A Script for A Bent Lamppost and Wet Earth

**A BENT LAMPPOST AND WET EARTH**

**SCENE START**

**EXT. AGRICULTURAL ROAD - NIGHT**

A narrow, cracked asphalt road on the edge of a small town. Muddy verges give way to skeletal trees and the deep, impenetrable black of open fields. A cold spring wind whips through the bare branches.

SASHA (17), perceptive and wrapped in a hooded jacket, walks with CONNOR (17), lanky and trying to grow into his new height. His backpack is worn, his humor a well-practiced shield.

Connor kicks a loose stone. It SKITTERS into a puddle with a sharp splash.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> You’re telling me Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning petunias are suddenly... sentient? And plotting against the town council?

His voice, deep for his age, CRACKS on the word ‘council’. Sasha lets out a short, sharp SNORT of laughter.

<center>SASHA</center>

> No, you absolute donkey.

She pulls her hood tighter. A gust of wind hits them, carrying the smell of turned earth and a faint, METALLIC tang.

<center>SASHA (CONT'D)</center>

> I’m saying the new drainage project is taking forever, and her petunias are the least of our worries if the culvert collapses again. Remember last spring?

Connor just grunts, adjusting the strap of his backpack.

Ahead, a lone LAMPPOST FLICKERS. It’s old, bent slightly at the middle like a tired man leaning on a cane. A familiar landmark. But tonight, something is off.

Sasha’s pace slows, just a fraction. She squints. The light struggles, then ignites—a weak, sickly yellow that barely pushes back the shadows.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> Anyway, I bet she’s just mad because old Mr. Finch actually managed to grow bigger dahlias this year. The perennial rivalry.

He shoots her a lopsided grin. Sasha doesn’t return it. Her gaze is fixed, not on the light, but on the ground beneath it.

She stops completely. Her worn trainers sink into the soft, muddy shoulder of the road.

Where the metal post meets the earth, the ground is disturbed. Not torn up by an animal. This is... neat. A clean, OBLONG patch of soil, darker and wetter than the surrounding mud. The green shoots of new grass are flattened and bruised around its edges.

A thin, grey sheen covers the dark soil, like a film of fine dust.

<center>SASHA</center>

> (murmuring)

> Hey, Cal.

A shiver, not entirely from the cold, traces a path up her spine. The metallic smell is stronger here.

Connor, a few steps ahead, turns back.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> What’s up? Did you finally spot a sentient petunia?

His grin falters when he sees her face—pale and serious in the sporadic light.

<center>SASHA</center>

> Look.

She points with a gloved hand. Her finger trembles, almost imperceptibly.

<center>SASHA (CONT'D)</center>

> The ground. It’s... weird.

He steps closer, his brow furrowing as he looks down. His shadow stretches long and distorted.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> Huh. Yeah, it is.

He crouches, reaching out a finger toward the strange soil, but hesitates, pulling his hand back.

<center>CONNOR (CONT'D)</center>

> Looks like someone was digging. Badly.

<center>SASHA</center>

> Who digs here? It’s just... nowhere. And why so neatly?

Her eyes dart around, past the lamppost’s faint reach, into the inky gloom between the trees. The wind rustles the branches with a dry, whispering SOUND that feels too close.

Her breath hitches. She feels it. A distinct pressure. A GAZE from the unseen, prickling the nape of her neck.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> (straightening up)

> Maybe a utility crew? Checking the wiring for the lamppost? It’s been dodgy for weeks.

He wipes his hand on his jeans, an instinctive gesture, as if he’d touched the dirt after all.

<center>SASHA</center>

> They’d leave a sign, a barricade, something. Not... this.

She takes a step back. The feeling of being watched intensifies. Pressing in. A heavy, silent presence hiding in the darkness. The trees are no longer sentinels, but a screen.

Sasha scans the blackness, straining to see. Nothing. Just shifting shadows. But the feeling persists—a cold, focused weight on her back.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> There’s nothing here, Sash. Come on. It’s freezing, and I’m pretty sure my phone just died.

He starts to turn away, but glances one last time at the disturbed earth. A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face.

<center>SASHA</center>

> (a breath)

> Wait.

She’s spotted something else. Tucked in the flattened grass at the edge of the turned soil.

A WORK GLOVE. Mud-caked and stiff. It’s large, with a dark stain, almost black, marring the knuckles.

Connor sees it. His banter dies completely. He bends down again, using a nearby stick to nudge the glove. It moves with a heavy, weighted thud.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> (low)

> Okay... that’s not a utility crew thing.

The metallic smell is cloying now. Sasha takes an involuntary step back, bumping into Connor. Her head snaps around, scanning the darkness again, more frantically this time.

The unseen gaze is no longer a prickle. It’s a tangible force, cold and deliberate, emanating from a dense thicket of hawthorns across the road. She can almost feel eyes on them. Analyzing.

<center>SASHA</center>

> (whispering)

> Someone was here. Recently.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> Yeah.

His easy nonchalance is gone, replaced by a tight-lipped apprehension. He finally feels it too.

They exchange a look. A silent, terrified acknowledgment. This isn’t litter. It’s a clue.

<center>SASHA</center>

> We should go.

She tugs his sleeve, pulling him along. Her walk is fast, propelled by nervous energy. Connor jogs a step to keep up, throwing one last look over his shoulder.

The bent lamppost’s anemic glow seems to shrink, the shadows around it deepening, congealing.

They don’t run, but it’s close. Their footsteps SLOSH unevenly on the muddy path, the sound loud in the oppressive quiet.

**EXT. MAPLE DRIVE - LATER**

They reach the corner of a residential street. A steady chain of streetlights offers a comforting, normal glow. Houses sit close together, their windows warm yellow squares against the night.

Sasha finally stops, pulling in a deep, shuddering breath. She wraps her arms around herself, shivering.

Connor stares at a neighbor’s TV flickering through a parted curtain. He doesn’t look at her.

<center>CONNOR</center>

> (softly)

> You really think... someone was watching?

Sasha looks back down the way they came. The agricultural road is just a dark ribbon swallowed by the fields. The bent lamppost is a tiny, struggling spark in the distance.

The metallic tang is still on her tongue.

<center>SASHA</center>

> I don’t think. I *know*.

A new, unnerving color has been added to her world. She kicks at a loose stone, mimicking Connor’s earlier gesture.

It doesn’t skitter. It sinks into the soft mud at the edge of the lawn, vanishing without a trace. Leaving only a ripple in the wet earth.

Sasha stares at the spot, her face a mask of dawning horror.

**FADE TO BLACK.**

**SCENE END**