A Script for The Warped Track

EXT. UNIVERSITY TRACK - MORNING

A crisp spring morning. The air is damp, cool.

ETHAN (19), lean and coiled with muscle, runs with perfect, rhythmic form. His face is a mask of intense focus. Spikes on his shoes crunch softly on the synthetic crimson track.

SOUND of his steady, powerful breathing, the whisper of gravel

CLOSE ON his feet, a blur of motion. Left, right, left, right.

His POV - The track stretches ahead. The green infield is vibrant. In his periphery, the stadium SCOREBOARD glows with red digital numbers, counting down. A new personal best is within reach.

He pushes into his third lap, the final sprint. The burn in his quads is a familiar fire. The rush of wind is a constant companion.

Then, the soundscape shifts.

SOUND of birdsong and distant highway traffic FADES AWAY, replaced by a low, deep THRUM. It seems to come from the ground itself, vibrating up through Ethan's shoes.

Ethan’s brow furrows. He keeps running, but his focus is broken.

The THRUM BUILDS, a discordant hum that vibrates in his chest.

The world through Ethan's POV begins to WARP at the edges, colors bleeding into one another like wet paint. The sharp line between the red track and green infield softens, blurring.

He blinks hard, trying to clear his vision. The distortion remains. His lungs feel heavy, as if he's breathing syrup.

His stride falters for a single beat.

In that beat, the track surface ahead of him UNDULATES. A ripple, like water, flows across the solid synthetic ground.

Dread flashes across Ethan's face. He's still moving, legs pumping on autopilot, but the ground beneath him feels... elastic.

His foot lands. It SINKS slightly, a sickening give, then springs back with an unnatural force.

CLOSE ON the scoreboard, its red digital numbers DISSOLVING like liquid fire, melting into an incoherent smear.

Ethan’s breath hitches, a panicked, rattling sound. He wants to stop, but his body won't obey.

He glances at a puddle of morning dew beside the track.

HIS REFLECTION - A stretched, elongated caricature. A melted funhouse mirror version of himself, mouth agape in a silent scream.

The THRUM intensifies, now a guttural note inside his skull. He tastes copper.

He sees a FLASH of something just beyond the track's edge. An impossibly vibrant GREEN, pulsing where a chain-link fence meets overgrown kudzu. A shape, undefined, radiating coiled energy.

And then--

CUT TO BLACK.

SOUND returns abruptly: birdsong, distant traffic, his own ragged GASP.

EXT. UNIVERSITY TRACK - MOMENTS LATER

Ethan is sprawled on the track, gasping. The taste of dirt and copper in his mouth. A sharp pain throbs in his hip.

The early sun feels harsh. The world is jarringly sharp, normal. The track is solid.

He pushes himself up, every muscle screaming. He looks at the scoreboard. The numbers are precise, static.

And impossible. He's completed five laps. In a time that defies physics.

He checks his digital runner's watch. It confirms the scoreboard's lie. His face drains of color. He shakes his head, a dull ache behind his temples. This isn't right.

EXT. UNIVERSITY TRACK - DAYS LATER

A MONTAGE:

-- Ethan stands at the starting line, hesitant. He stares at the track surface as if expecting it to betray him. His COACH (50s, burly) watches with a furrowed brow.

-- Ethan runs, but his form is broken, his pace sluggish. He keeps glancing around, spooked.

-- He sits on a bench, head in his hands, the track an object of fear.

INT. UNIVERSITY LIBRARY - DAY

Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silent air. The scent of old paper.

Ethan wanders aimlessly through the hushed aisles, tracing the spines of books on folklore, spatial anomalies, philosophy. Nothing fits. He looks lost, haunted.

He stops near a study carrel, overhearing two STUDENTS.

STUDENT 1

Weirdest class I’ve ever taken. Talks about the ‘ontology of motion’ and ‘the aesthetic of kinetic energy.’ Completely off the wall.

STUDENT 2

(Snorts)

He also thinks the library has a ‘spirit echo.’ Total nut job.

Ethan freezes. The words—‘ontology of motion,’ ‘kinetic energy’—resonate with a terrifying familiarity. A flicker of desperate hope ignites in his eyes.

INT. ATHLETIC COMPLEX HALLWAY - DAY

A dusty, forgotten corner of an old building. The air smells faintly of old sweat and liniment.

Ethan stands before a heavy, solid oak door. A small, hand-painted sign reads: ‘Dr. Caldwell: Perception and Performance.’

He takes a breath, then KNOCKS. The sound is loud in the quiet hall. He waits. Nothing. He's about to turn away when--

The door CREAKS open a few inches, revealing darkness within.

DR. CALDWELL (O.S.)

(Raspy, thin)

Come in, come in.

INT. DR. CALDWELL'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

Chaos. Books stacked to the ceiling. Scientific diagrams pinned over peeling wallpaper. Strange artifacts—petrified bones, oddly shaped rocks, brass instruments—clutter every surface.

