The Conjuring Hour

I could hear someone shifting outside my office door as I slogged through the latest round of supernatural talent contracts. The quiet hesitation, soft breathing, the faint creak of shoes on laminate gave them away. I sent up a private prayer that they’d chicken out and walk away. Knock knock. Of course not. I rolled my eyes and let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-surrender before calling, “Come in.” I didn’t look up right away didn't have to. The energy alone told me it was Davis. My boss. My burden. He had that half-fumbled, full-hopeful aura that preceded him like a warning bell. Don’t get me wrong, I like Davis. A lot. He’d saved my ass in more than one corporate conflagration, shielded me from the worst of the executive nonsense, and badgered producers into behaving like human beings more often than they deserved. But he had a specialty: the last-minute miracle. He loved to drop projects on my desk with theatrical timing and expect me to bend reality until it lay flat and presentable. This time he was carrying two fat manila folders like contraband. He set them down as if they were laying an egg on my desk, then sat opposite me and, without asking, plucked a mini Snickers from my candy bowl. I let him; the chocolate bribe was a small mercy in an afternoon of legal jargon. “If you’ve come to ask me to take on another show,” I said, closing the profile I’d been reading and swiveling my chair so I could face him properly, “I’ll let you know right now it’s not happening.” Davis winced. That was his typical reaction, enough to make me feel a tiny, victorious sting. He leaned forward and cracked his knuckles with the exaggerated care of a man preparing to perform emotional surgery. “Alice,” he purred, and somehow the world tilted into salesperson mode a smooth voice, conspiratorial lean. “This one is right up your alley. Seriously. Five conjurers. All talented. All competing to become the next big magical sensation. Think Top Chef meets The Craft. It’s called The Conjuring Hour.” The name made my teeth ache. The concept, less terrible, depending on who you asked. He leaned closer, eyes glittering as if sales pitches had actual lights in them. “You’d be perfect for this. Your background, your instincts no one else can thread authenticity with television like you do. Say yes, Alice. I’ll even throw in a project assistant. And a raise.” Hearing the word raise is one of my soft spots. Hearing an assistant and raise at the same time is a weakness. I felt my interest spike like a live wire. I didn’t answer immediately. I picked up the manila folder with exaggerated nonchalance and flipped through the pages as if they contained secrets that would jump out and tell me the truth. Media packets. Headshots. Press clippings. A few red flags that screamed “manufactured controversy.” Typical. My penalty box of obligations was already overflowing; I was literally eating my work schedule for lunch. But The Conjuring Hour had possibilities. Prime-time magic had been trending like a low, religious hum for years now half spectacle, half spiritual tourism and the right casting could earn the network approval, the advertisers, and that sweet, intoxicating cultural conversation. I twirled my pen between my knuckles my go-to stim and let the motion steady my racing thoughts. Davis watched me like a child waiting for dessert. Ten minutes ticked by, and he didn’t move. Finally I set the pen down and met his gaze. “Two assistants,” I said, cool as a conference room thermostat. “And a ten-thousand-dollar increase. Send me the updated contract by lunchtime, and I’ll start.” He jumped like I’d granted him a small miracle. “Done. Absolutely done.” He scooped up the folders like a man buoyed by the promise of victory and slipped out before I could reconsider. That’s Davis: my functional handler. Technically he’s my boss, but in practice he’s the man who shields me from the worst executive impulses and translates studio madness into something I can actually manage. It’s a useful arrangement. I hummed to myself as I began to haul the conjurer profiles into my casting database. This part of the job is my favorite and my curse, sorting people into categories that somehow become other people’s stories. I wrote welcome emails tailored to tone: gentle and academic for the folklore professors, brash and collaborative for the influencers, muted and mysterious for the alchemists who used LinkedIn like a grimoire. I’d built the voice that reassured applicants their weirdness would be handled and their power would be showcased. Three hours went by like the blink of a bored god. The only interruption was the cheerful ping of Outlook. New email. From HR. I opened it and nearly made a sound that got awkward looks from an intern who wandered by. $15,000. Davis had overshot by five grand apparently he’d been feeling extra generous, or maybe someone had heard me mutter about parking costs. The DocuSign link was attached, the boxes waiting for my autopilot signature like green flags at the end of a finish line. Click. Initial. Signature. Complete. Tiny triumphs stack up until they feel like armor. Leaning