"PRESENCE" (2024)

Our POV of a sitting room, in a modest house, 1930s or 40s era. There’s furniture, but it’s gotta be staging, nobody keeps things this neat and bland.

(We’re in -- and will remain in -- a floating POV, about five and a half feet off the floor.)

We move forward and turn a 180 to see a LARGE MIRROR over a fireplace (did we come out of that mirror?). We pan to look into a living room.

We move into the living room and pan to see the kitchen. People aren’t rich here, but they do okay.

We move to the kitchen and up to the door leading into the backyard. After a beat, we pan back to look at where we’ve been.

CUT TO BLACK.

We’re on the second floor looking into a bedroom. We pan and move to a second bedroom, which has windows looking out toward the back yard. We pan and move past a stairwell and into a third bedroom, which has a window that looks out over the driveway.

Now a car pulls into the driveway, fast, and a WOMAN gets out. She hurries toward the front door.

We move out of the bedroom and down the stairs in time to see Cece bang through the door. She’s late.

She shrugs out of a coat and hurries around, turning on lights, closing closet doors, fluffing couch cushions, CURSING under her breath. She’s in a bad mood.

We keep our distance. Cece is a lot.

She scoots up the stairs and we hear more of the same up there, then she hurries back down, takes one last look around, and drops into a chair.

White Production 2.

As she catches her breath, she takes out her phone and swipes a few times, waiting. We creep close, either curious or bored.

Finally, Cece gets a text, gets up, and goes to the front door.

We go with her, tentative. Cece is a realtor, of course, and she opens the door to a FAMILY OF FOUR, pasting on a big smile and a big voice.

REBEKAH, mid-forties, smiles, harried.

There’s a sudden SHIMMER and we zip back across the room ten or twelve feet, as far away from these new people as we can get.

We are skittish, we’re learning.

Rebekah’s eyes are down, studying a setup sheet as she moves into the place.

The rest of the family comes into the house. CHRIS, also in his forties, looks around, his eyes up rather than down, and takes the place in.

Next through is TYLER, seventeen, tall, good-looking, on his phone. It’s a miracle he doesn’t trip. He looks up, one word --

-- and goes back to his phone.

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Last inside is CHLOE BLU, fifteen, far and away the most interesting person in this family.

There’s a darkness about Chloe, but not in her clothes. Trauma wafts off of her. She looks around, absorbing the place, more like her father in her approach than her mother.

Chloe notices the big mirror over the fireplace and is drawn to it. It’s beautiful, now that we study it.

Behind Chloe, the others drift around, their house-viewing chit- chat fading into the background. Chloe is transfixed by the mirror. She reaches out and runs her fingertips over it.

Behind her, we see Tyler, leaning in the archway to the dining room, still tapping away at his phone. Tyler doesn’t look up much.

Cece, blurry in the background, notices Chloe at the mirror, and her VOICE swims up out of the muffled conversations for a few words --

And she’s away, showing some other detail.

As for us, we move closer to the mirror, and to Chloe. We like Chloe. We get right up behind her, seeing her face in the mirror, the back of her head just in front of us. We move around her, fascinated by her, and --

-- Chloe turns around.

She doesn’t look at us, but she looks around near us.

That freaks us out.

We skitter back, first across the room, and then BLUR/SHIMMER and we’re--

HALFWAY UP THE STAIRS

where we can see the others below, and Chloe is still looking around, as if searching for us, and that’s really scary so we jump --

and now we’re near the kitchen doorway, further from the living room, watching Chloe through the arched doorways on both sides of the dining room.

She walks off, and we relax a bit.

Behind us, we hear VOICES. We turn to the kitchen.

Chris and Rebekah are in here by themselves, talking in low tones.

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Chris looks at her. But Rebekah’s on her phone, tapping numbers into a mortgage calculator app.

Chris looks out, through the open kitchen doorway, near us. We turn, following his gaze to see Chloe, who’s wandering around, soaking up the house, now looking up the stairs.

Chris watches Chloe, worried.

Rebekah glances up at him, unsure who he means. Then she follows his gaze, sees Chloe through the doorway, and shrugs. She goes back to what she was doing.

