A single, weak BEAM OF LIGHT from a smartphone cuts through thick, dancing dust. It paints fleeting paths across peeling paint and rusted pipes. Grime coats every surface. A fine layer of silt, like ancient ash, muffles all sound.
LUCIE (20), sharp-tongued and cynical in a paint-splattered hoodie, pulls the fabric tighter around herself. She gags, a soft, choked sound.
She kicks a chunk of plaster. A small cloud of white debris joins the murky air.
KAI (20), flamboyant and theatrical in a long, dark coat, spins around from a shadowed alcove. His breath fogs in the chill.
He sweeps an arm grandly, nearly knocking over a stack of desiccated RECORD LEDGERS slumped against a brick pillar. The ledgers shift with a low, groaning SIGH.
SAM (19), pragmatic and anxious, holds the phone. The screen flickers on its last sliver of battery.
He taps the phone against his forehead.
BEA (19), quiet and observant, wears a thick, hand-knitted scarf. She kneels beside an overturned wooden crate, her fingers tracing faded stenciling. Her dark hair obscures her face.
With a soft grunt, she pushes the crate over. A plume of dust makes her SNEEZE—a surprisingly loud, wet sound in the echoing space.
Inside the crate, nestled in brittle straw:
A single, cracked DOLL’S HEAD, one glassy eye missing. A rusty, blunt SURGICAL TOOL. A bound sheaf of YELLOWED LETTERS tied with a faded ribbon. And a small, empty WOODEN BOX, its clasp forced open long ago.
SOUND: A distant, rhythmic DRIP... DRIP... DRIP...
Kai is instantly beside her, dropping to his knees. His face is alight with morbid glee.
He picks up the doll's head, admiring its grotesque emptiness.
Lucie drifts over, peering at the surgical tool. She pokes it with the toe of her boot.
Bea carefully extracts the bundle of letters. She blows gently, dislodging a cascade of dust. The ribbon looks like dried blood.
Lucie snatches a letter, holding it in the weak phone light.
She looks up, a manic grin on her face.
Bea looks up, her face pale in the dim light. The humor is gone.
A heavy silence descends. The DRIPPING seems louder. Lucie’s grin dies. Kai’s theatrical expression falters.
Bea has found another box, smaller and heavier. Dark, polished wood, slightly warped. It smells of lavender and something metallic, like old blood. She fumbles with a stiff clasp.
She tugs harder. A small grunt.
The clasp gives way with a sharp, resonant CRACK that echoes through the silence. They all flinch.
Inside, on faded silk: a single, perfectly preserved LOCK OF DARK HAIR tied with black thread. Beside it, a SILVER LOCKET engraved with a single, unblinking eye. Underneath, a faded DAGUERREOTYPE.
CLOSE ON THE PHOTO: A stern-faced woman with haunted eyes holds a vacant-eyed child wrapped in grave clothes. The woman’s lips curve into a faint, unsettling smile.
A sudden, inexplicable GUST OF WIND sweeps through the sub-basement. Dust and forgotten papers swirl. The pages of the old ledgers RUSTLE violently, a thousand whispered laments.
SOUND: Sam’s phone emits a final, dying CLICK.
The light vanishes.
ABSOLUTE, SUFFOCATING DARKNESS.
Lucie lets out a terrified SQUEAK. Kai STUMBLES backward, bumping into a cold, unseen wall.
His teeth CHATTER softly.
Lucie TRIPS over something unseen, landing with a THUD and a choked GASP.
Bea’s voice cuts through the dark. It is fragile, yet eerily calm.
SOUND: A distant, heavy SCRAPING. Stone against stone. Dragging. Rhythmic. It grows louder. Closer.
The metallic scent intensifies, sharp and coppery. The air grows heavy, thick with pressure.
SOUND: A high-pitched, melodic WHIRRING begins, vibrating through the stone beneath their feet.
The SCRAPING stops... then starts again as a series of slow, deliberate THUDS from the floor directly over their heads.
SOUND: A soft, childish GIGGLE echoes through the space, high and thin. It comes from everywhere and nowhere.
Kai stares upward, his mouth agape, a mix of terror and profound fascination on his unseen face.
SOUND: A single, distinct CLINK from above. Ceramic on stone. Then the sound of something small and round ROLLING slowly to a stop.
Silence. Heavy. Pregnant. Broken only by their frantic, shallow breathing.
The sweet smell of forgotten potpourri from the empty box intensifies, cloying and coppery.
SOUND: A tiny, faint SCRATCHING begins. Insistent. Relentless. Directly BENEATH THEIR FEET.
They are standing on a flimsy barrier, a ceiling of bones. The audience has gathered. The main act is about to begin.
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