Movie Magick You Won't Believe (a.k.a. The Casting Coven)
I never thought chasing a dream could make me afraid of my own shadow. But that’s where I am now—jumping at every unexpected knock, scanning crowds for familiar faces, sleeping with the lights on like I’m eight years old again.
It all started so simply. A film crew had come to my hometown in southern California—an indie production, low budget but ambitious, the kind of thing that could give a nobody like me a real shot. I’d always wanted to act, and suddenly the opportunity was right there, practically on my street.
I showed up for the open call in a borrowed button-down and the kind of optimism that makes you feel invincible. The director—thin, intense, eyes too bright—looked me over like he was evaluating a piece of fruit at a market. He stared down at my feet.
“Take your shoes socks off for me…”
I did it. It didn’t seem weird to me. I’ve seen casting calls where actors have gotten parts in films simply because their hands were smooth or the space between their eyes were just right.
“Wiggle your toes for me…’
I did that too. Then he smiled.
“You’ve got the look,” he said. “But there’s… a process.”
I should’ve walked away the moment he said that. But ambition is a blinding thing.
They brought out a contract thick enough to be a college textbook. Most of it was standard legal jargon, but the last page… that was different. Symbols I didn’t recognize. A paragraph about “binding commitment of spirit and flesh.” And a small silver blade placed neatly beside the signature line.
I laughed at first, thinking it was some edgy theatrical gimmick.
“It’s tradition,” the director said. “A symbolic gesture. A drop of blood seals your dedication to the art.”
I told myself it was harmless. That actors did weirder things for roles. So I pressed the blade to my fingertip, winced, and let a bead of red fall onto the page.
The director’s smile widened in a way that made my stomach twist.
“Welcome to the family.”
The Gathering
Two nights later, they invited me to a “cast initiation.” I expected a barbecue or maybe a table read. Instead, I walked into an old warehouse lit only by candles. Everyone—dozens of them—stood barefoot on the cold concrete, dressed in black hooded robes.
I hesitated at the door, but someone gently guided me inside. Further into the house, the concrete floor gave way to comfortably warm carpet.
“This is part of the process,” they whispered.
The director stepped forward, robe sweeping the floor.
“Our film seeks authenticity,” he said. “We will be incorporating real rituals, real energy. Some of our cast are true practitioners. They will guide us.”
A few people lowered their hoods. Their faces were striking—too striking. No makeup, no filters, yet every one of them looked like they’d stepped out of a magazine. Their eyes gleamed with something I couldn’t name.
One woman smiled at me, and the hairs on my arms rose.
“We’re glad you joined us,” she said. “Your spirit has… potential.”
I don’t remember when the night stopped feeling like a quirky rehearsal exercise and started feeling like something else entirely. One moment I was following a group of indie actors into a house in the hills—laughing, buzzing with the thrill of being included—and the next I was sitting cross-legged on a thick beige carpet, a plastic cup of cheap red wine in my hand, wearing a black hooded robe.
The robe was warm, almost too warm, and the hood kept slipping forward, brushing my eyelashes. Around me, more than a dozen others lounged in a loose circle, all barefoot, all robed, all drinking like this was the most natural thing in the world. Someone had dimmed the lamps, so the room glowed in soft amber, like a cozy cabin instead of… whatever this actually was.
I took another sip—big mistake. The wine was stronger than I’d realized, or maybe I’d been drinking faster than I thought. My head felt pleasantly heavy, like it was full of warm sand. A woman to my left giggled at nothing, her hood falling back to reveal a messy bun and eyes half-closed. A guy across from me was already slumped sideways, his cup tipped over on the carpet. No one cared. No one even looked concerned.
They all knew what this was.
They were in a cult. They were in a movie making cult.
And somehow, so was I.
I tried to piece together how I’d gotten here. I remembered the casting call, the director with the intense stare, the way everyone talked about “commitment to the craft” like it was a sacred vow. I remembered someone handing me the robe with a wink. I remembered thinking, Well, maybe this is just how these indie circles bond.
But sitting there, surrounded by half-conscious actors in matching robes, I felt a slow, creeping embarrassment. Not fear—just the sinking realization that I’d let my hunger to belong override my common sense.
My eyelids drooped. The room swayed gently, like it was rocking me to sleep. A few people were already out cold, their bare feet sticking out from under their robes like pale punctuation marks. Someone snored softly. Someone else hummed a tune that faded into nothing.
I let my head tilt back against the couch behind me. The carpet was soft under my legs. The wine warmed my chest. And in that hazy, drifting moment, a thought surfaced—quiet, honest, and heavier than the rest.
I really did want to be an actor.
I still did.
But maybe… just maybe… I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.
As the room blurred and my consciousness thinned, I felt the weight of that truth settle over me more firmly than the robe ever had. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t even upset. Just tired—tired in a way that felt older than I was.
The last thing I remember before sleep pulled me under was the soft rustle of someone shifting beside me and the faint, ridiculous hope that tomorrow I’d wake up, shake off the robe, and start over on a road that didn’t require wine, hoods, or cults to feel like I belonged.
I slept. And I slept well for a bit.
And then I felt it.
A tiny pinch.
Right on my pinky toe.
At first I thought it was a dream. Or maybe a muscle twitch. But then it happened again — a deliberate little tweak, followed by the faintest chuckle from the other side of where I lay on that carpeted floor.