Chris looks at Rebekah for a long moment, but she doesn’t look up. C’mon, Chris, fight.

But Chris isn’t a fighter. We BLUR/SHIMMER and we’re--

IN THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAY

Chloe is at the far end, exploring.

She runs one hand along the ugly wallpaper. Maybe it’s not ugly to her. Maybe Chloe’s a better person than us.

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She’s headed toward the third bedroom, by the driveway side of the house.

We watch Chloe as she looks around, sizing it up. We move toward her, nervy again. Chloe turns in a circle, checking out the room, and she looks up, suddenly alert.

She’s looking near us again.

The image BLUR/SHIMMERS and we’re--

IN THE CLOSET

looking out through the slats at Chloe, who’s still in the middle of the room. We would tremble, if we trembled.

Through the slats we see Chloe turn toward us. She moves forward, toward the closet, reaches out for the handle, opens the door -- the image BLURS/SHIMMERS and we’re--

IN THE DINING ROOM

Rebekah’s with Cece, in dealmaking buzz saw mode.

Tyler is no longer texting, he’s now talking on his phone.

Chloe and Chris are bringing up the rear. Chloe looks up at her father and speaks in a low voice.

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He puts his arm around his daughter. Chloe folds into him.

Cece, the last one out, glances at the house again as she closes the door.

The door closes. That family’s got issues.

We BLUR/SHIMMER and we’re--

IN CHLOE’S ROOM

We float to the window and look down, at the cars in the driveway below.

They get in, Rebekah behind the wheel.

Chloe stops at her car door and looks up at our bedroom window, shielding her eyes from the sun.

We back away.

There’s no question, Chloe knows about us.

CUT TO BLACK

The staging has been removed and the place is empty now, no furniture at all. We hear CARS pull up, doors SLAM, VOICES outside.

The front door opens and a PAINTING CREW comes inside.

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We don’t move, but the Crew moves equipment inside, heading straight for us.

A CONTRACTOR flips through papers.

The crew keeps coming toward us --

-- and moves right through us.

We pivot, watching them as they move past us, further into the house. Our house.

CUT TO BLACK.

Painter 1 is now painting “our” room a pale blue/gray. Drop cloths and various painting supplies are scattered around.

The Contractor appears in the door.

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He turns and leaves, calling out as he goes down the hall.

Painter 1 keeps painting.

For the record, we don’t like the color.

CUT TO BLACK.

The house is full of furniture again. It’s much more personalized now, as Chloe and her family have moved in. They’ve been here for a bit, no boxes left unpacked, but art has yet to be hung.

There are lights on, but the living room is empty. People are home, just not in this room.

We’re drifting, as we do.

We’re drawn to the mirror and float over that way. We get near it and look directly into it, as if trying to see ourselves.

We can’t, of course, but there’s something -- a stirring, maybe, in the silver nitrate glass, like molecules trying to collect themselves. Maybe something fogs a bit, in one particular area, trying to will itself into solid form.

Or maybe that’s just the old, cracked glass.

The front door opens, seen in the mirror, and we turn abruptly that way as Tyler steams into the house.

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He drops an overly heavy backpack and sports bag at the front door. He looks into the back of the house, sees somebody in the kitchen --

-- but doesn’t wait for a response before bounding up the stairs.

We follow him, drifting up the stairwell and over the railing, turning toward his room just as the door to his room BANGS shut in our face.

We BLUR/SHIMMER and we’re--

IN TYLER’S ROOM

Which is pleasantly rancid. Clothes strewn about, unmade bed that looks like someone was tortured in it. Most prominent are two shelves Tyler might’ve hung himself, jammed with trophies from swim meets.

Tyler pulls his shirt off, we assume to shower or change, but instead he goes to a mirror on top of his dresser, pulls out his phone, and starts to SNAP selfies of his naked torso.

To be fair, it’s a beautiful torso. But Tyler, c’mon.

We leave. Narcissism is boring.

We BLUE/SHIMMER again and we’re--

IN CHLOE’S ROOM

She’s neater than Tyler, her clothes and books mostly put away. But things are far from right in here.

Chloe is curled up on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing convulsively.

She keeps it mostly quiet. She’s not interested in being comforted.

