The Crybaby Goddess Of Horror

My body is a traitor.

To be specific, my nervous system has its wires crossed. In the cutthroat ecosystem of Hollywood, I am universally known as the ultimate crybaby. The diva who weeps at the drop of a hat.

Then, I booked an extreme horror reality show.

We filmed in a house where actual murders had taken place.

And there I was, tears streaming down my face, revving a beat-up motorcycle with a sidecar, dragging five terrified A-listers through the dark, and belting out The Star-Spangled Banner at the top of my lungs. I became the patron saint of unhinged survival.

The internets verdict?

I bow down to our new terrifying queen.

I had been out of work for six months when the offer came in.

The production team was top-tier. For a C-list actress like me, hovering dangerously close to the "where are they now" lists, this was the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket fluttering through my open window.

But my manager, Valerie, looked like she was aging in dog years right in front of me.

Delilah, this cast everyone who goes into production has to sign a liability waiver.

She slid the thick stack of papers across the desk, her manicured fingers hesitating before letting go.

It was a horror-themed survival show. The first of its kind on American network television, backed by a massive budget, promising absolute, unscripted psychological terror.

And I well. I was the industrys designated weeping willow.

I cried while suspended on wire-rigs during action shoots. I teared up when interviewers raised their voices. If a harmless spider dropped onto my sleeve, my eyes would flood with red-rimmed panic.

The tabloids called me manipulative. They said I weaponized my tears for sympathy.

It was a spectacularly unfair accusation.

I have a stress-induced lacrimation condition. An involuntary reflex. Since I was a kid, any surge of intense emotionrage, excitement, profound injusticebypasses my vocal cords and goes straight to my tear ducts. Sometimes, I cry so hard I literally cannot form words.

The truth behind the headlines? I cried on the wire-rig because the stunt coordinator was ignoring safety protocols, and I was furious, fighting for my life. I cried in that infamous interview because the journalist was hurling misogynistic insults, and I was trying to rip him a new one.

It was a never-ending cycle. In my head, I was a gladiator; on the outside, my tears stripped away every ounce of my authority.

When I was seven, I got into a fight with an older boy in my neighborhood. My condition flared up. I was sobbing uncontrollablywhile simultaneously pinning him to the asphalt and beating the living daylights out of him.

When his parents ran over, they saw my tear-streaked face, assumed I was the victim, and dragged their son home by his ear to ground him.

From that day on, I was branded with a reputation: the girl who folds and cries at the first sign of trouble. It followed me all the way to Hollywood.

I had begged my PR team to release a statement explaining the medical reality of it. They refused. In their eyes, the "fragile, weeping ingenue" label was great for engagement. The internet loved to hate me.

Over time, thats just who I became to the world.

When I got angry, I just stayed quiet. The bitterness pooled in my chest, unseen.

Maybe we just pass on this. A liability waiver is no joke. If you have a panic attack on live television, the studio will drop you completely. Valerie leaned in, her voice softening.

As she looked at me, I caught that familiar, fleeting look of distraction in her eyes. It was my face. The industry dragged my personality, mocked my tears, and despised my supposed fragility, but no one ever criticized my face.

We can just stick to playing the quiet, pretty girl next door she murmured, already pulling the contract back.

Before the papers could slip off the edge of the desk, I grabbed a pen, signed my name with sharp, deliberate strokes, and pushed it back to her.

Im fine, I said, my voice steady. I can do this.

What the world didn't know was that I was a hardcore, borderline-obsessive horror fanatic.

The show premiered with a blitz of marketing.

The call time was midnight. The location: a sprawling, desolate cemetery miles outside of city limits.

To maximize the raw terror, the producers opted for hidden cameras and a live, unedited stream. The cast list had been kept strictly under wraps, leaving the internet to discover our identities in real-time as we arrived.

[Wait, Cole Montgomery? They actually got Cole for this?!]

[Blair Kensington is here! The scream queen herself. Lmao, remember that escape room show where everyone was sobbing and she was just casually drinking tea? She said shes naturally desensitized to fear.]

[Knowing this network, its a cast of six: three alphas, three absolute cowards. Im just here to see who breaks first.]

As the cast members stepped out of their SUVs one by one, the live chat was a blur of hyperactive text.

Alongside the brooding, A-list heartthrob Cole Montgomery and the "fearless" Blair Kensington, there was Jaxson Ford, the martial arts action star; Dominic Russo, the gritty crime-show lead; and Garret Boyd, a massive retired NFL linebacker.

It was a roster of certified tough guys and badasses. But the final guest was taking their sweet time, and the suspense was killing the internet.

[Where is the last one?]

[Producers are messing with us. This is a hardcore horror show, but they booked an entire team of fearless tanks. How does that even work?]

