The Strange Gravity of Gravy
Frank sat amidst the din of the cafeteria, a lukewarm poutine congealing before him, but his mind was not on the soggy fries. Something was off, profoundly, subtly off. The gravy, the lights, the very air – it all hummed with an unsettling, almost playful malevolence. He found himself cataloguing every minute, uncanny detail, desperate to convince his friend, Casey, that he wasn't entirely losing his grip on reality.
INT. NORTHWOOD HIGH CAFETERIA - DAY
A vast, cavernous room buzzing with the chaotic energy of hundreds of teenagers. The air smells of floor wax and fried potatoes. The light from the long fluorescent fixtures above is aggressive, casting a pale, institutional glare on the scuffed linoleum and rows of Formica tables.
SOUND of ambient chatter, clattering trays, distant laughter
FRANK (17, sharp, neurotically observant) sits opposite his friend, CASEY (17, pragmatic, witty, with defiant cobalt blue fingernails).
Frank isn't eating. He stares, utterly transfixed, at his plate of poutine.
CLOSE ON - THE POUTINE
A mound of fries and cheese curds shrouded in gravy. The gravy is unnaturally perfect. It clings to every surface with a thick, gluey consistency, possessing a caramel-brown sheen that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. It is a monument to uniformity.
Casey taps a blue nail against the table, a sharp little *tick tick tick*.
CASEY
> You’re doing it again.
Frank blinks, pulled from his trance.
CASEY
> The intense scrutiny. You’ll bore a hole through that poor, innocent poutine.
FRANK
> Innocent? This poutine harbours secrets, Casey. Deep, unsettling secrets. Look at it. Really look.
He gestures with his fork, a single fry impaled, dripping with the suspect liquid.
FRANK
> (CONT'D)
> Does it not strike you as… unnaturally consistent? The way the light just… absorbs into it?
Casey lets out a theatrical sigh. She picks up her own fork, gives her poutine a cursory poke.
CASEY
> It strikes me as institutional. And, frankly, rather tempting.
She takes a bite. Chews thoughtfully.
CASEY
> (CONT'D)
> Cheesy. Salty. Delightfully unhealthy. What more could one ask for from a mid-afternoon arterial obstruction?
Frank watches her, a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He leans in, lowering his voice.
FRANK
> The lights.
The fluorescent fixtures above flicker, but not with a mechanical stutter. It's a barely perceptible PULSE, like a slow, silent heartbeat.
SOUND: A high, thin THRUM, almost subliminal, layered under the cafeteria din.
FRANK
> (CONT'D)
> Do you not feel it? That… thrum? It’s not the old ballast failing. It’s something else. It feels like the air itself is vibrating. It chafes at my molars.
He rubs his jaw, an involuntary tic. Casey raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
CASEY
> Frank, my dear, you have always possessed a peculiar sensitivity to the mundane. Perhaps you’re just experiencing the joys of a sub-par electrical grid. Or, dare I suggest, an impending headache?
She offers a placid, sympathetic smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
Frank’s gaze sweeps the room. The other students are absorbed in their own dramas—a clandestine hand-hold, a furious whisper, the boisterous laughter of the hockey team. All so normal. But to Frank, their movements seem a fraction too smooth. Their smiles a fraction too wide.
His eyes land on the staff.
MRS. HAWKINS (60s), the stern cafeteria supervisor, moves between tables with an eerie, silent grace. Her gaze sweeps the room with the unnatural regularity of a lighthouse beam.
And then he sees the cook.
THE COOK (40s), a portly man in an impossibly white uniform, stands at the serving line, ladling out more poutine. His movements are fluid, mechanically precise. Each scoop is identical to the last.
SOUND: A low, tuneless, repetitive DRONE hums from the Cook.
The Cook, without looking, reaches for a ladle as it slips from the counter. His hand moves with inhuman speed, snatching it from the air before it can fall. Too fast. Too seamless.
FRANK
> (murmuring)
> The cook. He moves like… a machine pretending to be human. Look at him. No wasted motion.
Casey follows his gaze, chewing slowly.
