A Script for A Chill in the Old Hall

by Tony Eetak

**A CHILL IN THE OLD HALL**

**SCENE START**

**INT. OAKHAVEN COMMUNITY HALL - DAY**

SOUND of a single voice echoing, a gust of wind rattling a window

CAVERNOUS, COLD. Sunlight, thin and watery, struggles through the grime of tall, arched windows. It illuminates dust motes dancing in the frigid air. The hall is vast, empty, smelling of aged wood and damp decay. Peeling paint hangs from the walls like sun-bleached skin.

At the far end, EVAN (30s, sharp, earnest, wearing an urban parka that looks out of place) stands before a small, rough-hewn stage. His voice tries to fill the space, but the acoustics swallow it whole.

He speaks to a sparse audience of five people scattered on mismatched wooden chairs. They are islands in an ocean of worn floorboards.

> ...and so, this initiative, rooted deeply in Sustainable Development Goal eleven – making settlements inclusive, safe, resilient, and sustainable – seeks to transform Oakhaven. Not merely in infrastructure, but in spirit.

He pauses, letting the words land. They thud softly, absorbed by the oppressive silence. The five faces are unyielding.

MIKA (70s), her face a roadmap of Oakhaven winters, clutches a worn thermos. She shifts in her seat. The groan of the floorboards beneath her is loud, a punctuation mark.

> Spirit, Evan, is a fine thing. But spirit does not heat this hall in January. Nor does it mend a broken plough.

Her voice is mild, but carries an unshakeable weight. Evan’s smile is practiced, undimmed, but a flicker of frustration tightens his eyes.

> Precisely, Mika! That’s my point.

He paces a few steps, his boots echoing on the scuffed floor.

> The arts aren’t a frivolous expense. They’re the mortar. They bind us. Build resilience. Imagine a photography workshop for the youth, documenting our history. An elder’s storytelling circle, preserving oral traditions... ensuring they endure, rather than fading like old photographs.

TYLER (20s), lanky and draped over two chairs, lets out a soft, dismissive snort. His eyes hold a deep, ingrained skepticism.

<center>TYLER</center>

> Enduring stories don’t pay for new strings, Evan. Or keep the generator running when the hydro line freezes. We’re barely keeping the lights on, let alone staging Shakespeare.

SIENNA (40s), the local schoolteacher, adjusts her spectacles. Her eyes are kind but analytical. The thin chain of her glasses glints in the weak light.

<center>SIENNA</center>

> Tyler makes a valid point. Resources here are... finite. To divert them from road maintenance or medical supplies... it’s a difficult proposition to justify to families struggling to make ends meet.

> (voice rising with passion)

> But this isn’t about diverting funds! It’s about *attracting* them. Building capacity. A vibrant arts programme draws attention. It creates a reason for young people to stay. It becomes an economic driver. It’s not either-or, it’s symbiotic!

A bead of sweat forms at Evan's temple, despite the cold.

Mika unclasps her hands, setting her thermos down with a soft CLINK. Her gaze drifts upwards, past Evan, to the high rafters.

Massive, unpainted IRON SUPPORT BEAMS crisscross the ceiling, dark and formidable. Patches of rust bloom like old wounds. Cobwebs hang like forgotten banners.

> Culture, yes. Expression. But some things are best left... undisturbed. This hall has seen many things. Good, and not so good.

Her voice drops. The air in the hall seems to thicken, the temperature plummeting. It’s a damp, heavy chill that seeps into the bones. Evan feels it instantly.

<center>SIENNA</center>

> (a gentle admonishment)

> Mika, please. We’re talking about future prospects, not ancient superstitions.

Mika offers a small, knowing smile, her eyes still on the iron beams.

> Superstition, perhaps. Or perhaps memory. This ground... was not always ground to be built upon. The old Iron Bridge, it was moved, you know. Not built here. Moved, after... certain events. This hall, constructed with its metal, shares a certain... resonance.

Evan forces a polite laugh. It sounds thin, fragile. The cold is making his teeth ache.

> With all due respect, we’re discussing grant applications, not folklore. The hall has character. That’s its appeal. The worn floorboards tell stories of dances, not... spectres.

> (murmuring, almost to herself)

> Spectres of a different kind, perhaps. When they moved the Iron Bridge, they didn't just move the iron. They brought the ground it stood on. The foundations.

She pauses. The wind HOWLS outside, rattling the window frames with a mournful sound.

> And what lay beneath.

Her words hang in the air, heavy and absolute.

**INT. OAKHAVEN COMMUNITY HALL - LATER**

The meeting is over. The others bundle into heavy coats, their breath pluming white as they exit into the fading afternoon light.

