A Concrete Blossom
Under a bruised summer sky, Bram and Marta navigate the city's slumbering arteries, a peculiar dread clinging to the humid air. What watches them from the periphery might be more absurd than terrifying, but no less relentless.
[SCENE START]
**EXT. SUBURBAN STREET - NIGHT**
A humid, oppressive summer night. The air is thick, shimmering under the sick orange glow of sodium streetlamps. The THRUN of CICADAS is a constant, high-pitched whine.
BRAM (30s), a man wound tight with anxiety, walks with a slight limp. The sole of his left shoe is loose, flapping with each step. It makes a rhythmic SCRAPE... SCRAPE... against the pavement.
Beside him, MARTA (30s) hums a tuneless melody. She’s a study in casual indifference, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a man’s oversized denim jacket.
Bram wipes a bead of sweat from his hairline. He stops. The scraping stops.
BRAM
> Did you...
> (clears his throat)
> Did you hear that?
Marta stops humming, but not walking. She takes a few more steps before turning.
MARTA
> Hear what? The sweet serenade of a thousand dying insects? Or your shoe?
BRAM
> No, not--
He gestures vaguely at the darkness between the houses.
BRAM
> Something else. A sort of... drag. Like a sack of potatoes being pulled over gravel. But a really, really heavy sack.
Marta looks at him, a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes.
MARTA
> Bram, honey, if you're trying to make this walk home more interesting by inventing phantom potato sacks, you're succeeding. Barely. I thought maybe we'd see a badger.
Bram’s chest is tight. He glances over his shoulder. The street is empty, save for the flickering lamps and deep, impenetrable shadows.
But one shadow, cast against a neighbour’s hedge, is wrong. It’s too long. Too still. Too thin.
BRAM
> (a low mumble)
> There.
He nudges Marta with his elbow. She stumbles, swears under her breath.
BRAM
> Right there. Don’t you see it?
Marta squints, her brow furrowed with a mixture of effort and skepticism.
MARTA
> See what? Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning petunias? They're looking a bit leggy this year.
BRAM
> Not the petunias! To the left. Against the bush. It’s like a tall shadow. Not human. Too thin. But it’s definitely there.
Marta stares for a few more seconds. She shrugs.
MARTA
> That's just the way the light's falling, Bram. Or maybe Mrs. Henderson's put up a particularly avant-garde garden gnome. You know how she gets after a sherry or three.
Bram looks back, ready to argue.
It's gone.
Just the hedge. The petunias. The dull orange bleed of the lamp. His stomach lurches. A faint metallic smell, like copper and ozone, clings to the air.
BRAM
> (breathless)
> Right. Fine. Shortcut. Through the old railway lands. Let’s get home.
He grabs her arm and pulls her toward a gap in the hedge.
**EXT. OLD RAILWAY LANDS - NIGHT**
A narrow, neglected trail. Weeds grow shoulder-high, their seed heads brushing against their faces. Discarded fast-food wrappers cling to thorny bushes like plastic ghosts.
The ground is a treacherous patchwork of cracked concrete and loose shale. Bram watches his feet, concentrating.
Marta, however, seems to enjoy it. She kicks a discarded tin can, sending it CLATTERING into a patch of nettles.
MARTA
> At least it's cooler here. Less streetlamp pollution. You can almost imagine you're… anywhere else.
Bram doesn’t answer. He feels an odd, low VIBRATION under his feet. A subsonic HUM that isn't the defunct train line. He risks a glance back. Nothing. But the shadows among the overgrown saplings seem to shift, coalesce, then dissipate with unnatural speed.
BRAM
> We could have just taken the main road. It's only a few metres longer.
MARTA
> (laughs)
> And miss this exhilarating journey through urban decay? Besides, I’m starving. Did you actually eat that appalling quiche tonight?
As she speaks, a brief, unnatural CHILL washes over them. A cold draught in the oppressive heat. Goosebumps rise on Bram’s arms.
BRAM
> Did you-- Forget it.
Marta stops, tilting her head. The sarcasm in her eyes softens into a sliver of genuine curiosity.
MARTA
> Forget what? That you’re suddenly convinced we're being stalked by a particularly slow-moving specter? Honestly, Bram, you're usually so much more creative with your existential dread.
Bram trips over a loose brick, nearly falling. Marta catches his arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
MARTA
> Easy there, chief. Don't want you breaking an ankle before we figure out if this is a ghost or just a really committed neighbourhood watch.
He mumbles a thanks, his heart hammering. The cold has passed, leaving behind a sickly sweet scent, like overripe fruit and rust.
They push past a curtain of sagging bindweed.
A RUSTLE in the undergrowth to their left.
Then... silence.
Absolute. Perfect. The cicadas have stopped.
**EXT. BACK ALLEY - NIGHT**
They emerge into a narrow alley between the peeling backs of old garages. The air feels thick, heavy. Distant streetlamps cast long, distorted shadows.
