"Wrong Turn" wasn't exactly a cinematic milestone—just another low-budget horror flick with a passable reputation.
Like most in the genre, it barely made a ripple among critics.
Aside from rare exceptions like The Silence of the Lambs, horror films tend to be box office fodder, not critical darlings.
Sure, horror has its crowd—especially in North America—but it rarely earns the kind of praise that fills trophy cabinets.
Many acclaimed directors got their start in horror, but they usually don't look back once they hit the big time.
Even someone like David Fincher, who's spent decades keeping audiences on edge, leans toward psychological thrillers more than traditional horror.
Christian had always been drawn to the strange and supernatural.
He'd spent too many nights in grimy theaters or dusty old magic shops, watching horror flicks back-to-back, soaking in every scream, every shadow.
Wrong Turn wasn't a masterpiece, but something about the script lingered with him.
As he skimmed through a battered screenplay, a flicker of recognition hit him.
"Is this... from the guy before me?" he muttered, voice rough.
"I don't remember him working on this. And the movie's not even out yet... Weird."
A headache bloomed behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples.
"Then again, nothing unusual about that. Scripts can float around Hollywood purgatory for years before getting greenlit. Hell, by the time a film hits theaters, the original writer's probably moved on—or been screwed out of credit altogether."
He couldn't remember the screenwriter's name. Maybe he never knew it.
But the bigger question was clear: Was this script the one that became Wrong Turn?
He started comparing what he remembered from his fragmented mind and the tattered soul he now carried pieces of.
Not a perfect match, but close. Too close to ignore.
Over fifty percent similarity, easily. In Hollywood terms, that was practically identical.
"Well... looks like you weren't completely useless," Christian muttered to no one in particular.
"Guess I'll finish the damn thing for you."
Impulse took over. Fueled by half-stolen memories and a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, he sat down to write.
He hadn't meant to pick up the guy's skills—writing, storyboarding, even basic scene layout—but souls are messy.
Memories bleed over whether you want them to or not. He wasn't a screenwriting genius but knew enough to fake it.
And somewhere along the way, he'd also picked up a few unsavory talents.
"The only thing I seem to have mastered," he said dryly, "is how to spike a drink at a bar. Wonderful. Just what every haunted man needs in his toolkit."
He snorted bitterly and kept typing. As the script took shape, it started looking more and more like the Wrong Turn he remembered—only... better. Tighter. Less clumsy.
"Guess it's not the worst thing to do with this second shot at life," he told himself.
"The bones of the story are solid. Better than some of the crap I seen cooked up before."
He kept going.
"Still... Wrong Turn leans hard on gore and shock. That's the American flavor of horror—fast cuts, blood spatter, jump scares. Nothing like the slow-burn dread of a well-done psychological thriller."
He paused, remembering. The film had tried—clumsily—to build suspense early on.
But the pacing dragged, and whatever tension it built in the first hour collapsed under the weight of a rushed climax.
Eighty minutes of buildup... and the big bad mutant was taken out in under five.
"Like bad sex," Christian muttered.
"Way too much foreplay and then it's over before anyone breaks a sweat."
He grimaced.
"That's a hell of a metaphor," he muttered.
"Too accurate for comfort."
The truth was, Wrong Turn wasn't a bad movie. It was just a wasted opportunity.
The real failure wasn't the premise—the script's shallow execution and the sloppy edit that followed.
And in Hollywood, edits kill more films than bad acting ever could.
"Doesn't matter how many clever shots a director sets up.
If the editor hacks them out in post, the audience never sees the real story."
He'd seen it before. Too many times.
"Unless the director's got final cut—good luck. Most don't. Not unless their name's on a poster somewhere on Sunset."
And when the movie flops, no one blames the edit.
They blame the story.
"Ahhhhhhhh... It's like arguing about the chicken or the egg," Christian groaned, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to shake loose the spiral of overthinking.
"Forget the director-editor drama. Do I stick with the predecessor's script? It's damn near Wrong Turn. Do I rewrite it from scratch? Or do I just copy wholesale and call it a day?"
He sighed.
"Hell of a three-way choice. Pick any two, and I'm still stuck. Might as well head to the park, pluck a daisy, and play 'he loves me, he loves me not.'"
He paused. Blinked.
"Wait. What the hell am I saying? I'm not lovesick. And I'm not in La Traviata."
He slumped forward, forehead aiming for the desk—until he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Disheveled, talking to no one, ranting about screenplays and operas. A living cliché. Good thing no one was around to see—
Knock, knock.
Of course.
The apartment door—older than sin and twice as cranky—didn't even have a doorbell.
Just a tired wood frame and the ancient courtesy of knuckles on wood.
"Who the hell is it?" he snapped, annoyed. His head was still full of plot structure and half-rewritten horror tropes.
A muffled voice came from the other side, slurring slightly.
"Takeout. Cheesecake Factory. Ouch."
Christian rolled his eyes.
"I've never heard of a restaurant letting drunks deliver food."
He yanked open the door.
There she was—Charlize. Still wearing the Cheesecake Factory uniform, though it looked like it had seen a war.
One hand held a paper takeout bag; the other clutched a half-empty beer bottle.
"This is a new delivery service," he said flatly.
"Besides, Cheesecake Factory doesn't even do takeout. You've worked there long enough to know that."
Charlize wobbled slightly but held her ground.
"Rules are for the sober."
She pushed past him like she owned the place. The stench of beer hit him like a right hook. He recoiled instinctively.
"Jesus, Charlize—how often do I have to tell you? Alcohol's poison. You're soaking your guts in it."
"Says the smoker."
She waved him off, still slurring. "Right, right... poison in the intestines, root of all evil... gas, smoke, artillery fire—yada yada."
Christian winced. "That's not even close to what I said."
She plopped down on his couch, bottle still in hand.
"You're not a monk, Christian. Vatican or not. You deal with ghosts, not God."
She held up the bottle like an offering.
"This one's for you. And don't give me that crap about Budweiser. That's not real beer."
He raised an eyebrow. "I prefer Kvass. Not exactly a hard drink, but at least it's got flavor."
Charlize sneered. "Kvass? What's the point? That stuff's like Russian tea. Real men drink vodka. Kvass is an embarrassment."
She paused dramatically and shouted, "KAMA!"
Christian corrected her without looking up. "It's KUMA. Russian for bear."
She gave him a blank look, then shrugged. "Whatever. Close enough. I've got the hair for it."
Christian smirked. "You're blonde. And South African."
"Details," she said, waving a hand.
"Cultural accuracy is overrated." (T/N: A truly different time)
He couldn't deny it—since the exorcism, Charlize had changed.
Her personality had always been strong, but now someone had turned the dial to eleven.
Drinking only made it worse.
Or, better, depending on how you looked at it.
"You didn't answer the question," he said.
"Why are you drinking again?"
She just grinned at him, eyes glassy but defiant.
And in that moment, Christian had to wonder—for both of them—
Was this just another wrong turn?
----
References-
La Traviata- Opera by Giuseppe Verdi (1853)