The Hollow Carving
In the quiet, autumn-chilled town of Willow Creek Hollow, a beloved Christmas carver has vanished, leaving only cryptic clues behind. Teenage Clorence, drawn into the unsettling mystery, uncovers a trail of evidence that leads her deeper into the shadowed woods, hinting at a darker truth than anyone suspects.
EXT. WILLOW CREEK HOLLOW - LATE AFTERNOON
The town square is deserted. A pale, weak sun casts long, distorted shadows.
Thin, brittle maple leaves cling to branches. The air is cold.
CLORENCE (16), observant and thoughtful in a worn flannel shirt, pulls her collar tight. She scuffs a sneaker against a loose cobblestone. Her breath plumes in a fleeting white cloud.
The remnants of a Harvest Festival are scattered and sad. Sagging, damp hay bales. Limp, mud-streaked orange and gold ribbons hanging from a bandstand. The place feels incomplete. Unfinished.
Clorence walks with purpose towards an old storefront: "SMITH'S GENERAL." The bell above the door is still.
She stops at the front window. It's dull, smeared with a fine film of dust. She cups her hands around her eyes, peering into the dim interior.
Stacks of flour sacks. Jars of preserves. But her eyes fix on the woodworking corner at the back.
A workbench, usually covered in shavings, is strangely clear. In the center sits a single, pristine block of uncarved BASSWOOD. Next to it, glinting faintly, lies a single CARVING CHISEL.
A shiver runs through her. She turns from the window, her gaze sweeping over the deserted square.
A flash of color catches her eye.
Near the base of a festival stall, snagged on a splinter of wood, is a tiny, IRIDESCENT BLUE FEATHER. No bigger than her thumbnail.
She kneels. Picks it up. The quill is delicate, almost translucent. It feels utterly out of place. She frowns, then tucks it into her jeans pocket.
A sharp RUSTLE from a narrow alleyway between the bakery and the town hall.
Clorence freezes. Her hand hovers over the pocket with the feather. She listens. The wind rattles a loose shutter overhead. Then, silence. She peers into the deep shadows of the alley. Nothing but overflowing bins.
Her heart thumps. She glances back at the dark window of Smith's store. The waiting wood. The lonely chisel.
She turns and walks, not toward home, but toward the edge of town.
EXT. WOODS BY THE CREEK - LATER
The path is overgrown, covered in a thick carpet of fallen leaves. Sunlight barely pierces the dense canopy. Clorence's boots CRUNCH loudly in the quiet. The air smells of wet moss and decay.
Up ahead, a flicker of color snagged on a low-hanging branch.
She moves closer. It's a scrap of fabric. A deep crimson and forest green PLAID. Torn from a shirt. She recognizes the pattern.
Her breath catches. Her eyes dart around the surrounding woods. The ground is soft, muddy in spots.
She kneels. Her knees sink into the cold, damp earth.
She sees it. A FAINT IMPRESSION. A boot print. Large, deep. And another beside it, scuffed and dragged. The clear print has a distinctive tread: two parallel lines and a small diamond shape.
Panic flickers in her eyes. She stands, scanning the trees. A twig SNAPS somewhere behind her. She spins around. Nothing. Just shadows.
She pushes deeper into the woods, following the faint trail of disturbed leaves. She spots a shallow GOUGE in the earth, like something heavy was dragged.
A few feet later, half-buried in the leaf litter, is a small, wooden TOY SOLDIER. Painted in bright, faded colors. One arm is missing. It's not one of Mr. Smith's carvings. She picks it up, her fingers tracing the chipped paint.
The gurgle of the creek grows louder.
She pushes through a curtain of low-hanging branches and stops.
On the bank of the creek, a small, faded green ROWBOAT is overturned, half-submerged in the shallow water. Moss grows on its underside. A patch of earth next to it is disturbed, trampled.
Then she sees it.
Tucked underneath the lip of the boat, half-buried in the mud, something glints. A small, ornate CARVING TOOL with a fine, delicate tip.
She knows this tool. 'The Eye of the Needle.'
He would never leave it here.
She kneels. The distinctive diamond-pattern boot print is clear and fresh in the mud right beside the boat. It leads directly into the water.
Her eyes follow the trail across the wide, shallow creek. On the other side, the woods are even thicker, darker. A barely-there path leads towards the silhouette of the OLD ABANDONED MILL.
Her phone VIBRATES in her backpack. A call from her Mom. She ignores it.
