A Frequency No One Owns
Inside the Laff Box, Dr. Jae Boxe's microphones are picking up more than sound. They're recording the echoes of a thousand strangers' joys, and the signals are bleeding into her own consciousness. She came to analyse an anomaly; now she's becoming one.
INT. FUNHOUSE - NIGHT
SOUND of a persistent, low 120Hz ELECTRICAL HUM
Dust motes dance in the beam of a headlamp. They illuminate a cavernous, dilapidated space. Peeling paint, gritty concrete floors. This is a cheap, walk-through attraction, long past its prime.
JAE (30s), clinical and precise, kneels on the floor. She wears practical overalls and a headlamp that cuts a sharp cone of light through the gloom.
Her equipment is a stark contrast to the decay: a pristine, vintage reel-to-reel tape deck, its chrome gleaming. Thick cables snake from it to a parabolic microphone on a stand.
CLOSE ON her fingers, expertly threading magnetic tape through the machine's guides. A practiced, delicate procedure.
She flips a switch. The reels begin to turn with a soft, satisfying WHIR.
She pulls a small, silver pocket recorder from her breast pocket and speaks into it. Her voice is a low, detached murmur.
JAE
> The readings are unstable. Ambient hum is a constant 120Hz, likely from the main transformer, but there's a superimposed waveform that's... chaotic. It's not white noise. It's structured.
She puts the recorder away and slips on a pair of heavy-duty, sound-isolating headphones.
Her face is neutral, analytical. She adjusts a dial on the deck.
For a moment, nothing.
Then, her eyes widen slightly. A flicker of confusion. She presses the headphones tighter against her ears, leaning forward.
SOUND (JAE'S POV): The 120Hz hum vanishes. In its place, a sound that should not exist. A CHORUS. Thousands, maybe millions of indistinct MURMURS, like a crowd in a vast cathedral.
And underneath it... LAUGHTER.
Not a recording. It's a complex tapestry. High-pitched GIGGLES of children. Deep, rumbling BELLY LAUGHS. Sharp, breathless SHRIEKKS of pure delight. The fidelity is impossible. It sounds live, present, all around her.
Jae's scientific composure cracks. She looks around the empty room, searching for a source. Nothing. No speakers. No projectors.
She pulls off the headphones.
SILENCE, save for the electrical HUM and the WHIR of the tape.
She puts them back on. The overwhelming CHORUS OF LAUGHTER returns instantly.
She gets to her feet, trailing the microphone cable behind her like an umbilical cord. Her rubber-soled boots are silent on the floor. She moves deeper into the funhouse.
INT. FUNHOUSE - CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS
The narrow corridor is dark. From the ceiling hang long, thick tassels of black rubber, like the tendrils of a dead sea creature.
Jae pushes through them cautiously.
One of the tassels brushes against the bare skin of her forearm.
She JOLTS. A sharp, full-body gasp. It's not an electric shock. Her eyes go wide with startling clarity.
For a split second, the screen flashes with a blurred, kinetic image—a child's-eye view of the ground rushing away, then the sky. The giddy, stomach-dropping sensation of being pushed on a swing, higher and higher.
The feeling vanishes. Jae stumbles back, away from the tassels, her heart hammering against her ribs. She's breathless.
She fumbles for her pocket recorder, her hand unsteady.
JAE
>>(into recorder, voice shaky)
> Subjective emotional response noted. Possible... psychogenic contamination.
She stares at the harmless-looking rubber tassels, a new, cautious respect in her eyes. This place is not passive.
INT. FUNHOUSE - DEEPER CORRIDOR - LATER
Jae moves with purpose now, but her scientific detachment is gone. It's been replaced by a tense, fearful curiosity.
This corridor is lined with a strange, coarse, bristly material that looks like horsehair.
SOUND (JAE'S POV): The laughter is louder here. More distinct. Individual voices can be picked out from the chorus. A 1960s teenager's hoot of joy. A 1980s child's squeal of delight.
She stops. Her hand hovers over the bristly wall. Science demands a test.
Trembling slightly, she presses her palm flat against the surface.
The world dissolves.
INT. WOOD-PANELLED ROOM - DAY (MEMORY)
The image shifts. The colors are warm, over-saturated, the edges soft and vignetted like old 8mm film.
We are at a child's birthday party. A cake with SEVEN LIT CANDLES sits on a table. A group of children with bad 70s haircuts sing "Happy Birthday."
SOUND of the muffled, joyful singing.
This is a FIRST-PERSON POV. We are the child. We feel a profound, overwhelming wave of love for the unseen woman holding the camera—our MOTHER. We feel the frantic, heart-pounding, pure ecstatic joy that only a seven-year-old on their birthday can feel.
INT. FUNHOUSE - DEEPER CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS
Jae SNATCHES her hand back from the wall as if it's burning.
We are back in the dark, musty corridor.
She's gasping for air, her back pressed against the opposite wall. Tears stream down her face, but she is smiling. A wide, uncontrollable, beatific smile.
She understands.
A single, alien GIGGLE escapes her lips.
It startles her. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. The smile falters.
But another laugh pushes past her fingers. Then another. It's not her own. The sound is foreign, bubbling up from a place she doesn't control.
Her scientific detachment, her carefully constructed self, is dissolving into the warm, joyful noise.
Her wild eyes land on her tape deck.
CLOSE ON THE VU METER
The needle thrashes, slamming violently into the red. It clips, again and again, with every new peal of her—and not her—laughter.
WIDE SHOT
Jae stands in the dark corridor, head thrown back. The laughter is pouring out of her now, a helpless, ecstatic sound that merges seamlessly with the thousands of other voices in the air.
