A Bitter Brew in the Cold
Lost in a blizzard, Tamara stumbled upon an abandoned cabin and a boy who shouldn't be there. The offer of hot chocolate becomes a fragile bridge over a chasm of unspoken fears, as a strange, almost surreal tension thickens the frozen air.
EXT. WOODS - DAY
A disorienting, blinding whiteness. The world is a blizzard.
SOUND of a DEEP, ANCIENT WIND, howling, chewing at the air.
TAMARA (17) is a lone figure, swallowed by the storm. She pulls the hood of a thick, worn parka tighter. Each breath is a cloud, instantly ripped away.
CLOSE ON TAMARA'S EYES
Her eyelashes are caked in fine, glittering snow, blurring her vision. She blinks, trying to clear them. The effort is immense.
Her boots CRUNCH through deep snow, a lonely, muffled percussion. She stumbles, catches herself. Exhaustion is etched on her face. A vague, gnawing dread pushes her forward.
Through the swirling snow, a dark silhouette punches through the white. A structure.
EXT. CABIN - DAY
A forgotten, leaning cabin of rough-hewn timber. Almost invisible in the storm. It should be derelict.
But a single, butter-yellow light pulses from a frosted window. A trapped firefly. A beacon that feels both like salvation and a warning.
Tamara’s heart thumps. She forces her frozen legs toward it.
INT. CABIN - DAY (CONTINUOUS)
The sagging wooden door GROANS open. A gust of snow funnels inside with Tamara.
The air is marginally warmer, thick with the smell of damp earth and old pennies. Dust motes dance in a single beam of light.
It comes from a small, battery-operated LANTERN sitting on an overturned bucket.
And then she sees him.
DONALD (17), sitting on the dirt floor, back against the far wall. His knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around himself.
His face, usually restless and alive, is an impossibly still mask. His wide, glassy eyes stare at nothing.
He wears only a thin hoodie. No gloves. His hands, resting on his knees, are a vivid, unhealthy red, fingers curled stiffly. A fine dusting of frost glitters in his dark hair.
SOUND: A low, subliminal HUM seems to emanate from him.
Tamara’s breath catches.
TAMARA
> (a choked whisper)
> Donald?
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. A statue in the cold.
Tamara forces herself to move. The floorboards CREAK under her weight. She pulls off her heavy gloves, shoves them in a pocket.
She unscrews the cap on an old, olive-green thermos. The plastic GROANS in the cold. The sweet smell of chocolate drifts out, jarringly normal.
She finds two chipped ceramic MUGS on a dusty shelf. She wipes them on her parka sleeve, the fabric RASPING against the stoneware.
CLOSE ON THE MUG
A thick, dark stream of HOT CHOCOLATE pours in. Steam curls, a fleeting, living thing in the gloom.
Tamara pushes the first mug gently across the dirt floor, setting it a foot from Donald’s stiff fingers. The ceramic CLINKS faintly against the packed earth.
TAMARA
> Here. It’s... hot chocolate.
His eyes, wide and unblinking, slowly shift their focus from the wall to the mug. A sluggish, deliberate movement. He stares at it. A faint tremor flickers in their depths.
TAMARA
> You’re... freezing. Take it. It’ll help.
With agonizing slowness, he extends one hand. His red, swollen fingers brush the ceramic. A shiver runs through him. He cradles the mug, his chapped thumb tracing the chipped rim. He doesn’t lift it.
Tamara pours her own mug, wraps her hands around it. The heat is a desperate prayer. She takes a sip. The taste is cloyingly sweet.
Donald’s lips part.
DONALD
> (a dry rasp)
> I... needed to be here.
The words hang in the suffocating air. A compulsion, not a choice.
The silence stretches. The wind WHINES outside.
TAMARA
> Are you... okay?
He finally, with profound effort, lifts the mug to his lips. He takes a long, slow swallow. A more pronounced shiver wracks his frame.
DONALD
> (a strained whisper)
> It's... warm.
His gaze is distant, focused somewhere beyond the cabin walls.
TAMARA
> What happened?
Donald’s head tilts slightly, listening to something she can’t hear.
DONALD
> It’s... everywhere.
He finally looks at her. His eyes lock onto hers. The gaze is terrifying. Not just fear, but a profound, ancient weariness.
DONALD
> (a breath of a whisper)
> They... they don’t like the light.
His eyes dart to the small, sputtering lantern.
A beat of absolute silence, broken only by the wind.
Then...
SOUND: A slow, deliberate SCRAPING from just outside the cabin wall. Rhythmic. Purposeful. Unnervingly close.
Tamara’s head snaps toward the sound. Her heart hammers. It is NOT the wind.
The scraping comes again. A distinct, methodical DRAG against the timber.
Donald doesn’t flinch. He just listens. He was expecting it.
The single bulb of the lantern FLICKERS. Stutters. The cabin plunges into darkness for a terrifying half-second, then the light steadies.
