The Only Tracks
The fire is dying and my brother is gone. His truck is in the drive, but the blizzard has erased all footprints. Except for mine.
Introduction
This script adaptation of "The Only Tracks" serves as a practical exercise in transmuting atmospheric prose into visual storytelling, highlighting the intersection of creative writing and digital media literacy. By stripping away internal monologue and replacing it with observable behavior and environmental cues, we explore how narrative tension is constructed in a visual medium, offering a hands-on approach to understanding the mechanics of suspense and the importance of "show, don't tell" in screenwriting.
The Script
EXT. CABIN - LATE AFTERNOON
Whiteout. A BLIZZARD roars, erasing the world.
Headlights cut through the gloom. A car idles in the driveway, barely visible.
SLOANE (28), bundled in a heavy parka, steps out. The WIND tears at her hood. She shields her eyes.
She stares at the cabin.
The front door stands ajar. Just a crack.
Sloane stiffens. She pushes forward, fighting the wind.
INT. CABIN - CONTINUOUS
Sloane pushes the door open. The hinges GROAN.
Darkness inside. A weak, pulsing orange glow comes from the fireplace.
Sloane steps in. Boots CRUNCH on the mat.
She pushes the door shut. The ROAR of the storm drops to a muffled thrum. The latch CLICKS.
Sloane pulls off a glove. Her breath mists in the air.
<center>SLOANE</center>
Leo?
Silence. Only the HISS of dying embers.
Sloane scans the room.
By the door: A pair of large, insulated Sorel boots. Caked with mud and ice.
On the armchair: A heavy canvas jacket.
On the side table: A mug of coffee. A skin has formed on the surface.
Sloane touches the mug. Cold.
INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
Sloane walks through. Empty.
INT. BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS
Leo’s bed. Unmade. A tangle of wool blankets.
Sloane’s bed. Neat. Undisturbed.
She pulls out her phone. The screen glows. One bar. It flickers and dies. Low battery.
She shoves it back in her pocket.
INT. MAIN ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Sloane returns. She stops in the center of the room.
She walks to the window. Wipes condensation from the glass.
EXT. CABIN - CONTINUOUS (THROUGH WINDOW)
Leo’s Ford truck sits in the driveway. A monolith of white. Half-buried.
The yard is a smooth, undisturbed blanket of snow.
No tracks. None.
INT. MAIN ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Sloane steps back from the window. Her chest heaves.
She looks at the door. Then the boots.
She spots something on the nightstand.
A black Moleskine journal.
Sloane picks it up. Worn corners.
She sits in the armchair near the fire. Pulls the chain on the reading lamp.
A weak yellow circle of light pools on her lap.
She opens the journal.
The last entry. The handwriting is spidery. The pen has dug into the paper.
Sloane traces the words with a trembling finger.
<center>SLOANE</center>
(Whispering)
Something’s been making noise on the roof... Rhythmic...
She frowns. Flips back a page.
<center>SLOANE</center>
(Reading)
Tall. Too tall... Stood there for an hour...
Sloane’s grip on the book tightens. She flips back further.
<center>SLOANE</center>
(Reading)
Not animal. Not human...
She slams the book shut.
She stands abruptly. Paces. Her boots THUD heavily on the floorboards.
She stops. Looks at the Maglite hanging by the door.
She grabs it.
EXT. PORCH - MOMENTS LATER
Sloane steps out. The WIND hits her.
She sweeps the flashlight beam across the foundation. Stacked firewood.
The beam stops on the dark space under the raised floor.
Hidden behind old tarps.
A pair of snowshoes.
Sloane crouches.
They are huge. Bent wood frames. Yellowed rawhide webbing. Ancient.
Fresh snow cakes the webbing. Melting slightly.
Sloane reaches out. Touches the wet wood.
She grabs them.
EXT. YARD - CONTINUOUS
Sloane, now wearing the massive snowshoes, tramps down the steps.
She shines the light on the ground.
Smooth drifts.
She moves further out.
The beam catches a shadow. A faint depression.
Not a footprint. A compressed patch of snow.
Ten feet away, another one. An impossible stride.
Sloane follows.
EXT. WOODS - CONTINUOUS
The trees block the wind. It is quieter here. Darker.
Sloane follows the faint indentations.
She stops at the base of a massive, old-growth pine.
The trail ends.
Sloane aims the light up the trunk.
Seven feet up.
A carving. Fresh. Raw pale wood against dark bark.
A circle. A vertical line. Three horizontal lines bisecting it.
Geometric. Wrong.
CRACK.
A branch high above snaps.
WHUMP. A pile of snow lands directly behind her.
Sloane spins around. The light arcs frantically through the trees.
Nothing but pine trunks and falling snow.
She freezes. Stares into the black gaps between the trees.
She turns and runs.
EXT. YARD - CONTINUOUS
Sloane stumbles through the deep snow. Gasping.
The cabin window glows ahead. A beacon.
She scrambles up the steps.
INT. CABIN - CONTINUOUS
Sloane bursts in. Slams the door. Throws the deadbolt.
She leans against the wood. Hyperventilating. Shaking.
The fire is almost out.
She peels off her gloves. Fumbles with the zipper of her parka.
She drops to her knees at the hearth. Stacks kindling with trembling hands.
CRUNCH.
Sloane freezes.
CRUNCH.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Outside.
Sloane scrambles back from the hearth.
CRUNCH.
Louder. Closer. The floorboards vibrate slightly.
Sloane backs up until she hits the far wall.
She grabs the iron poker from the stand. Holds it up like a baseball bat. Knuckles white.
CRUNCH.
It stops. Right outside the door.
Silence.
Sloane stares at the heavy oak door. The latch.
She waits.
What We Can Learn
This adaptation highlights the challenge of externalizing internal dread. In the source text, the horror is largely cerebral—Sloane's thoughts about the "cold knot" in her stomach or the "hollow space" where her brother should be. In the script, these must be converted into physical actions: the trembling finger tracing the journal entries, the frantic pacing, and the hyperventilating against the door. The adaptation process requires stripping away the narrator's interpretation of events and leaving only the raw data—the sight of the open door, the sound of the footsteps—forcing the audience to synthesize the fear themselves rather than being told how to feel.
From a production standpoint, this script demonstrates the critical role of sound design (foley) and lighting in low-budget horror. The script relies heavily on auditory cues—the CRUNCH of snow, the WHUMP of the branch—to build a presence that is never shown, a technique that saves on visual effects budget while often being more terrifying. It also teaches the importance of "invisible" camera direction; by giving objects like the snowshoes or the carving their own lines, the writer directs the viewer's eye without using technical jargon, mastering the grammar of the page to control the pacing of the screen.
The script also illustrates how to handle exposition through action rather than dialogue. Instead of a voiceover explaining Leo's descent into madness, the audience discovers it alongside Sloane through the physical prop of the journal. The change in handwriting from neat to spidery serves as a visual shorthand for his deteriorating mental state, providing immediate, observable context without a single line of explanatory dialogue. This reinforces the screenwriting principle that props and environmental details are not just background elements, but active narrative tools that propel the story forward.