CASEY
> He seems perfectly adequate at his job, Frank. Perhaps a little… earnest. There’s a dramatic gravitas to it, don’t you think? A culinary ballet.
She smirks, enjoying her own wit. Frank shakes his head, a faint metallic tang on his tongue.
FRANK
> No. It’s unnatural. His eyes, Casey. They’re… too still. Like polished stones. And that hum. It’s from him.
Casey’s expression softens, her theatricality dimming into genuine concern.
CASEY
> Frank, are you sleeping properly? You seem… unstrung. Maybe we should talk to Mr. Henderson?
She reaches across the table, her hand resting briefly, warmly, on his forearm. The touch is real. Solid. For a moment, he almost believes her.
But then he sees it.
ANGLE ON a stainless steel sugar dispenser on their table.
In its curved surface, Frank sees the reflection of the Cook behind him. For a single, horrifying instant, the reflection WARPS. The Cook’s white uniform ripples as if made of water. Beneath the surface, something DARK and UNDULATING shifts.
Frank’s breath hitches. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them.
The reflection is normal. Just the Cook, dutifully ladling.
The sight of his own poutine is now utterly nauseating.
FRANK
> I… I need to use the washroom.
He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly.
INT. CAFETERIA / HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
Frank navigates the crowded tables. The sounds of laughter and chatter wash over him, a disorienting tide. Each step feels heavy.
The metallic tang in his mouth grows stronger. A faint scent of copper, like an overheating wire.
Ahead, past the main seating area, are the swinging doors to the kitchen. The washrooms are down a short corridor just beyond them.
SOUND: A low, rhythmic THUMP-THUMP pulses from within the kitchen, almost lost in the din. It resonates with the same unnerving frequency as the lights, as the Cook’s hum.
Frank pauses, his hand hovering near the washroom door. He glances back. Casey is now talking to another girl, oblivious.
Morbid curiosity wins. He turns towards the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
Frank pushes one of the heavy doors open just a crack.
FRANK’S POV - The kitchen is a brightly lit, steamy expanse of stainless steel. The THUMP-THUMP is clearer here, its source obscured by a towering stack of metal trays in the far corner.
Mrs. Hawkins is here, her back to him, meticulously scrubbing a counter. Her movements are unnervingly precise.
He feels a wave of self-doubt. Maybe he is just overtired.
He’s about to retreat when he spots it. On a wheeled trolley, a single, gleaming LADLE. The one the Cook dropped.
He slips into the kitchen. The door swings silently shut behind him. The air is thick with the scent of hot grease and chlorine.
Mrs. Hawkins continues her scrubbing, her back still turned.
Frank creeps towards the trolley, drawn to the ladle. He picks it up. It’s cold. Unnaturally so.
He looks into its polished, convex bowl.
CLOSE ON THE LADLE - FRANK’S POV
The reflection is not of the kitchen behind him.
It is a fish-eye view of a VAST, DARK FORM. A churning void of impossible angles and textures, writhing with silent, tangled motion. And within it, for a millisecond, COUNTLESS UNBLINKING EYES reflect the fluorescent lights in a horrifying mosaic.
SOUND: A high-pitched TONE builds, the sound of an internal scream.
Frank drops the ladle. It hits the linoleum with a deafening CLATTER.
He spins around, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The kitchen is empty. Just Mrs. Hawkins, still scrubbing.
But the rhythmic THUMP-THUMP has stopped.
The silence is absolute, save for the faint, distant hum of the cafeteria beyond the doors. Frank gasps for air that feels too thick to breathe.
From behind the stack of metal trays, the Cook emerges.
Slowly. Deliberately.
His movements are no longer fluid. Each footfall is heavy, DRAGGING. His head is tilted at a broken, unnatural angle.
His eyes—the polished stones—are fixed on Frank. They seem deeper now. Infinitely old.
SOUND: The low, guttural DRONE begins again, vibrating from the Cook’s throat, filling the silent kitchen.
The Cook’s mouth widens. And widens. And widens. An impossible smile splitting the skin at the corners of his lips.