back, I let the small win warm me. Fifteen grand would be a deep clean for my life’s leaking places, a dishwasher that worked, a slightly less temperamental car, maybe even a weekend that didn’t involve terms like “CPR for producers.” And two assistants? That reality shimmered like a mirage I could finally step into. Time to build a cast. The Conjuring Hour would need a specific kind of magic-maker: vibrant enough for a camera, rigorous enough for scrutiny, scandalous enough to drive social, and careful enough not to actually endanger people. That last part was non-negotiable; lawyers had a way of turning compelling television into courtroom siege. I put the “danger” into a checkbox the same way an architect puts a balcony into a blueprint—clear measures, redundant safeguards. My list narrowed quickly. Mina Lux – The Fan Favorite She talks in memes and walks like she’s got a spotlight trailing her at all times. Her aura flickers in pixelated bursts, vibrant pinks and glitchy blues like she’s half Wi-Fi signal, half spell sigil. I get a read off her the second she walks into the orientation: Electric. Effortless. Viral potential high. She’s the kind they stitch into reaction gifs before the season’s even over. The confessionals will be gold! Sass, relatability, and just enough overconfidence to get in trouble by episode three. She also smells faintly like peppermint and ozone, which is either a charming personal quirk or a side effect of too many light-based hexes. Verdict: Screen time magnet. She’ll either win hearts or explode the set. Possibly both. Lucien Vale – The Villain Edit Too handsome. Too composed. Alchemical charmwork practically dripping from him like expensive cologne. When he shook my hand, I could feel the subtle manipulation spell woven into his touch not enough to trigger an ethics violation, but enough to make my stomach twist with old instincts. His aura is clean, almost surgical. Dark gold threads with little flecks of crimson. The glimmer I see? Sharp. Controlled. Dangerous. Lucien didn’t just come here to win. He came here to rebrand. Verdict: Absolutely insufferable. Fans will hate him, then love him, then write fanfiction about his downfall. Keep an eye on his alliances and any magical sabotage. Ezra Morgan – The Sleeper Hit Looks like someone’s academic TA who accidentally wandered onto a set. Wears flannel like armor. Ritualist, focused on long-form spells and ceremonial work, which doesn’t usually translate well to fast-paced TV… but there’s something there. His spark is subtle a slow ember, not a blaze. His aura hums low, steady, and trustworthy. I see scenes of quiet, emotional resonance. Healing moments. Sincerity. He’ll start in the background, but if he makes it past episode four? He’s the one the fans will cry over when he gets eliminated. The one they’ll write essays about on magic Tumblr. Verdict: Underdog arc. Needs coaching for camera confidence. Worth investing in. Rowan – The Wild Card Teenager with a chip on her shoulder the size of a small moon. Says she does shadow binding and emotional projection, which sounds cool until you realize she’s probably using both to make you feel guilty right now. Her aura is chaotic and flickering one second all smoke and thorny edges, the next a soft pulse of hurt and fury. Her spark is there, but it’s tangled. Not raw power raw pain. When I squint at her glimmer, I get static. Interference. Like the story’s still being written. Verdict: Drama machine. Viewers will either want to adopt her or strangle her. Possibly both. I’ll need to monitor her emotional state closely this one could blow wide open. Seraphine – The Mystery Everything about her should be boring: sweater, plain shoes, neutral smile. And yet every time I look at her, I see too much.Her aura doesn’t glow it shifts. Layers upon layers. Ancestral conjurer, she said. But what’s buried in her lineage makes the hair on my arms stand up. Her spark is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Not bright, not sharp, deep. A void that pulls instead of shines. She’ll say little, but when she does, it’ll change the temperature of the room. And when I try to read her future, the thread splits. One path spirals upward. The other… burns. Verdict: Wildcard with weight. Potential breakout star or the reason we cancel filming. I need to know what she really wants. Note to self: Keep Rowan and Lucien separated during stress challenges. Give Mina her own GoPro for bonus clips. Find Ezra something to anchor him maybe a mentor? Investigate Seraphine. Quietly I set up chemistry reads and camera tests, booking out a warehouse the studio had repurposed into a gothic playground: velvet drapes, smoke machines, antique armchairs, and a fake hearth that was all clever lighting and no actual danger. The producers loved it because it looked like money; the safety team loved it because it looked like theater. Me? I loved it because it was the in-between space where people became stories. You design arcs that will push people to reveal themselves: a manufactured crisis, a restorative challenge, a forced intimacy. You have to design the moments that make viewers choose sides.