For a beat, Bram feels relief. They're out. Almost home.
Then he sees it.
On the corrugated metal door of the nearest garage, a SMEAR. Not a stain. Something slick, iridescent, the size of a child’s hand. It glows with a faint, internal light, pulsing almost imperceptibly.
BRAM
> (a rasp)
> Marta.
She follows his gaze. Her usual composure finally cracks. A tiny gasp escapes her lips.
MARTA
> What... is that? Did someone... spray paint a rainbow slug?
The smear PULSES again, a slow, deliberate beat. The light within it shifts from purple to a sickly, jaundiced yellow. The metallic, overripe smell is overpowering now, a taste on the back of the tongue.
MARTA
> (whispering)
> It's moving. It’s… changing.
The edges of the smear ripple. Tiny tendrils of goo extend and retract, searching. The colour deepens to a throbbing, furious orange.
A distant DOG BARKS, a desperate, lonely sound that shatters the silence. It snaps Bram out of his stupor.
BRAM
> (choking)
> Run! Just run!
He grabs her arm and they BOLT.
Their feet POUND on the rough asphalt, a desperate, clumsy sprint. Bram doesn't look back. He can hear Marta's ragged breathing beside him, a choked GIGGLE caught in her throat. She’s laughing. Actually laughing.
**INT. BRAM AND MARTA'S HOUSE - HALLWAY - NIGHT**
They burst out onto their street, stumbling up the path to their modest semi-detached house. It looks like a beacon of sanity.
Bram’s hands shake as he fumbles the key into the lock. He shoves the door open--the familiar CREAK a symphony of relief.
They spill into the tiny, familiar hallway. The stale, warm air has never felt so welcoming.
Marta leans against the front door, chest heaving, her panicked giggles turning into wild, breathless laughter.
MARTA
> That... was...
> (gasping for air)
> That was amazing!
Bram turns to her, a wave of potent relief making his knees weak. He’s ready to collapse, to share the absurd release of it all.
But she isn't looking at him.
Her laughter dies.
Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, through the open doorway, into the dim night.
Her eyes are wide. The amusement is gone. The bewilderment is gone.
There is only silent, absolute HORROR.
Bram starts to turn, a question on his lips.
He feels it first.
A cold, soft touch against his bare ankle.
Something slick.
Something pulsing.
CLOSE ON BRAM'S FACE
His eyes widen in dawning terror as he understands. It followed them. It’s inside.
**FADE TO BLACK.**
[SCENE END]
**EXT. SUBURBAN STREET - NIGHT**
A humid, oppressive summer night. The air is thick, shimmering under the sick orange glow of sodium streetlamps. The THRUN of CICADAS is a constant, high-pitched whine.
BRAM (30s), a man wound tight with anxiety, walks with a slight limp. The sole of his left shoe is loose, flapping with each step. It makes a rhythmic SCRAPE... SCRAPE... against the pavement.
Beside him, MARTA (30s) hums a tuneless melody. She’s a study in casual indifference, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a man’s oversized denim jacket.
Bram wipes a bead of sweat from his hairline. He stops. The scraping stops.
BRAM
> Did you...
> (clears his throat)
> Did you hear that?
Marta stops humming, but not walking. She takes a few more steps before turning.
MARTA
> Hear what? The sweet serenade of a thousand dying insects? Or your shoe?
BRAM
> No, not--
He gestures vaguely at the darkness between the houses.
BRAM
> Something else. A sort of... drag. Like a sack of potatoes being pulled over gravel. But a really, really heavy sack.
Marta looks at him, a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes.
MARTA
> Bram, honey, if you're trying to make this walk home more interesting by inventing phantom potato sacks, you're succeeding. Barely. I thought maybe we'd see a badger.
Bram’s chest is tight. He glances over his shoulder. The street is empty, save for the flickering lamps and deep, impenetrable shadows.
But one shadow, cast against a neighbour’s hedge, is wrong. It’s too long. Too still. Too thin.
BRAM
> (a low mumble)
> There.
He nudges Marta with his elbow. She stumbles, swears under her breath.
BRAM
> Right there. Don’t you see it?
Marta squints, her brow furrowed with a mixture of effort and skepticism.
MARTA
> See what? Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning petunias? They're looking a bit leggy this year.
BRAM
> Not the petunias! To the left. Against the bush. It’s like a tall shadow. Not human. Too thin. But it’s definitely there.
Marta stares for a few more seconds. She shrugs.
MARTA
> That's just the way the light's falling, Bram. Or maybe Mrs. Henderson's put up a particularly avant-garde garden gnome. You know how she gets after a sherry or three.
Bram looks back, ready to argue.
It's gone.
Just the hedge. The petunias. The dull orange bleed of the lamp. His stomach lurches. A faint metallic smell, like copper and ozone, clings to the air.