[Plot twist: if they booked all tough guys, how terrifying is this show actually going to be?]

Just as the collective patience of millions of viewers snapped, a sleek black production van crept into the cameras view, rolling to a stop in front of the cast.

The tinted window rolled down. The harsh floodlights caught my face, broadcasting my arrival to the world.

The internet imploded.

[BRO. The Crybaby is here?]

[Now it makes sense why they brought five tanks. They needed to balance out the ultimate liability.]

I couldnt see the live chat.

But judging by the five pairs of eyes staring at me with varying degrees of utter disbelief, I knew exactly what the internet was saying.

Did production make a mistake? Why are you here?

Blair stepped forward first. She yanked the van door open, craning her neck to peer into the back, confirming I was alone. Her manicured brows pinched together. Arent you just going to be a liability to us? she muttered, just loud enough to carry.

The shows mechanics required absolute teamwork to survive the escape rooms and challenges. In Blairs eyes, I was dead weight.

[Lmao, Blair isnt even trying to hide her disgust.]

[Id be mad too. Who wants to deal with someone who cries every five minutes?]

[Shes just here for clout. Watch her pretend to be terrified so she can throw herself into the guys arms. Stay away from Cole!]

A hot spark of irritation flared in my chest.

Thankfully, six months of unemployment had taught me some self-restraint. I took a breath, gave her a flat look, and said, Im under contract. Lets get to the checkpoint.

Blair immediately threw her hands up, her voice dramatically loud.

Oh my god, please dont start. Im just worried you wont be able to handle it. Please dont cry

The sheer volume of her voice made my temples throb.

Which eye of hers saw me crying?

I wanted to snap back, but I could feel the familiar, traitorous prickle of heat behind my eyes. The harder I tried to force the anger down, the closer I got to losing my voice entirely.

While I was swallowing down my own biology, the heavy van door on the passenger side clicked open. Cole Montgomery, who hadnt spoken a single word since I arrived, slid into the passenger seat.

She isnt crying, his voice was a low, resonant rumble. Stop stalling. Get in the car.

I blinked, startled.

Did Cole just defend me?

As the undeniable heavyweight of the cast, his word was law. The guys immediately piled into the back.

Only Blair remained frozen on the dirt path. She looked me up and down, then suddenly grabbed the handle of the drivers side door. Delilah, youre so timid. Maybe I should drive.

She phrased it as a suggestion, but her hand was already gripping my forearm, trying to physically leverage me out of the seat.

The sheer audacity.

I instantly shook off her grip. Sit in the back. Me driving is part of the mission directive.

Rejected, Blairs face tightened into an ugly sneer. She stared at me for a long, heavy second before throwing her hands up in a mock surrender. Fine, fine, Ill sit in the back. Just dont cry. Youre making it look like Im bullying you.

Excuse me?

Since the moment I stepped onto this set, my emotional baseline had been a flatline. But Blair was ruthlessly pushing her narrative, twisting every interaction to fit the internets preconceived notion of me.

And worse, the camera angle only showed the back of my head.

To the millions watching at home, Blair looked like the exasperated victim of my fragile ego. The live chat was a bloodbath.

[Why is she crying already?!]

[Typical Delilah manipulation. So annoying. If shes this weak, why didnt she just go on a dating show so she can sob into some guys chest?]

[Ngl though, she looks really pretty when she cries.]

[Bro, you are starved.]

Blair eventually relented, sliding into the back seat.

But for the entire drive, the micro-aggressions didn't stop.

Delilah, your agency is practically throwing you to the wolves. Letting you take a gig like this just for the paycheck, she sighed dramatically. When we get inside, if you get so scared you cant walk, just ask Garret to carry you.

She shot a pointed look at the former NFL player sitting in the very back. Garret was a mountain of a man, built like a brick wall, with a friendly, unassuming face. Always eager to be the good guy, he thumped his chest.

Yeah, absolutely. I got you.

Blair was playing a masterful game. Under the guise of looking out for me, she was neatly pairing me off with Garret, ensuring she could monopolize the rest of the A-list men when we got inside.

I just want everyone to look out for you, Delilah. After all, youre not like me She let the sentence hang, her eyes heavy with subtext.

I met her gaze in the rearview mirror.

We were both veterans of this industry. Who was she trying to fool? This was high-school mean-girl politics wrapped in faux-concern.

To my surprise, Dominic Russo leaned forward, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Its 2026. Are we really still doing the whole 'fragile damsel' routine?

Ah, so there was an idiot in the car. Dominic belonged to a rival management company; of course he was going to take any opportunity to dig at me.

Between Blairs passive-aggression and Dominics blatant hostility, my patience snapped. I opened my mouth to verbally eviscerate them both

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The vans dashboard erupted in a frantic symphony of alarms.

