A Script for The Old Wing's Grip

INT. RESIDENTS' LOUNGE - NIGHT

SOUND: The oppressive HUM of cheap fluorescent tubes.

The room is a sterile box of exhaustion. Chipped Formica tables, uncomfortable plastic chairs. Coffee cups, cold and forgotten.

DR. LINDSAY HAYES (28), sharp, intuitive, but running on fumes, rubs her temples. Across from her, DR. SAM CHEN (29), pragmatic and good-humored, fans out a dozen monochrome photographs.

SAM

See? This one.

He taps a print with a stubby finger. It’s a stark shot of an empty RECOVERY BAY. Cracked linoleum. A single gurney.

SAM (CONT'D)

The light plays weird, yeah? But look at the depth. The contrast. It screams isolation. Perfect for ‘A Glimpse Beyond the Veil,’ right?

He says the title with a wry, self-aware smile. Lindsay picks up the print. The paper feels oddly damp. She stares at the image. The shadows under the gurney are unnaturally dark, heavy.

Near the far wall, by a rack of old oxygen tanks, the image is distorted. A faint, oily RIPPLE, like heat haze, smearing the sterile white wall.

LINDSAY

What do you call this?

She traces the anomaly with her thumb.

SAM

(squinting)

Artifact. Lens flare, probably. My phone’s pretty old. Forget that one. Too noisy. Look at this one, instead. The IV stand in Ward C, just before dawn. The way the light catches the drip... it’s hope, right? Fragile hope.

He pushes another photo forward. Lindsay ignores it, her fingers tightening on the first print.

LINDSAY

It’s not lens flare, Sam.

Her voice is low, serious. The hospital’s background drone—distant pagers, clattering carts—fills the silence.

LINDSAY (CONT'D)

Mrs. Carlisle was in that bay. Post-op. Before the infection.

Sam leans back. The plastic chair CREAKS in protest. He runs a hand through messy hair.

SAM

Lindsay. I know you’re still thinking about her. It was rough. But sometimes, people just… go. Especially out here. Half the equipment is from the seventies.

LINDSAY

It wasn’t just Mrs. Carlisle. Remember Mr. Davison? Fractured tibia, then full-blown delirium. And Sarah? The kid with appendicitis? Sudden, inexplicable drop in core temp. All three of them spent time in that same bay. Bay three.

Sam stops shuffling the photos. His easy humor evaporates, replaced by a familiar, weary doctor-look. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

SAM

We are talking about three isolated incidents over a month and a half. It’s not a pattern. It’s noise. You’re overtired. You’re finding connections where there aren’t any. Like in your photos.

LINDSAY

(insistent)

What if the noise *is* the signal? The distortion, Sam. It’s in every photo you’ve taken of Bay Three. And it’s in mine, too. Like the air is vibrating differently there.

Sam picks up another photo—a nurse’s hand on a call button—and lays it beside the Bay Three print.

SAM

Okay, look. This… thing you’re seeing… it’s not in this one. This was taken in Ward B. Totally clean.

LINDSAY

Exactly! It’s localized. It’s only in the old wing. Bay Three. Room 104 in Ward C, where Mrs. Carlisle was. Room 217, where Sarah was.

Sam stares from the photo to Lindsay. Skepticism wars with a flicker of morbid curiosity.

SAM

So, what, the ghost of Bay Three is causing flesh-eating bacteria and neurological disorders? Come on. We’re doctors. We deal in pathology, not poltergeists.

LINDSAY

We deal in unexplained phenomena. What if it’s something we can’t see, but a camera can? Something that disrupts biological processes at a sub-cellular level? An amplifier, not a specific disease agent.

Sam stands, walks to a grimy window overlooking the snow-covered parking lot.

SAM

An amplifier. A localized, non-physical amplifier of disease processes. So, a curse. You’re talking about a hospital curse.

LINDSAY

I’m talking about something *unknown*. Something that leaves a trace. A visual trace on film. And a physiological trace in our patients. The exhibit... it isn't just art. It's evidence.

Sam turns from the window, his face drawn tight.

SAM

Evidence of what, Lindsay? That we’ve lost our minds from overwork?

He walks back to the table, picks up the Bay Three photo again, holding it close to his face, squinting at the faint smear.

LINDSAY

Remember Dr. Albright? She said the walls here felt alive. Like they were holding their breath.

Sam nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the photo.

SAM

Yeah, I remember. She was getting… odd. Okay. Let’s say, for a second, I entertain this. What do we do? Point our lenses at the walls and wait for a ghost to pop out for a selfie?

LINDSAY

No. We’re systematic. We identify every area where these deteriorations have occurred. We photograph them. Day, night, empty, occupied. The exhibit becomes our cover. Our way to process the ‘unseen burdens’ of medical care. But really, we’re hunting.

Sam looks from the photo to Lindsay. He sees the fear in her eyes, but also a sliver of scientific resolve. He lets out a long, tired sigh.

SAM

Okay. Okay, Lindsay. We do it. But if it gets too weird... we pull the plug. Deal?

LINDSAY

Deal.

Relief washes over her. They spend the next hour hunched over a laptop, pulling up hospital floor plans, marking rooms with a red digital pen. The old wing is a maze.

SAM

We need to be careful. If anyone finds out we’re… investigating this… they’ll send us to psych.

LINDSAY

Then it’s just an art project. A way for two doctors to cope.

As she speaks, the screen on Sam’s tablet FLICKERS.

SOUND: A low, resonant HUM vibrates through the room, deeper than the HVAC drone. A subterranean chord.

A shiver runs down Lindsay’s spine. Sam doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes glued to an archived patient record.

SAM

(a whisper)

This is it.

He points to a line in an electronic chart. A nurse’s note from three months ago. Room 217.

SAM (CONT'D)

*Patient reported feeling an extreme, localized chill, despite normal room temperature. Stated: ‘It feels like the room is sucking the warmth right out of me.’*

His finger trembles slightly as it traces the words on the screen.

Lindsay’s heart pounds. She grabs her camera bag, pulls out an old Nikon D850. Checks the battery. Her hands are surprisingly steady.

Suddenly—

SOUND: (O.S.) A muted, urgent page echoes through the quiet halls.

INTERCOM (V.O.)

Dr. Singh, ER. Code Blue, Room 104. Code Blue, Room 104.

Room 104. The one on their list.

Lindsay and Sam exchange a look of dawning horror. This isn't a theory anymore. It's happening. Now.

LINDSAY

Go. Go to the ER.

She slings the heavy camera bag over her shoulder.

LINDSAY (CONT'D)

I’m going to 104. I need to see if it’s there. I need to get a shot.

Her voice is cold with adrenaline. She turns and RUNS out of the lounge, the Nikon bumping against her hip, a diagnostic tool for a disease she can't name.