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36 Sec ago - The call came in just after dawn, the LA air thick with the promise of another scorching day. “Werewolves of Lockwood Manor,” the gruff voice on the other end barked, “Need a guy who can tumble down a ravine, wrestle a CGI monster, and not complain about hair extensions.” That was my cue. They called me “Crash” Corrigan – not for any dramatic on-set incident, mind you, but because I made the impossible look effortless. Falling, flipping, fighting – it was all just another Tuesday.

This gig, though, had a particular… bite. Lockwood Manor, nestled deep in the California redwoods, was rumored to be genuinely haunted. Local legends whispered of strange howls echoing through the fog-choked valleys. Nonsense, I thought, until the first night shoot.

We were filming the climactic scene: the werewolf pack, rendered later in post-production, chasing the hapless protagonists through the ancient forest. My role? Double for the lead actress, taking a spectacular tumble down a mossy embankment, narrowly avoiding being… well, digitally dismembered. Easy peasy.

Except, halfway down, something snagged my ankle. No vine, no root, just a cold, vice-like grip. I looked down, heart hammering against my ribs, expecting a prankster grip, a forgotten piece of equipment. Instead, in the flickering moonlight, I saw… nothing. The grip tightened, pulling me back. I yelled, the crew froze, the director bellowed, and then, just as abruptly, it released me. I landed hard, bruised but unbroken. The crew chalked it up to a rogue root, but I knew better. Something unearthly was afoot.

The next few weeks were a blur of close calls and strange occurrences. Equipment malfunctions, unexplained noises, and a pervading sense of being watched. One night, during a rehearsal for a fight scene, I felt something brush against my leg. I glanced down to see a large, shadowy canine shape vanish into the trees. My blood ran cold.

Then came the grand finale: the transformation scene. My job was to thrash around on a raised platform, mimicking the agonizing contortions of a human shifting into a wolf. Strapped into a harness, surrounded by green screens and wind machines, I started my performance. Suddenly, the platform began to shake violently. The crew shouted, convinced it was a malfunction. But I felt it – a raw, primal energy surging through the set. The lights flickered, a chilling howl pierced the night, and the harness snapped.

I plunged towards the concrete floor. Instinct took over. I tucked, rolled, and absorbed the impact with a grunt. The crew rushed to my side, expecting broken bones. I stood up, dusted myself off, and gave them a wry grin. "Just another Tuesday," I said, but the tremor in my voice betrayed the truth. I’d walked away unscathed, but I knew something had shifted within me that night. Something wild, something… untamed.

Lockwood Manor changed me. I still take the crazy stunts, the impossible falls, but now I do it with a newfound respect for the unseen. And sometimes, when the moon is full and the wind whispers through the trees, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection and wonder… what if the legends are true? What if a little bit of Lockwood Manor came home with me?






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