She has become part of the chorus.
SOUND: The symphony of joy swells, overwhelming everything.
FADE TO BLACK.
SOUND of a persistent, low 120Hz ELECTRICAL HUM
Dust motes dance in the beam of a headlamp. They illuminate a cavernous, dilapidated space. Peeling paint, gritty concrete floors. This is a cheap, walk-through attraction, long past its prime.
JAE (30s), clinical and precise, kneels on the floor. She wears practical overalls and a headlamp that cuts a sharp cone of light through the gloom.
Her equipment is a stark contrast to the decay: a pristine, vintage reel-to-reel tape deck, its chrome gleaming. Thick cables snake from it to a parabolic microphone on a stand.
CLOSE ON her fingers, expertly threading magnetic tape through the machine's guides. A practiced, delicate procedure.
She flips a switch. The reels begin to turn with a soft, satisfying WHIR.
She pulls a small, silver pocket recorder from her breast pocket and speaks into it. Her voice is a low, detached murmur.
JAE
> The readings are unstable. Ambient hum is a constant 120Hz, likely from the main transformer, but there's a superimposed waveform that's... chaotic. It's not white noise. It's structured.
She puts the recorder away and slips on a pair of heavy-duty, sound-isolating headphones.
Her face is neutral, analytical. She adjusts a dial on the deck.
For a moment, nothing.
Then, her eyes widen slightly. A flicker of confusion. She presses the headphones tighter against her ears, leaning forward.
SOUND (JAE'S POV): The 120Hz hum vanishes. In its place, a sound that should not exist. A CHORUS. Thousands, maybe millions of indistinct MURMURS, like a crowd in a vast cathedral.
And underneath it... LAUGHTER.
Not a recording. It's a complex tapestry. High-pitched GIGGLES of children. Deep, rumbling BELLY LAUGHS. Sharp, breathless SHRIEKKS of pure delight. The fidelity is impossible. It sounds live, present, all around her.
Jae's scientific composure cracks. She looks around the empty room, searching for a source. Nothing. No speakers. No projectors.
She pulls off the headphones.
SILENCE, save for the electrical HUM and the WHIR of the tape.
She puts them back on. The overwhelming CHORUS OF LAUGHTER returns instantly.
She gets to her feet, trailing the microphone cable behind her like an umbilical cord. Her rubber-soled boots are silent on the floor. She moves deeper into the funhouse.
INT. FUNHOUSE - CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS
The narrow corridor is dark. From the ceiling hang long, thick tassels of black rubber, like the tendrils of a dead sea creature.
Jae pushes through them cautiously.
One of the tassels brushes against the bare skin of her forearm.
She JOLTS. A sharp, full-body gasp. It's not an electric shock. Her eyes go wide with startling clarity.
For a split second, the screen flashes with a blurred, kinetic image—a child's-eye view of the ground rushing away, then the sky. The giddy, stomach-dropping sensation of being pushed on a swing, higher and higher.
The feeling vanishes. Jae stumbles back, away from the tassels, her heart hammering against her ribs. She's breathless.
She fumbles for her pocket recorder, her hand unsteady.
JAE
>>(into recorder, voice shaky)
> Subjective emotional response noted. Possible... psychogenic contamination.
She stares at the harmless-looking rubber tassels, a new, cautious respect in her eyes. This place is not passive.
INT. FUNHOUSE - DEEPER CORRIDOR - LATER
Jae moves with purpose now, but her scientific detachment is gone. It's been replaced by a tense, fearful curiosity.
This corridor is lined with a strange, coarse, bristly material that looks like horsehair.
SOUND (JAE'S POV): The laughter is louder here. More distinct. Individual voices can be picked out from the chorus. A 1960s teenager's hoot of joy. A 1980s child's squeal of delight.
She stops. Her hand hovers over the bristly wall. Science demands a test.
Trembling slightly, she presses her palm flat against the surface.
The world dissolves.
INT. WOOD-PANELLED ROOM - DAY (MEMORY)
The image shifts. The colors are warm, over-saturated, the edges soft and vignetted like old 8mm film.
We are at a child's birthday party. A cake with SEVEN LIT CANDLES sits on a table. A group of children with bad 70s haircuts sing "Happy Birthday."
SOUND of the muffled, joyful singing.
This is a FIRST-PERSON POV. We are the child. We feel a profound, overwhelming wave of love for the unseen woman holding the camera—our MOTHER. We feel the frantic, heart-pounding, pure ecstatic joy that only a seven-year-old on their birthday can feel.
INT. FUNHOUSE - DEEPER CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS
Jae SNATCHES her hand back from the wall as if it's burning.
We are back in the dark, musty corridor.
She's gasping for air, her back pressed against the opposite wall. Tears stream down her face, but she is smiling. A wide, uncontrollable, beatific smile.
She understands.
A single, alien GIGGLE escapes her lips.
It startles her. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. The smile falters.
But another laugh pushes past her fingers. Then another. It's not her own. The sound is foreign, bubbling up from a place she doesn't control.
Her scientific detachment, her carefully constructed self, is dissolving into the warm, joyful noise.
Her wild eyes land on her tape deck.
CLOSE ON THE VU METER
The needle thrashes, slamming violently into the red. It clips, again and again, with every new peal of her—and not her—laughter.
WIDE SHOT
Jae stands in the dark corridor, head thrown back. The laughter is pouring out of her now, a helpless, ecstatic sound that merges seamlessly with the thousands of other voices in the air.
She has become part of the chorus.
SOUND: The symphony of joy swells, overwhelming everything.
FADE TO BLACK.