Evan lingers, unable to shake Mika’s words. The chill remains, a presence in the room. He walks toward the stage, running a hand over the rough-sawn wood. The air smells of dust and something metallic, like stale pennies.

He sees Tyler is still here. He stands near one of the enormous iron support beams, staring intently at its surface, his brow furrowed.

> Found something, Tyler?

Tyler doesn’t look up. He slowly extends a finger, tracing a faint discoloration on the grimy surface.

<center>TYLER</center>

> Not... not rust. Not entirely.

He taps it. The sound is flat, dead.

<center>TYLER (CONT'D)</center>

> It’s like... blood. Dried. But too dark. Too old. And it’s not just on the surface. It looks like it’s *in* the metal.

He pulls his hand back fast, wiping his fingers instinctively on his worn jeans. The movement is jerky, uncharacteristic.

Evan leans closer, squinting.

The mark is a sprawling, irregular pattern of bruised crimson, bled deep into the grey-black iron. It looks unsettlingly like an old bruise on flesh. He touches it tentatively. The surface is cold, but with a strange, deep lack of coldness compared to the air. There's no texture to the stain. It’s part of the iron itself.

A faint, dull, coppery tang reaches his nostrils. Not rust. Something else.

> It’s probably some kind of mineral deposit. Old buildings, old materials...

He’s trying to convince himself. Tyler finally meets his gaze, his eyes wide with something other than skepticism.

<center>TYLER</center>

> A mineral deposit that looks like... a handprint? See here.

He points. Evan sees it now. A denser concentration of the stain. Five distinct, elongated smudges radiate outwards, the ghost of an impression left by a hand pressing into cooling metal.

<center>TYLER (CONT'D)</center>

> And it’s not alone. There are others. Faint. But they’re there.

Tyler moves slowly along the beam, head tilted, eyes scanning the vast expanse of iron.

Evan follows his gaze. A prickle of unease crawls up his spine. The odd, dark stains aren’t isolated. They stretch along the main beam, following the angles of smaller crossbeams like macabre, abstract calligraphy.

The shadows in the hall deepen as the sun sets, making the room recede, leaving only the oppressive weight of the iron and its strange marks.

Mika’s voice echoes in his head.

> *...they didn't just move the iron. They brought the ground it stood on... And what lay beneath.*

Evan shivers, a tremor that has nothing to do with the cold. The coppery scent seems stronger now.

> (mumbling)

> I should... I should check the hall’s records.

He needs an explanation. A rational one.

Tyler just nods slowly, his face grim, his gaze still fixed on the stained iron. He understands. There is something profoundly wrong here.

**INT. OAKHAVEN LIBRARY - NIGHT**

A single, buzzing fluorescent light illuminates a small, cold room crammed with shelves. The air is thick with the scent of decaying paper.

Evan sits at a small table, a stack of archived ledgers and yellowed newspaper clippings beside him. He meticulously pores over the original blueprints for the hall, dated 1968.

They confirm it: "Reclaimed Iron from Oakhaven Rail Bridge."

He spots a small, handwritten notation in the corner, almost an afterthought.

`Site remediation required prior to foundation work. Unstable sub-grade.`

Nothing more. Sterile. Bureaucratic.

He digs deeper, pulling out a dusty box marked "Miscellaneous: Hall Project." Inside, amongst faded photos, he finds a slim, leather-bound journal. The cover is cracked. He opens it. The handwriting belongs to ARCHIBALD FINCH, the construction foreman, long deceased.

He flips through pages of mundane construction woes. Then, halfway through, the entries become disjointed. Frantic.

`...troubles with the earth... strange shifting...`

`...the foundations from the old bridge...`

One entry, dated mid-October 1968, is underlined twice.

`The ground here... it does not wish to be built upon. The old tales... perhaps there is truth to them after all. The chill... it emanates from below. We have covered it. We have built over it. But I do not believe it sleeps.`

Evan frowns, running a finger over the desperate script.

As he goes to close the journal, a loose, brittle piece of paper flutters from between the pages and lands on the table.

He picks it up. It’s folded. Carefully, he unfolds it.

It’s a crude charcoal drawing.

He recognizes the Oakhaven Community Hall. But dark, crimson-colored tendrils coil up from its foundation, reaching, embracing the iron beams of the roof.

And at the center of the foundation, almost a pulsating heart, is a distorted, skeletal human figure. Its arms are outstretched, merging with the dark earth below and the iron above. Its mouth is agape in a silent, eternal scream.

CLOSE ON EVAN

His face is pale under the buzzing light. A cold, palpable dread coils in his stomach, a far deeper chill than any Oakhaven autumn could ever deliver.

**FADE TO BLACK.**

**SCENE END**

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.