We swirl around her once, trying to reach her. We’d touch her if we could, but of course we can’t.

Another BLUR/SHIMMER --

IN THE PARENTS’ BEDROOM

The door to the bathroom is closed, but there’s light underneath it, and a MURMURING voice on the other side.

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Curious, we pass through the bathroom door --

-- and into the bathroom. Rebekah’s on the toilet, but not for the usual reasons. Her pants are up, the lid is down, and she’s sitting on it, talking softly into her cell phone.

The person on the other end responds unkindly, and Rebekah stops, waiting out a rant.

We move closer to her, curious, and study her up close. She’s a dictionary picture of anxiety, knee bobbing and chewing a lip, eyes on the door to make sure no one’s out there.

We don’t like this. Another BLUR/SHIMMER --

THE KITCHEN

The sound of a FOOTBALL GAME is on TV, and we drift over to the kitchen table, where Chris sits alone, eating takeout and watching a bad Thursday Night Football game.

Chris refills his glass of red wine. Thinks twice about the size of his pour, and then bumps it closer to the rim.

He picks up his phone and TAPS out a text. We drop all the way down to kitchen table level and see what he writes just before he sends it.

Need to talk. I may have a legal problem.

That agitates us, and we behave differently than we have before, a jittery quality added to our movements.

We SHUDDER back away from Chris, turning, moving across the living room and up the stairs, the same movement as before, but faster now, on edge, we don’t know where or how to settle ourselves --

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TYLER’S ROOM

-- and we’re back in Tyler’s room, where he’s still shirtless, but seated at his desk now, in front of his computer, and we move toward him, curious, because he’s intent on something, and his right arm is moving slightly, and

OH SHIT,

that’s porn on the computer screen, and we can guess the rest so we BLUR/SHIMMER --

CHLOE’S/OUR CLOSET

Through the slats in the door, we watch Chloe as she sits up on her bed, her sobs coming under control.

She wipes her face, pulls off an overshirt, and pulls back the covers, ready to give it up for the day. She CLICKS out her light and gets under the covers, way too early to be going to bed, but Chloe can’t take any more of today.

We can still see her, by slivers of light through the slats in the closet door as she lies still, hoping for sleep.

Some moments go by.

And then Chloe SITS UP.

She looks around the room, sensing something.

She gets up. We pull back, in the closet, afraid it’s us that she senses.

And we’re right, it is. Chloe walks toward the closet again, as she did on that first day when she saw the house.

She peers in, through the slats, right at us. BLUR/SHIMMER --

--and we’re across the room now, looking at Chloe looking at the closet.

Finally, softly --

We don’t answer, of course.

Chloe waits a few moments, then gives up.

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She goes back to her bed, pulls the covers up to her chin, and rolls over.

CUT TO BLACK.

Another day. It’s late in the afternoon, maybe before dinnertime. We drift across the dining room, toward soft VOICES that come from the kitchen.

Chris and Rebekah are at the table, talking in low tones. Both are drinking, must be after work. Chris has a glass of red wine, the bottle close; Rebekah has something stronger.

Rebekah’s laptop is open and she’s doing email, giving Chris only half her attention.

Chris looks worried, as he always does.

Chris gestures -- keep your voice down. From the way his eyes dart, we gather Chloe is upstairs.

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Upstairs, the sound of RUSHING WATER fills the pipes as the shower turns on. Chris looks up.

Rebekah looks up, and sees the distress on his face. She lowers her computer lid -- not all the way, but most of the way. She focuses.

Chris shrugs, wipes his eyes. He’s choking up.

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Rebekah reaches out, puts her hand on his.

He shakes his head, unconvinced.

Chris looks at her, and this is the harshest thing he’s ever said in his life:

Rebekah withdraws her hand.

She raises her computer lid and goes back to work. We BLUR/SHIMMER --

-- OUR ROOM

The sound of the SHOWER is louder, and the door to the bathroom is ajar. Chloe’s in there, and steam wafts through the door.

We float around the bedroom, killing time. We drift over to the dresser, glance at the mirror (no reflection), look at the various cosmetics and other detritus on top of Chloe’s dresser.

Kind of a mess. We look at the clothes, strewn about on the floor.