This was a state-of-the-art smart vehicle, heavily marketed for its advanced pedestrian-detection system. The high-pitched warning meant only one thing: there were people directly outside the car.

But we were driving through an abandoned, unlit cemetery in the dead of night. Who could possibly be out here?

The relentless beep-beep-beep drilled into our skulls.

The cabin plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Its just production messing with us right? Dominic asked, his voice losing its arrogant edge.

Outside, the darkness was absolute. Even knowing it was likely a trick, the primal fear was contagious. On the dashboards radar screen, little red blips began to multiply, darting frantically along both sides of the digital car icon.

[Holy shit, midnight in a graveyard and the car radar is picking up bodies?!]

[Lmao, look at the action star. Jaxson is literally shrinking into his seat.]

[Production is not holding back. This is terrifying.]

The chat was a wall of terrified emojis.

Just as the audience was bracing for a jump scare, the van violently lurched forward, shuddered, and died.

AHHH!

Blair shrieked, a piercing sound that shattered the silence.

The entire car jolted. Everyone in the back seat scrambled backward in panic. Only Cole and I remained completely still in the front.

Delilah, do you even know how to drive?! Blair yelled, her voice trembling.

What the hell was that? Dominic demanded.

Are you trying to get us killed?!

I slowly turned around, resting my arm over the back of my seat. The engine stalled.

For a split second, the van was dead quiet.

The live feed seemed to freeze. For five long seconds, the guys just sat there, frozen in their defensive postures.

I turned the key. Nothing. I tried again. Dead.

In the suffocating silence, Dominic finally cleared his throat, his eyes darting to the pitch-black windows. You know they say if your car breaks down in a graveyard, youre supposed to step outside and pay your respects to the dead. Ask for safe passage.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking pointedly at Jaxson. Someone should probably go try it.

Jaxsons face was completely devoid of expression. Very slowly, the martial arts badass scooted a few inches further away from the door.

[Hahahaha! Jaxsons tough-guy image is in shambles.]

[Dominic is such a fake. Jaxson is scared, but at least hes quiet. Dominic is terrified but trying to force someone else to be the sacrificial lamb.]

[Can we talk about Blair? Naturally desensitized to fear, my ass. She screamed louder than anyone.]

[Notice how Delilah hasnt made a single sound this whole time?]

The comments rolled by, a few people finally catching on to the reality of the situation.

From the moment I got in the car, I had been profoundly, beautifully calm. I was radiating the unbothered energy of a capybara at a spa.

After my fourth failed attempt to turn the ignition, I looked over my shoulder at the terrified men.

Do you want me to go out and check?

Maybe it was their bruised egos not letting a woman take the risk, or maybe it was a desperate attempt to save face on national television.

Either way, Dominic practically threw himself out of the car.

He let out a guttural, macho yell, stomping toward the hood and delivering a solid, aggressive kick to the bumper.

Nothing happened.

Jaxson awkwardly stepped out next, followed by Garret.

The three massive men stood in the dark, facing different directions, nervously muttering disjointed apologies to the empty air and throwing random shadow-boxing punches into the fog.

It was a masterclass in absurdity. After ten minutes of this embarrassing ritual, the van still wouldn't start.

Inside, Blair was curled into a tight ball on the leather seats, pale as a sheet and visibly trembling.

Cole, meanwhile, was quietly attempting to radio the production crew.

The internet was losing its mind: [Some people are busy. Some people are pretending to be busy. Some people cant even pretend.]

CLANG.

A heavy metallic thud echoed from the darkness behind the van.

The three tough guys instantly shrieked, dropping to their knees and covering their heads. Blair began to sob hysterically.

In the midst of the total chaos, I calmly stepped out from behind the rear of the van, a flashlight in one hand and a heavy wrench in the other. I looked at the men cowering in the dirt, my expression completely deadpan.

Were out of gas.

Absolute, deafening silence.

Then, millions of viewers collectively lost their minds.

[I am SCREAMING. The producers are evil. They gave them an empty tank and stranded them in a cemetery just to mess with their heads.]

[God bless Delilah. If she had waited five more minutes, those three grown men would have been fully bowing to the dirt.]

[Okay, Im officially a Delilah stan. She is so logical! First she tries the engine, then she grabs a tool and checks the back. Standing in the dark with a wrench? Mother behavior.]

[Compared to Blair whining and crying all night, Delilah is a breath of fresh air. So much for Blairs fearless brand.]

Blair, realizing how badly she was coming across, snapped. The humiliation of being shown up by the "crybaby" was too much. She scrambled out of the car, her face twisted in a vicious sneer, and marched right up to me.

You were driving! How could you not know the tank was empty? Did you plan this with the producers to make us look like idiots?! Is this your little strategy to look cool?!

