Beneath the Still Canopy
Joe and Tina find themselves deeper in the summer woods than intended, lured by the promise of abundant berries. As the sun dips, a sudden, unnatural silence descends, and they stumble upon unsettling marks on a tree, hinting at a presence far older and stranger than they could imagine.
EXT. DEEP WOODS - LATE AFTERNOON
The light of the "golden hour" slants through a thick, oppressive canopy of spruce and fir. It’s beautiful, but menacing.
Bramble tears at the worn jeans of JOE (20s), a pragmatist frayed at the edges. He pushes a branch aside, revealing more of the same endless undergrowth.
Nearby, TINA (20s), more intuitive, presses on. A blue plastic bucket swings empty at her side. She stops, scanning the woods with a hopeful desperation.
SOUND: A rich, layered soundscape of droning CICADAS, the distant cry of a JAY, the rustle of unseen life.
TINA
> Any luck, Joe?
Joe squints into the shadowed undergrowth. He sees nothing but tired maples and firs.
JOE
> Nothing. Not even the pathetic, sour ones. We should have hit that creek ages ago, T. Are you sure about this spot?
Tina’s shoulders slump. The fading light catches the worried lines on her brow.
TINA
> It's got to be around here. Gran swore by it. Said they used to fill buckets in an hour.
JOE
>>(muttering)
> Well, Gran also lived in a time before GPS and probably didn't have to contend with whatever logging outfit came through and reshaped half this godforsaken wood.
He wipes sweat from his upper lip. He takes a deep breath, but the air feels thin, wrong.
And then it happens.
SOUND: The entire forest soundscape abruptly CUTS OUT. A profound, unnatural SILENCE descends. It’s not just quiet, it’s a physical weight.
Joe freezes. His eyes dart around. He strains to hear anything. The only sound is the thumping of blood in his own ears.
Tina turns to him, her voice a near whisper.
TINA
> Did you… did you hear that?
JOE
> Hear what? The sudden, terrifying absence of literally everything? Yes, I heard that.
His attempt at humor falls flat, swallowed by the stillness. Tina’s eyes are wide, scanning the trees.
TINA
> It's like someone hit a mute button. It's too quiet. That's not right.
They stand frozen, two small figures in a vast, watchful space. Every shadow seems to deepen. The forest feels sentient.
JOE
> Let's just… go back. Retrace our steps. The sun's almost down.
He turns, looking for the path they broke through the undergrowth. But there’s nothing. The woods behind them are an identical, relentless green wall to the woods ahead.
EXT. DEEP WOODS - MOMENTS LATER
Panic setting in. They push through waist-high ferns, moving faster now.
SOUND: Their own BOOTS crunching on fallen debris, unnaturally loud in the dead silence.
Joe’s eyes scan desperately for any landmark—a distinctive rock, a broken branch. Nothing.
TINA
>>(hissing)
> Wait.
She grabs his arm, her grip tight. She points.
Ahead of them looms a TOWERING CEDAR, its bark a rough, patterned grey.
ANGLE ON THE CEDAR - About head-height, where a knot should be, are a series of deliberate carvings.
INSERT - THE CARVINGS
Deep, clean gouges in the wood. They are ancient, the edges softened by time, but the intent is unmistakable. Geometric shapes—triangles within circles, impossible curves. And among them, stylized EYES. Unblinking. Staring.
Joe feels a cold shiver trace down his spine.
JOE
>>(whispering)
> What the hell is that?
TINA
> I don't know. It looks… old. Really old.
She takes a half-step closer, then stops herself. The feeling of being watched is overwhelming.
JOE
> Let's not touch it. Let's just get out of here.
EXT. DEEP WOODS - DUSK
The last slivers of light vanish. The canopy is a thick, black shroud. Cold blues and deep greys dominate.
Joe and Tina stumble through the near-darkness.
JOE
> We're going in circles, I think. Every tree looks the same.
TINA
> No, we're not. We're heading west. We just keep going west, we'll hit the highway.
JOE
>>(snapping)
> West of where, T? We don't even know where 'here' is!
He immediately regrets it. He pulls out his PHONE. The screen illuminates his pale, worried face. He opens the compass app.
ON JOE'S PHONE SCREEN - The digital compass needle spins wildly, uselessly.
He looks at Tina. She checks her own phone. The screen is black.
TINA
> Dead. It was full an hour ago.
They are completely cut off.
Tina stops again, her head cocked.
TINA
> Do you hear that?
Joe listens. Past the frantic thumping of his own heart... he feels it.
SOUND: A low, resonant HUM begins. It’s a sub-bass frequency, a VIBRATION that resonates up from the soil, through the soles of their feet, and into their bones. It seems to come from everywhere at once.
JOE
>>(a breath)
> Yeah. Yeah, I hear it. What is it?
Tina just shakes her head, her eyes glistening with terror in the gloom.
The HUM intensifies, a silent roar that vibrates through their chests. The air grows thick, tasting of copper.
Joe’s POV - The trees seem to subtly shift, their branches leaning in like grasping fingers. The very geometry of the forest feels wrong.
He and Tina are paralyzed, rooted to the spot by a primal dread.
Tina’s gaze is fixed on something ahead, just beyond the edge of visibility in the deepening shadows.
Joe follows her gaze.
Between two ancient firs stands a FIGURE. Tall, indistinct, and utterly unmoving. A silhouette of impossible stillness against the gloom.
It is waiting for them.
