching her stream.

She traced the ancient symbols from the attic on her sketchpad.

💬 “Those look like Baybayin letters???”

💬 “She’s trending worldwide rn. #BabaylanQueen”

💬 “This is some real shaman stuff. I’m hooked.”

She looked into the camera.