Her voice was shrill, cutting through the night air. Dominic, sensing an opportunity to deflect from his own cowardice, immediately chimed in, backing her up.

That was it. My fuse burned out.

Production obviously rigged the

I tried to defend myself, but the moment I opened my mouth, the familiar, suffocating burn of acid rushed to my throat. My eyes welled up violently. The angrier I got, the harder I fought it, and the harder I fought it, the more paralyzed my vocal cords became.

Seeing my eyes shine with unshed tears, Blair moved in for the kill.

Oh, here we go! Can you stop crying every time theres a problem?! Its so annoying! If youre innocent, say something! The fact that youre crying just proves youre guilty!

I couldn't speak.

My condition was a physical trap. My face was flushed red, my heart pounding in my ears, my mind completely blank with rage.

She was dancing on my last nerve. And the worst part was, my body was betraying me again, cementing my reputation as the pathetic, weeping victim right when I wanted to tear her head off.

I wanted to hit her so badly.

It has nothing to do with her. Its a production stunt.

A voice cut through the dark like a blade of ice. Cole emerged from the shadows, his sharp features illuminated by the pale moonlight. He looked utterly untouchable.

I don't know if it was the sudden backup, but something inside me clicked. The invisible dam broke. I planted my hands on my hips, leaned forward, and screamed at the stunned Blair with the force of a hurricane:

EXACTLY!

The chat went wild.

[LMAO, Delilah getting furiously angry for exactly one second.]

[Am I the only one who thinks shes adorable? Honestly, Id be pissed too. She solved the problem, and they attacked her to cover up their own embarrassment.]

[Blair has a point though. For someone who cries so much, shes weirdly calm about the haunted cemetery. It is suspicious...]

[Does crying automatically mean youre a coward?]

I couldn't see the defense mounting for me online. But Coles intervention had the desired effect. No one dared to say another word.

The rules dictated we had to reach the main set before dawn.

According to the GPS, we were miles away from the target location. With the van dead, walking through the pitch-black woods meant we would likely fail the mission.

As the group stood around in defeated silence, Cole stepped forward. Without a word, he held out a set of keys and dropped them into my palm.

Production left a motorcycle down the dirt path, he said, his voice flat. Keys were in the ignition. It runs.

The relief was palpable. The group realized Cole hadnt disappeared out of fear; he had gone scouting ahead for a solution.

The live chat flooded with praise for Coles stoic leadership.

But Blair couldn't let it go. Glaring at the brief moment of connection between Cole and me, she snapped, Cole, if you found the bike, why didnt you just drive it back here yourself?

Dominic and the others nodded, looking equally confused.

Cole had a naturally intimidating aura. When he wasnt speaking, his dark eyes held a weight that made people physically shrink back. He stared at the group, his expression unreadable, letting the silence stretch until it became profoundly uncomfortable.

The entire internet seemed to hold its breath.

Finally, under the collective gaze of millions, Cole looked slightly to the side and said, with deadpan simplicity:

I dont know how to ride a motorcycle.

I blinked.

Everyone blinked.

The chat exploded.

[HAHAHAHA. I thought he was being mysterious. I thought he was being arrogant. No, he just literally doesn't know how.]

[Cole: Youre questioning my methods? Sir, I do not have a license.]

[We love a secure king. While the rest of them were praying to ghosts, he was negotiating with producers and scouting ahead.]

[Is it just me, or do Cole and Delilah have insane chemistry?]

[You are not alone, bestie.]

I was the only person standing there with a motorcycle endorsement on my license.

Blair looked like she had swallowed a lemon.

When we finally walked down the path and saw the bike, she couldn't resist one last dig. Still going to claim you aren't colluding with production? A motorcycle just happens to be waiting out here, and youre the only one who can drive it?

Even on live television, she couldnt mask the sheer jealousy radiating off her.

My emotional baseline had leveled out. I gripped the handlebars, swung my leg over the leather seat with practiced ease, and looked down at her.

If you dont want to get in, you can walk.

Blair shut her mouth.

The moment I revved the engine, dragging an overloaded sidecar and five terrified A-listers through the dark, I broke the internet.

Twitter was a bloodbath of trending hashtags:

#DelilahMonroeBikerQueen

#DelilahDrifting

#SixPeopleOneMotorcycle

#HellOnWheelsDelilah

The shows viewership skyrocketed to unprecedented, record-breaking numbers.

The live chat was moving so fast it was a blur.

[Put this in the history books. The Founding Fathers wept.]

[Delilah Monroe single-handedly carrying the entertainment industry on her back.]

[Wait, is that even legal? Five people crammed into a rusted-out Ural?]

[Lmao, you think the ghosts care about traffic laws?]