BRAM
> (breathless)
> Right. Fine. Shortcut. Through the old railway lands. Let’s get home.
He grabs her arm and pulls her toward a gap in the hedge.
**EXT. OLD RAILWAY LANDS - NIGHT**
A narrow, neglected trail. Weeds grow shoulder-high, their seed heads brushing against their faces. Discarded fast-food wrappers cling to thorny bushes like plastic ghosts.
The ground is a treacherous patchwork of cracked concrete and loose shale. Bram watches his feet, concentrating.
Marta, however, seems to enjoy it. She kicks a discarded tin can, sending it CLATTERING into a patch of nettles.
MARTA
> At least it's cooler here. Less streetlamp pollution. You can almost imagine you're… anywhere else.
Bram doesn’t answer. He feels an odd, low VIBRATION under his feet. A subsonic HUM that isn't the defunct train line. He risks a glance back. Nothing. But the shadows among the overgrown saplings seem to shift, coalesce, then dissipate with unnatural speed.
BRAM
> We could have just taken the main road. It's only a few metres longer.
MARTA
> (laughs)
> And miss this exhilarating journey through urban decay? Besides, I’m starving. Did you actually eat that appalling quiche tonight?
As she speaks, a brief, unnatural CHILL washes over them. A cold draught in the oppressive heat. Goosebumps rise on Bram’s arms.
BRAM
> Did you-- Forget it.
Marta stops, tilting her head. The sarcasm in her eyes softens into a sliver of genuine curiosity.
MARTA
> Forget what? That you’re suddenly convinced we're being stalked by a particularly slow-moving specter? Honestly, Bram, you're usually so much more creative with your existential dread.
Bram trips over a loose brick, nearly falling. Marta catches his arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
MARTA
> Easy there, chief. Don't want you breaking an ankle before we figure out if this is a ghost or just a really committed neighbourhood watch.
He mumbles a thanks, his heart hammering. The cold has passed, leaving behind a sickly sweet scent, like overripe fruit and rust.
They push past a curtain of sagging bindweed.
A RUSTLE in the undergrowth to their left.
Then... silence.
Absolute. Perfect. The cicadas have stopped.
**EXT. BACK ALLEY - NIGHT**
They emerge into a narrow alley between the peeling backs of old garages. The air feels thick, heavy. Distant streetlamps cast long, distorted shadows.
For a beat, Bram feels relief. They're out. Almost home.
Then he sees it.
On the corrugated metal door of the nearest garage, a SMEAR. Not a stain. Something slick, iridescent, the size of a child’s hand. It glows with a faint, internal light, pulsing almost imperceptibly.
BRAM
> (a rasp)
> Marta.
She follows his gaze. Her usual composure finally cracks. A tiny gasp escapes her lips.
MARTA
> What... is that? Did someone... spray paint a rainbow slug?
The smear PULSES again, a slow, deliberate beat. The light within it shifts from purple to a sickly, jaundiced yellow. The metallic, overripe smell is overpowering now, a taste on the back of the tongue.
MARTA
> (whispering)
> It's moving. It’s… changing.
The edges of the smear ripple. Tiny tendrils of goo extend and retract, searching. The colour deepens to a throbbing, furious orange.
A distant DOG BARKS, a desperate, lonely sound that shatters the silence. It snaps Bram out of his stupor.
BRAM
> (choking)
> Run! Just run!
He grabs her arm and they BOLT.
Their feet POUND on the rough asphalt, a desperate, clumsy sprint. Bram doesn't look back. He can hear Marta's ragged breathing beside him, a choked GIGGLE caught in her throat. She’s laughing. Actually laughing.
**INT. BRAM AND MARTA'S HOUSE - HALLWAY - NIGHT**
They burst out onto their street, stumbling up the path to their modest semi-detached house. It looks like a beacon of sanity.
Bram’s hands shake as he fumbles the key into the lock. He shoves the door open--the familiar CREAK a symphony of relief.
They spill into the tiny, familiar hallway. The stale, warm air has never felt so welcoming.
Marta leans against the front door, chest heaving, her panicked giggles turning into wild, breathless laughter.
MARTA
> That... was...
> (gasping for air)
> That was amazing!
Bram turns to her, a wave of potent relief making his knees weak. He’s ready to collapse, to share the absurd release of it all.
But she isn't looking at him.
Her laughter dies.
Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, through the open doorway, into the dim night.
Her eyes are wide. The amusement is gone. The bewilderment is gone.
There is only silent, absolute HORROR.
Bram starts to turn, a question on his lips.
He feels it first.
A cold, soft touch against his bare ankle.
Something slick.
Something pulsing.
CLOSE ON BRAM'S FACE
His eyes widen in dawning terror as he understands. It followed them. It’s inside.
**FADE TO BLACK.**
[SCENE END]