He raises a hand to beckon. The fingers seem to STRETCH, elongating into pale, thin digits.
Frank is paralyzed.
An insistent, cold pressure lands on his shoulder from behind.
He knows it isn't Casey.
A vast, cavernous room buzzing with the chaotic energy of hundreds of teenagers. The air smells of floor wax and fried potatoes. The light from the long fluorescent fixtures above is aggressive, casting a pale, institutional glare on the scuffed linoleum and rows of Formica tables.
SOUND of ambient chatter, clattering trays, distant laughter
FRANK (17, sharp, neurotically observant) sits opposite his friend, CASEY (17, pragmatic, witty, with defiant cobalt blue fingernails).
Frank isn't eating. He stares, utterly transfixed, at his plate of poutine.
CLOSE ON - THE POUTINE
A mound of fries and cheese curds shrouded in gravy. The gravy is unnaturally perfect. It clings to every surface with a thick, gluey consistency, possessing a caramel-brown sheen that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. It is a monument to uniformity.
Casey taps a blue nail against the table, a sharp little *tick tick tick*.
CASEY
> You’re doing it again.
Frank blinks, pulled from his trance.
CASEY
> The intense scrutiny. You’ll bore a hole through that poor, innocent poutine.
FRANK
> Innocent? This poutine harbours secrets, Casey. Deep, unsettling secrets. Look at it. Really look.
He gestures with his fork, a single fry impaled, dripping with the suspect liquid.
FRANK
> (CONT'D)
> Does it not strike you as… unnaturally consistent? The way the light just… absorbs into it?
Casey lets out a theatrical sigh. She picks up her own fork, gives her poutine a cursory poke.
CASEY
> It strikes me as institutional. And, frankly, rather tempting.
She takes a bite. Chews thoughtfully.
CASEY
> (CONT'D)
> Cheesy. Salty. Delightfully unhealthy. What more could one ask for from a mid-afternoon arterial obstruction?
Frank watches her, a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He leans in, lowering his voice.
FRANK
> The lights.
The fluorescent fixtures above flicker, but not with a mechanical stutter. It's a barely perceptible PULSE, like a slow, silent heartbeat.
SOUND: A high, thin THRUM, almost subliminal, layered under the cafeteria din.
FRANK
> (CONT'D)
> Do you not feel it? That… thrum? It’s not the old ballast failing. It’s something else. It feels like the air itself is vibrating. It chafes at my molars.
He rubs his jaw, an involuntary tic. Casey raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
CASEY
> Frank, my dear, you have always possessed a peculiar sensitivity to the mundane. Perhaps you’re just experiencing the joys of a sub-par electrical grid. Or, dare I suggest, an impending headache?
She offers a placid, sympathetic smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
Frank’s gaze sweeps the room. The other students are absorbed in their own dramas—a clandestine hand-hold, a furious whisper, the boisterous laughter of the hockey team. All so normal. But to Frank, their movements seem a fraction too smooth. Their smiles a fraction too wide.
His eyes land on the staff.
MRS. HAWKINS (60s), the stern cafeteria supervisor, moves between tables with an eerie, silent grace. Her gaze sweeps the room with the unnatural regularity of a lighthouse beam.
And then he sees the cook.
THE COOK (40s), a portly man in an impossibly white uniform, stands at the serving line, ladling out more poutine. His movements are fluid, mechanically precise. Each scoop is identical to the last.
SOUND: A low, tuneless, repetitive DRONE hums from the Cook.
The Cook, without looking, reaches for a ladle as it slips from the counter. His hand moves with inhuman speed, snatching it from the air before it can fall. Too fast. Too seamless.
FRANK
> (murmuring)
> The cook. He moves like… a machine pretending to be human. Look at him. No wasted motion.
Casey follows his gaze, chewing slowly.
CASEY
> He seems perfectly adequate at his job, Frank. Perhaps a little… earnest. There’s a dramatic gravitas to it, don’t you think? A culinary ballet.
She smirks, enjoying her own wit. Frank shakes his head, a faint metallic tang on his tongue.