Donald’s eyes, wide and black in the dim light, fix on Tamara’s. A look of shared, unspoken terror. They are not alone.
A disorienting, blinding whiteness. The world is a blizzard.
SOUND of a DEEP, ANCIENT WIND, howling, chewing at the air.
TAMARA (17) is a lone figure, swallowed by the storm. She pulls the hood of a thick, worn parka tighter. Each breath is a cloud, instantly ripped away.
CLOSE ON TAMARA'S EYES
Her eyelashes are caked in fine, glittering snow, blurring her vision. She blinks, trying to clear them. The effort is immense.
Her boots CRUNCH through deep snow, a lonely, muffled percussion. She stumbles, catches herself. Exhaustion is etched on her face. A vague, gnawing dread pushes her forward.
Through the swirling snow, a dark silhouette punches through the white. A structure.
EXT. CABIN - DAY
A forgotten, leaning cabin of rough-hewn timber. Almost invisible in the storm. It should be derelict.
But a single, butter-yellow light pulses from a frosted window. A trapped firefly. A beacon that feels both like salvation and a warning.
Tamara’s heart thumps. She forces her frozen legs toward it.
INT. CABIN - DAY (CONTINUOUS)
The sagging wooden door GROANS open. A gust of snow funnels inside with Tamara.
The air is marginally warmer, thick with the smell of damp earth and old pennies. Dust motes dance in a single beam of light.
It comes from a small, battery-operated LANTERN sitting on an overturned bucket.
And then she sees him.
DONALD (17), sitting on the dirt floor, back against the far wall. His knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around himself.
His face, usually restless and alive, is an impossibly still mask. His wide, glassy eyes stare at nothing.
He wears only a thin hoodie. No gloves. His hands, resting on his knees, are a vivid, unhealthy red, fingers curled stiffly. A fine dusting of frost glitters in his dark hair.
SOUND: A low, subliminal HUM seems to emanate from him.
Tamara’s breath catches.
TAMARA
> (a choked whisper)
> Donald?
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. A statue in the cold.
Tamara forces herself to move. The floorboards CREAK under her weight. She pulls off her heavy gloves, shoves them in a pocket.
She unscrews the cap on an old, olive-green thermos. The plastic GROANS in the cold. The sweet smell of chocolate drifts out, jarringly normal.
She finds two chipped ceramic MUGS on a dusty shelf. She wipes them on her parka sleeve, the fabric RASPING against the stoneware.
CLOSE ON THE MUG
A thick, dark stream of HOT CHOCOLATE pours in. Steam curls, a fleeting, living thing in the gloom.
Tamara pushes the first mug gently across the dirt floor, setting it a foot from Donald’s stiff fingers. The ceramic CLINKS faintly against the packed earth.
TAMARA
> Here. It’s... hot chocolate.
His eyes, wide and unblinking, slowly shift their focus from the wall to the mug. A sluggish, deliberate movement. He stares at it. A faint tremor flickers in their depths.
TAMARA
> You’re... freezing. Take it. It’ll help.
With agonizing slowness, he extends one hand. His red, swollen fingers brush the ceramic. A shiver runs through him. He cradles the mug, his chapped thumb tracing the chipped rim. He doesn’t lift it.
Tamara pours her own mug, wraps her hands around it. The heat is a desperate prayer. She takes a sip. The taste is cloyingly sweet.
Donald’s lips part.
DONALD
> (a dry rasp)
> I... needed to be here.
The words hang in the suffocating air. A compulsion, not a choice.
The silence stretches. The wind WHINES outside.
TAMARA
> Are you... okay?
He finally, with profound effort, lifts the mug to his lips. He takes a long, slow swallow. A more pronounced shiver wracks his frame.
DONALD
> (a strained whisper)
> It's... warm.
His gaze is distant, focused somewhere beyond the cabin walls.
TAMARA
> What happened?
Donald’s head tilts slightly, listening to something she can’t hear.
DONALD
> It’s... everywhere.
He finally looks at her. His eyes lock onto hers. The gaze is terrifying. Not just fear, but a profound, ancient weariness.
DONALD
> (a breath of a whisper)
> They... they don’t like the light.
His eyes dart to the small, sputtering lantern.
A beat of absolute silence, broken only by the wind.
Then...
SOUND: A slow, deliberate SCRAPING from just outside the cabin wall. Rhythmic. Purposeful. Unnervingly close.
Tamara’s head snaps toward the sound. Her heart hammers. It is NOT the wind.
The scraping comes again. A distinct, methodical DRAG against the timber.
Donald doesn’t flinch. He just listens. He was expecting it.
The single bulb of the lantern FLICKERS. Stutters. The cabin plunges into darkness for a terrifying half-second, then the light steadies.
Donald’s eyes, wide and black in the dim light, fix on Tamara’s. A look of shared, unspoken terror. They are not alone.