She clutches the cold metal of the carving tool in her hand. Her gaze is fixed on the path across the water, leading into the deepening gloom.
She takes a steadying breath.
She steps into the freezing creek, the water swirling around her ankles. She doesn't look back.
The town square is deserted. A pale, weak sun casts long, distorted shadows.
Thin, brittle maple leaves cling to branches. The air is cold.
CLORENCE (16), observant and thoughtful in a worn flannel shirt, pulls her collar tight. She scuffs a sneaker against a loose cobblestone. Her breath plumes in a fleeting white cloud.
The remnants of a Harvest Festival are scattered and sad. Sagging, damp hay bales. Limp, mud-streaked orange and gold ribbons hanging from a bandstand. The place feels incomplete. Unfinished.
Clorence walks with purpose towards an old storefront: "SMITH'S GENERAL." The bell above the door is still.
She stops at the front window. It's dull, smeared with a fine film of dust. She cups her hands around her eyes, peering into the dim interior.
Stacks of flour sacks. Jars of preserves. But her eyes fix on the woodworking corner at the back.
A workbench, usually covered in shavings, is strangely clear. In the center sits a single, pristine block of uncarved BASSWOOD. Next to it, glinting faintly, lies a single CARVING CHISEL.
A shiver runs through her. She turns from the window, her gaze sweeping over the deserted square.
A flash of color catches her eye.
Near the base of a festival stall, snagged on a splinter of wood, is a tiny, IRIDESCENT BLUE FEATHER. No bigger than her thumbnail.
She kneels. Picks it up. The quill is delicate, almost translucent. It feels utterly out of place. She frowns, then tucks it into her jeans pocket.
A sharp RUSTLE from a narrow alleyway between the bakery and the town hall.
Clorence freezes. Her hand hovers over the pocket with the feather. She listens. The wind rattles a loose shutter overhead. Then, silence. She peers into the deep shadows of the alley. Nothing but overflowing bins.
Her heart thumps. She glances back at the dark window of Smith's store. The waiting wood. The lonely chisel.
She turns and walks, not toward home, but toward the edge of town.
EXT. WOODS BY THE CREEK - LATER
The path is overgrown, covered in a thick carpet of fallen leaves. Sunlight barely pierces the dense canopy. Clorence's boots CRUNCH loudly in the quiet. The air smells of wet moss and decay.
Up ahead, a flicker of color snagged on a low-hanging branch.
She moves closer. It's a scrap of fabric. A deep crimson and forest green PLAID. Torn from a shirt. She recognizes the pattern.
Her breath catches. Her eyes dart around the surrounding woods. The ground is soft, muddy in spots.
She kneels. Her knees sink into the cold, damp earth.
She sees it. A FAINT IMPRESSION. A boot print. Large, deep. And another beside it, scuffed and dragged. The clear print has a distinctive tread: two parallel lines and a small diamond shape.
Panic flickers in her eyes. She stands, scanning the trees. A twig SNAPS somewhere behind her. She spins around. Nothing. Just shadows.
She pushes deeper into the woods, following the faint trail of disturbed leaves. She spots a shallow GOUGE in the earth, like something heavy was dragged.
A few feet later, half-buried in the leaf litter, is a small, wooden TOY SOLDIER. Painted in bright, faded colors. One arm is missing. It's not one of Mr. Smith's carvings. She picks it up, her fingers tracing the chipped paint.
The gurgle of the creek grows louder.
She pushes through a curtain of low-hanging branches and stops.
On the bank of the creek, a small, faded green ROWBOAT is overturned, half-submerged in the shallow water. Moss grows on its underside. A patch of earth next to it is disturbed, trampled.
Then she sees it.
Tucked underneath the lip of the boat, half-buried in the mud, something glints. A small, ornate CARVING TOOL with a fine, delicate tip.
She knows this tool. 'The Eye of the Needle.'
He would never leave it here.
She kneels. The distinctive diamond-pattern boot print is clear and fresh in the mud right beside the boat. It leads directly into the water.
Her eyes follow the trail across the wide, shallow creek. On the other side, the woods are even thicker, darker. A barely-there path leads towards the silhouette of the OLD ABANDONED MILL.
Her phone VIBRATES in her backpack. A call from her Mom. She ignores it.
She clutches the cold metal of the carving tool in her hand. Her gaze is fixed on the path across the water, leading into the deepening gloom.
She takes a steadying breath.
She steps into the freezing creek, the water swirling around her ankles. She doesn't look back.