FRANK
> No. It’s unnatural. His eyes, Casey. They’re… too still. Like polished stones. And that hum. It’s from him.
Casey’s expression softens, her theatricality dimming into genuine concern.
CASEY
> Frank, are you sleeping properly? You seem… unstrung. Maybe we should talk to Mr. Henderson?
She reaches across the table, her hand resting briefly, warmly, on his forearm. The touch is real. Solid. For a moment, he almost believes her.
But then he sees it.
ANGLE ON a stainless steel sugar dispenser on their table.
In its curved surface, Frank sees the reflection of the Cook behind him. For a single, horrifying instant, the reflection WARPS. The Cook’s white uniform ripples as if made of water. Beneath the surface, something DARK and UNDULATING shifts.
Frank’s breath hitches. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them.
The reflection is normal. Just the Cook, dutifully ladling.
The sight of his own poutine is now utterly nauseating.
FRANK
> I… I need to use the washroom.
He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly.
INT. CAFETERIA / HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
Frank navigates the crowded tables. The sounds of laughter and chatter wash over him, a disorienting tide. Each step feels heavy.
The metallic tang in his mouth grows stronger. A faint scent of copper, like an overheating wire.
Ahead, past the main seating area, are the swinging doors to the kitchen. The washrooms are down a short corridor just beyond them.
SOUND: A low, rhythmic THUMP-THUMP pulses from within the kitchen, almost lost in the din. It resonates with the same unnerving frequency as the lights, as the Cook’s hum.
Frank pauses, his hand hovering near the washroom door. He glances back. Casey is now talking to another girl, oblivious.
Morbid curiosity wins. He turns towards the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
Frank pushes one of the heavy doors open just a crack.
FRANK’S POV - The kitchen is a brightly lit, steamy expanse of stainless steel. The THUMP-THUMP is clearer here, its source obscured by a towering stack of metal trays in the far corner.
Mrs. Hawkins is here, her back to him, meticulously scrubbing a counter. Her movements are unnervingly precise.
He feels a wave of self-doubt. Maybe he is just overtired.
He’s about to retreat when he spots it. On a wheeled trolley, a single, gleaming LADLE. The one the Cook dropped.
He slips into the kitchen. The door swings silently shut behind him. The air is thick with the scent of hot grease and chlorine.
Mrs. Hawkins continues her scrubbing, her back still turned.
Frank creeps towards the trolley, drawn to the ladle. He picks it up. It’s cold. Unnaturally so.
He looks into its polished, convex bowl.
CLOSE ON THE LADLE - FRANK’S POV
The reflection is not of the kitchen behind him.
It is a fish-eye view of a VAST, DARK FORM. A churning void of impossible angles and textures, writhing with silent, tangled motion. And within it, for a millisecond, COUNTLESS UNBLINKING EYES reflect the fluorescent lights in a horrifying mosaic.
SOUND: A high-pitched TONE builds, the sound of an internal scream.
Frank drops the ladle. It hits the linoleum with a deafening CLATTER.
He spins around, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The kitchen is empty. Just Mrs. Hawkins, still scrubbing.
But the rhythmic THUMP-THUMP has stopped.
The silence is absolute, save for the faint, distant hum of the cafeteria beyond the doors. Frank gasps for air that feels too thick to breathe.
From behind the stack of metal trays, the Cook emerges.
Slowly. Deliberately.
His movements are no longer fluid. Each footfall is heavy, DRAGGING. His head is tilted at a broken, unnatural angle.
His eyes—the polished stones—are fixed on Frank. They seem deeper now. Infinitely old.
SOUND: The low, guttural DRONE begins again, vibrating from the Cook’s throat, filling the silent kitchen.
The Cook’s mouth widens. And widens. And widens. An impossible smile splitting the skin at the corners of his lips.
He raises a hand to beckon. The fingers seem to STRETCH, elongating into pale, thin digits.
Frank is paralyzed.
An insistent, cold pressure lands on his shoulder from behind.
He knows it isn't Casey.