A Script for The Rec Hall Basement

INT. MRS. BATTISTE'S KITCHEN - DAY

Sunlight, harsh and overexposed, blasts through a smudged kitchen window. The air is thick with summer humidity, smelling of coffee, toast, and sugar cookies.

SOUND: A single, sluggish FLY buzzes against a screen door.

EDMUND (17), anxious and observant, squints against the glare. He stares out the window.

EDMUND'S POV - THROUGH THE WINDOW

A beat-up green FORD RANGER, the color of pond scum, is parked on the gravel shoulder. Half-hidden by a tangle of wild raspberry bushes. The truck is empty. Ominously still.

BACK TO SCENE

Edmund rubs a phantom grit from his eye. He sits at a large oak table covered in a checkered oilcloth. Across from him:

MATEO (18), boisterous and energetic, gestures with a half-eaten oatmeal cookie. Crumbs dot his chin.

SAGE (17), artistic and witty, pushes a stray curl of dark hair behind her ear, her brow furrowed.

Crumpled sketches and architectural drawings are spread between them.

MATEO

(mid-sentence)

--and I’m telling you, it’s not just the damp. It’s the *smell*. Like… old socks and resentment.

Sage picks at a loose thread on her denim shorts.

SAGE

Resentment, Tey? That’s a bit much. It’s just… forgotten. Like everything else.

At the head of the table, MRS. BATTISTE (60s), sharp-eyed and benevolent, clears her throat.

MRS. BATTISTE

It’s got potential, kids. Everything does. You just gotta see it.

Her gaze flickers toward the window, in Edmund’s direction, then quickly away. She turns back to the sketches.

SAGE

(muttering)

Potential, yeah. Like my algebra grade.

(then, a small smile)

Edmund pulls his attention from the window, back to the table. He picks up a sketch showing a proposed gallery space. On the back, a crudely doodled smiling sun.

MATEO

No, seriously. The old rec hall basement. It’s just… so *basement*. All that exposed piping. That specific scent of old concrete that never quite dried out properly, mixed with decades of mothballs and bad decisions.

(shivers theatrically)

And the water stains, man. Remember that one in the corner that looked exactly like a screaming face? Or was it just me?

SAGE

(rolling her eyes)

It was just you, Tey. You’re always seeing things.

(beat)

But he’s not wrong about the vibe. It’s heavy. All those years of… nothing. Just dust settling on dust.

Edmund clears his throat, forcing himself to engage.

EDMUND

The smell can be fixed. Good ventilation, some industrial-strength cleaner. That’s easy. The structural stuff… Mrs. Battiste, you talked to Mr. Henderson about the building’s integrity, right?

He taps the flimsy sketch with his index finger.

MRS. BATTISTE

Of course, Edmund. Mr. Henderson said it’s structurally sound. Old, but solid.

(a wry smile)

He did mention a few things about the drainage, though. Said it’s always been a bit… temperamental.

MATEO

(singsong)

“Temperamental drainage.” That’s Henderson-speak for ‘expect a foot of water in there every April.’ And we’re talking about putting electronics down there? Art?

He takes a huge bite of cookie, chewing loudly.

MATEO (CONT'D)

I’ve seen that basement. It’s like a forgotten Soviet bunker. Full of discarded wrestling mats and a broken ping-pong table missing half its legs. And that one weird, stained armchair that no one dared touch.

Sage suddenly sits up straighter, a spark in her eyes.

SAGE

Exactly! The wrestling mats! We could cut them up, repurpose the foam for sound dampening in the performance space. The ping-pong table? New legs, it’s a communal work table. The armchair… okay, maybe the armchair goes. But it’s not just a basement, Tey. It’s a canvas. A really, really grimy, damp canvas.

She grabs a pencil and begins sketching furiously on the back of a proposal, quick, confident lines forming a multi-level stage.

A knot in Edmund’s stomach loosens. He watches her, impressed. He forces the image of the green truck from his mind.

EDMUND

Okay, so, sound dampening from old wrestling mats. That’s… efficient. And cheap.

(glances at Mrs. B)

But what about the walls? They’re just rough concrete block. It’s gonna look like a prison breakout.

MATEO

Drywall, obviously. But then we need to frame, insulate, mud, sand… God, the sanding. I hate sanding. That’s a month of weekends right there.

MRS. BATTISTE

Or, we embrace the concrete. Not everywhere. But maybe a feature wall. Or we hang big, rough-hewn boards, stained dark, for a more rustic, gallery feel.

SAGE

(not looking up)

Oh, I like that! The rustic thing. Imagine a big slab of polished driftwood for a reception desk. Or a coffee bar.

MATEO

(stretching)

Okay, we’re getting somewhere. But lighting. Those bare bulbs are a torture chamber. We need track lighting, spotlights… That’s gonna cost a fortune.

MRS. BATTISTE

Grants are the key, Mateo. There are grants for community arts initiatives. For youth engagement. We just have to make a compelling case. Show them we’re serious.

She looks at each of them, her gaze lingering on Edmund. He feels the weight of it. The anchor.

EDMUND

Okay. So we need a proper proposal. A budget. A timeline. And a name. Not ‘The Old Rec Hall Basement Art Space.’

Sage giggles, a bright, surprising sound.

SAGE

How about ‘The Subterranean Scene’? Or ‘The Undercurrent Gallery’?

MATEO

(musing)

Undercurrent Gallery… I kind of like that. It’s got a bit of… mystery.

(leaning forward, eyes gleaming)

We could have a grand opening! Local bands. Food trucks. Make it an event!

The room EXPLODES with energy. Everyone talks at once.

Sage draws feverishly. Mateo gesticulates wildly, nearly knocking over a coffee mug. Mrs. Battiste, animated, interjects ideas—pottery classes, a small theatre group.

MATEO

(shouting over the din)

We need a logo! Something with a bass fish, but like, an artistic bass!

SAGE

(OVERLAPPING)

No, no, a loon! A modern loon with a paint palette in its beak!

EDMUND

(trying to be heard)

What about acoustics? Fire codes? All that boring stuff?

He’s swept up in it anyway, a genuine smile spreading across his face. He leans back, watching them, feeling a surge of pure, undeniable excitement. This is real.

Then--

A SHADOW, sudden and unnatural, falls across the window and is gone.

Edmund’s head snaps up. His smile vanishes.

He stares out the window. Just shimmering heat haze off the gravel. Tall pines swaying.

SOUND: A faint, distant METALLIC CLANG. From the direction of the truck.

The excited chatter around the table continues, but in Edmund’s ears, the sound has warped. It’s frantic now. Desperate. Like laughter in a pitch-black room.

A profound, unseasonable CHILL runs down his spine. The air tastes like static.

He looks back at the table. At Mrs. Battiste, her face flushed with excitement as she sketches a rough floor plan.

Her hand, holding the pen, has a tiny, almost invisible tremor.

She looks up. Her eyes meet Edmund’s.

CLOSE ON MRS. BATTISTE

For a fleeting, terrifying moment, the fierce hope in her eyes is GONE. Replaced by a flicker of something much older, much darker. A silent, shared recognition.

CLOSE ON EDMUND

His blood runs cold. The dread is no longer just his.

He knows. The threat is real. And she has known it all along.