CLOSE ON JOE AND TINA
Their faces are masks of pure terror. They don’t scream. They can’t. The hum fills the world. They are trapped.
FADE TO BLACK.
The light of the "golden hour" slants through a thick, oppressive canopy of spruce and fir. It’s beautiful, but menacing.
Bramble tears at the worn jeans of JOE (20s), a pragmatist frayed at the edges. He pushes a branch aside, revealing more of the same endless undergrowth.
Nearby, TINA (20s), more intuitive, presses on. A blue plastic bucket swings empty at her side. She stops, scanning the woods with a hopeful desperation.
SOUND: A rich, layered soundscape of droning CICADAS, the distant cry of a JAY, the rustle of unseen life.
TINA
> Any luck, Joe?
Joe squints into the shadowed undergrowth. He sees nothing but tired maples and firs.
JOE
> Nothing. Not even the pathetic, sour ones. We should have hit that creek ages ago, T. Are you sure about this spot?
Tina’s shoulders slump. The fading light catches the worried lines on her brow.
TINA
> It's got to be around here. Gran swore by it. Said they used to fill buckets in an hour.
JOE
>>(muttering)
> Well, Gran also lived in a time before GPS and probably didn't have to contend with whatever logging outfit came through and reshaped half this godforsaken wood.
He wipes sweat from his upper lip. He takes a deep breath, but the air feels thin, wrong.
And then it happens.
SOUND: The entire forest soundscape abruptly CUTS OUT. A profound, unnatural SILENCE descends. It’s not just quiet, it’s a physical weight.
Joe freezes. His eyes dart around. He strains to hear anything. The only sound is the thumping of blood in his own ears.
Tina turns to him, her voice a near whisper.
TINA
> Did you… did you hear that?
JOE
> Hear what? The sudden, terrifying absence of literally everything? Yes, I heard that.
His attempt at humor falls flat, swallowed by the stillness. Tina’s eyes are wide, scanning the trees.
TINA
> It's like someone hit a mute button. It's too quiet. That's not right.
They stand frozen, two small figures in a vast, watchful space. Every shadow seems to deepen. The forest feels sentient.
JOE
> Let's just… go back. Retrace our steps. The sun's almost down.
He turns, looking for the path they broke through the undergrowth. But there’s nothing. The woods behind them are an identical, relentless green wall to the woods ahead.
EXT. DEEP WOODS - MOMENTS LATER
Panic setting in. They push through waist-high ferns, moving faster now.
SOUND: Their own BOOTS crunching on fallen debris, unnaturally loud in the dead silence.
Joe’s eyes scan desperately for any landmark—a distinctive rock, a broken branch. Nothing.
TINA
>>(hissing)
> Wait.
She grabs his arm, her grip tight. She points.
Ahead of them looms a TOWERING CEDAR, its bark a rough, patterned grey.
ANGLE ON THE CEDAR - About head-height, where a knot should be, are a series of deliberate carvings.
INSERT - THE CARVINGS
Deep, clean gouges in the wood. They are ancient, the edges softened by time, but the intent is unmistakable. Geometric shapes—triangles within circles, impossible curves. And among them, stylized EYES. Unblinking. Staring.
Joe feels a cold shiver trace down his spine.
JOE
>>(whispering)
> What the hell is that?
TINA
> I don't know. It looks… old. Really old.
She takes a half-step closer, then stops herself. The feeling of being watched is overwhelming.
JOE
> Let's not touch it. Let's just get out of here.
EXT. DEEP WOODS - DUSK
The last slivers of light vanish. The canopy is a thick, black shroud. Cold blues and deep greys dominate.
Joe and Tina stumble through the near-darkness.
JOE
> We're going in circles, I think. Every tree looks the same.
TINA
> No, we're not. We're heading west. We just keep going west, we'll hit the highway.
JOE
>>(snapping)
> West of where, T? We don't even know where 'here' is!
He immediately regrets it. He pulls out his PHONE. The screen illuminates his pale, worried face. He opens the compass app.
ON JOE'S PHONE SCREEN - The digital compass needle spins wildly, uselessly.
He looks at Tina. She checks her own phone. The screen is black.
TINA
> Dead. It was full an hour ago.
They are completely cut off.
Tina stops again, her head cocked.
TINA
> Do you hear that?
Joe listens. Past the frantic thumping of his own heart... he feels it.
SOUND: A low, resonant HUM begins. It’s a sub-bass frequency, a VIBRATION that resonates up from the soil, through the soles of their feet, and into their bones. It seems to come from everywhere at once.
JOE
>>(a breath)
> Yeah. Yeah, I hear it. What is it?
Tina just shakes her head, her eyes glistening with terror in the gloom.
The HUM intensifies, a silent roar that vibrates through their chests. The air grows thick, tasting of copper.
Joe’s POV - The trees seem to subtly shift, their branches leaning in like grasping fingers. The very geometry of the forest feels wrong.
He and Tina are paralyzed, rooted to the spot by a primal dread.
Tina’s gaze is fixed on something ahead, just beyond the edge of visibility in the deepening shadows.
Joe follows her gaze.
Between two ancient firs stands a FIGURE. Tall, indistinct, and utterly unmoving. A silhouette of impossible stillness against the gloom.
It is waiting for them.
CLOSE ON JOE AND TINA
Their faces are masks of pure terror. They don’t scream. They can’t. The hum fills the world. They are trapped.
FADE TO BLACK.