A grimy window struggles to let in a distorted beam of sunlight. The air is thick with the smell of burning copper and damp earth.

DR. ANTON CALDWELL (60s) sits hunched behind a massive desk, a small man lost in the clutter. He has a shock of unruly grey hair and watery, unnervingly sharp eyes behind spectacles perched on his nose. He wears a tweed jacket several sizes too big.

He doesn't look up, instead tracing a faded diagram of a human skeleton with a bony finger.

DR. CALDWELL

Ah, another seeking the... resonance.

Ethan shifts awkwardly by the door.

ETHAN

Uh, Dr. Caldwell? I’m Ethan. I’m a runner. I heard about your class... and... things.

He trails off, feeling foolish.

Caldwell finally looks up. His gaze is direct, unsettling. A slow, thin-lipped smile spreads across his face.

DR. CALDWELL

Things. Yes, ‘things’ tend to seek me out. Sit, sit.

He gestures to a rickety wooden chair piled with old sports almanacs. Ethan carefully clears a space and sits. The chair GROANS. A puff of dust rises.

DR. CALDWELL (CONT'D)

So, Ethan, the runner. Tell me about the ‘art’ of your discipline. The precise choreography of muscle and bone. The communion with the ground. The singular focus that borders on... transcendental.

He steeples his fingers, his eyes never leaving Ethan’s.

ETHAN

(Mumbling)

It’s... it’s just running, sir. Training, really. Pushing limits.

DR. CALDWELL

Is it? Is it truly *just* running? Or is there something more? A moment, perhaps, when the physical transcends, when the rigid structures of time and space... flex?

His eyes glint. He knows.

Ethan feels a jolt. He can't meet the professor's gaze.

ETHAN

(Barely audible)

Sometimes... sometimes it feels like that. Like... like I’m in a different gear. Or... or the world is.

DR. CALDWELL

Indeed.

(A soft, dry chuckle)

The arts, Ethan. People often compartmentalize them. Music is sound, painting is vision, dance is movement. But they are all, at their core, attempts to understand, to interpret, to *manipulate* reality.

He picks up a small, petrified bone from his desk, turning it over in his fingers.

DR. CALDWELL (CONT'D)

A perfectly executed sprint... it is a form of art. A kinetic sculpture in motion. And art, my young friend, is a doorway. Not just to understanding, but to... other places.

ETHAN

Other places?

A knot tightens in his stomach.

DR. CALDWELL

(Nodding slowly)

When an athlete achieves that perfect, transcendental flow state, they are not merely performing. They are resonating. Creating a sympathetic vibration. And sometimes, these harmonics... they catch the attention of things that dwell in the spaces between. Things that are drawn to the precise, focused energy of human endeavor.

He sets the bone down with a soft CLINK.

ETHAN

(A whisper)

Like... what kind of things?

The copper smell intensifies. Caldwell leans forward, his eyes wide.

DR. CALDWELL

They have many names. But they are, fundamentally, distortions. Ripples in the fabric. And when a powerful enough resonance occurs, they can... entwine. They can feed. They can amplify.

(He twists his hands, wringing an invisible cloth)

And sometimes, they leave a mark. A warping.

Ethan feels a cold sweat on his scalp.

ETHAN

A warping. Like... like the track.

He finally meets Caldwell’s gaze, a desperate plea in his eyes. Caldwell gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.

DR. CALDWELL

Your ‘gift,’ Ethan, your natural athletic prowess, is not merely talent. It is a conduit. A powerful instrument. And you, it seems, have played a note that has drawn attention. You have made contact.

He stands slowly, deliberately, and crosses to a bookshelf. He pulls out a thick, leather-bound volume, its pages yellowed and brittle.

DR. CALDWELL (CONT'D)

This... ‘warping’ you experienced. It will not be an isolated incident. These entities, these distortions, they are drawn to your resonance. They will seek to exploit it. To perhaps, even... integrate with it.

Ethan stands, pushing his chair back with a loud SCRAPE.

ETHAN

What do I do?

His heart pounds with a raw, primal fear.

Caldwell returns to his desk, setting the old book down with a THUD.

DR. CALDWELL

You learn to control the conduit, Ethan. To understand the harmonics. To discern between your own energy and the echoes of... others.

He pushes the book across the desk toward Ethan. Its cover is blank, save for a single, strange symbol etched into the leather – a swirling spiral within a broken circle.

DR. CALDWELL (CONT'D)

This book contains some... exercises. Not for the body, in the way you are accustomed. But for the mind. For perception. It speaks of patterns, of rhythmic cycles, of the hidden geometry in all movement. It will show you how to... perceive the distortions. To identify their signature. To understand their hunger.

(His gaze is grim, determined)

Your gift, your running, has opened a door. Now, you must learn to navigate what lies beyond it. Or be consumed by it.

The air grows heavy, the coppery scent overwhelming.

Ethan stares at the book. Its ancient presence radiates a palpable energy. A new kind of race has just begun.

FADE TO BLACK.