“Hey fella,” I mumbled, eyes still closed, “please don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything,” this strawberry-blond youth whispered, in the exact tone of someone absolutely doing something. “And the name’s Corey. I know I look like a kid, but I’m knocking on twenty … perfectly legal. Thank the goddess for plasma exchanges, right?”
I tried to ignore him and the tweak-touch. I really did. I shifted, rolled over, folded into myself like a bat. For about thirty seconds, peace returned.
Then Corey went for the big toe.
A full-on wiggle.
I jerked awake. “Seriously?”
The strawberry-blond youth burst into silent laughter, shoulders shaking. “Your toes are just… right there. They’re asking for it.”
“No, they’re not,” I said. “They’re trying to sleep. Like me and everyone else here.”
Everyone else, thankfully, really was asleep. There were about dozen or so other robed guys sprawled around us. Some snoring. Some mumbling incomprehensively, but all seemed to be fast asleep. But not me and “Corey”.
Every time I drifted off, he’d sneak in another poke, another pinch, another playful little twist of a toe. It was like sleeping next to a gremlin with a foot fixation — like a kid who considered my feet to be his nearest toy.
Finally, after what felt like an hour of this, I snapped.
“Enough! Please. I’m exhausted. Just… stop messing with my feet!”
Corey sat up slowly, arms crossed, giving me the kind of look a husband would get from his spouse in a heated courtroom drama. Bending my knees up further towards my chin, I tucked my bare feet into my robe
The nineteen-year-old reached under the bottom of my robe, fingers spidering toward my foot like some mischievous creature. I yanked my leg away so fast I nearly pulled a hamstring.
“Okay, okay,” he said, hands up. “I’ll stop.”
He did not stop.
“Cut this out or—"
“It’s just a game, buddy—"
“It’s not a game,” I said. “It’s torture. And it’s weird,”
Corey gasped like I’d insulted his Scottish ancestors or something.
I imagined explaining this experience to a therapist. Or a judge. Or my parents.
Why did you beat that poor boy senseless?
“Well, Your Honor, he kept playing with my feet while I was trying to sleep.”
I swear this kid had a personal vendetta against my sleep.
I’d barely drifted off again when something warm and wet dragged across the bottom of my bare foot. With my head swimming from the wine, I jolted awake, half convinced a monster had snaked across the carpeted floor—only to find Corery, the strawberry blond menace, staring at me with those big mischievous blue eyes. He grinned like he was proud of himself!
“Stop it, you freak” I mumbled, nudging his face away with my heel. I was too tired to do more than that. The wine had wiped me out, fright concerning the fact that I was in a cult had finished the job, and all I wanted right now was unconsciousness.
I rolled over on that carpeted floor and let myself sink back into sleep.
Two minutes later—maybe three, if I’m being generous—the warm/wet sensation returned. This time on the other foot. I groaned. Corey purred like he’d just discovered a new hobby.
“Buddy… please…” I didn’t even lift my head. I just tried to wiggle my toes out of reach. Corey took that as encouragement. The licking intensified.
I kicked gently, more like a tired flop than an actual kick. Corey dodged it with the agility of a ninja and resumed his mission. My feet were apparently the most fascinating objects in the universe.
I tried tucking them under the robe. Corey dug at the robe like he was unearthing treasure. I tried curling into a ball. Corey repositioned himself. I tried ignoring him. Impossible.
Every time I drifted off—lick. Pause. Lick. Pause. Lick-lick-lick.
By 3 a.m., I was bargaining with him like he could be reasoned with. Since I was a homosexual who wasn’t adverse towards feet, I said…
“I’ll let you suck my toes around noon… I’ll even suck yours. Just let me sleep now.”
Corey blinked slowly, which I think was his way of saying, No deal.
At some point I must’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion, because the next thing I knew, sunlight was creeping through the living room blinds. Corey was curled up peacefully at my feet, looking like a baby faced angel who had never caused a single problem in his entire life.
My feet, however, felt suspiciously damp. I glanced down at Corey.
His lips twitched. His shoulders shook. And suddenly he was laughing so hard he nearly rolled onto one of the other robed sleepers surrounding us. And the laugh was kind of evil. I swear it almost had an echo to it. Like two people were laughing at once! And I SWEAR his blue eyes seemed to be glowing.
That was the moment the dread hit me—sharp, instinctive, primal. I felt like a rabbit realizing it had wandered into a den full of foxes.
I don’t remember making a decision. My body just moved. I backed away, muttered something about needing air, and slipped out the door before anyone could stop me.
I didn’t go back. I didn’t answer their calls. I didn’t return the robe they’d given me. I just shut myself in my room and tried to convince myself I’d overreacted.
But the feeling wouldn’t leave.
Now
It’s been weeks. I should feel relieved, but instead I feel watched. Not constantly—just enough to keep me on edge. A car I don’t recognize parked across the street. A figure I swear I’ve seen twice at the grocery store. A voicemail with nothing but breathing.
Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s the price of walking away from something I never should’ve touched.
All I know is this:
I might be done with them, but I don’t think they’re done with me.
And every night, as I lie awake listening for footsteps outside my window, I wonder if spilling that single drop of blood was more than a gesture—if it was a door I opened without understanding what waited on the other side.