We drift over to the bed, which appears to be Chloe’s preferred place of study. Books and papers are scattered everywhere over the covers.

We look at them, and it’s agitating. Such a mess. How does anybody study that way?

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We stare at them, intently, and as we watch, a high-pitched BUZZING sound rises up, hard to detect at first, but yes, that’s there, we can hear it more and more --

-- and the image starts to SHUDDER. We notice it first at the edges of the frame, a rapid canting that looks like a projection mistake, but it becomes more and more noticeable as the high- pitched sound rises.

And the books move.

That isn’t hard to see at all, the books really move, SLAPPING shut, zipping around on the bed, shoving together, this is not possible, what we’re seeing.

The image shakes harder, turning into a total blur --

-- the water shuts off in the bathroom --

-- and then the books and papers are gone, vanished entirely.

We stay where we are, staring at the empty bed for a moment.

The door from the bathroom opens. Chloe steps out, toweled up after the shower.

She crosses the room toward the closet, toward us. We drift back a few feet, so she doesn’t get too close.

Chloe stops, right in front of us, thinking. Something’s wrong. She’s noticed something, maybe out of the corner of her eye.

She turns. She looks at the bed. She walks toward it.

That’s weird. Her books and papers were there, they were definitely there, and now they’re just gone?

Chloe turns, to look around the room, her eyes fall on the dresser, and she lets out a short, involuntary SCREAM, half GASP, half SHRIEK.

Because now the books are neatly stacked on her dresser.

It’s unmistakeable, one tall stack, two feet high, every single book and paper that was on the bed is now on the dresser.

Assembled there.

Where most of us would run screaming from the room, Chloe remains. She settles herself quickly, looking around the room peacefully.

Maybe this wasn’t unwelcome. Maybe it wasn’t even unexpected. She’s glad this happened.

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FOOTSTEPS in the hallway, a quick KNOCK at the door, and Chris opens it, concerned.

He looks at her, concerned as ever.

He nods and withdraws.

Chloe stands in the middle of the room.

We float near her, skittish.

Perhaps sensing us, Chloe turns to her left. We counter, gliding to the right.

She turns the other way, and we counter again, avoiding her. Seen and not seen, that seems to be our goal.

But we’ve gotten closer, too close now, and Chloe turns, almost feinting to one side, and then spinning back the other way --

-- and ends up looking directly into our eyes, from SUPER close.

This time, we dare to hold her gaze.

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Chloe, trembling, manages a word:

We lose nerve and BLUR/SHIMMER to the corner of the room.

Chloe has lost us, and she’s looking, searching.

We stay where we are.

But we don’t know what else to do.

We stay in the corner. Chloe gives up.

She goes back into the bathroom. We close our eyes.

CUT TO BLACK.

Maybe a few days later. It’s after school time, no parents home.

Chloe is stretched out on her bed, stomach down, her preferred study position.

We watch her.

We hear the FRONT DOOR open downstairs, and MALE VOICES. They come up the stairs, with heavy stomps.

Tyler appears in the doorway, another seventeen-year-old guy with him. RYAN is built like Tyler, and he’s good-looking as shit.

But there’s something different. His eyes, maybe. They’ve seen some pain too. You could maybe talk to Ryan.

Chloe looks back, over her shoulder.

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The guys move on, too cool to linger. Chloe watches the empty doorway for a second.

She lifts an eyebrow. That was Ryan.

She turns back to her book.

We get agitated, moving now. We don’t like something about what just happened. We move out the open door of our room, down the hall, and linger in the open doorway of Tyler’s room.

We size up Ryan, who is alone in the room for the moment, looking around, sizing up Tyler’s swim trophies, perhaps with envy.

We move close to Ryan, to try to figure him out. We’re drawn to him too, like Chloe, but it feels different.

A toilet FLUSHES. Tyler comes out of his bathroom, zipping up.

He nods down the hall, toward Chloe’s room, his admiring implication clear.

Ryan shrugs, I get it, and puts his hands up in surrender.

We back out. We don’t like it.

We move back down the hallway.

We come back into Chloe’s room. We move around the bed, where she’s reading and highlighting a copy of a paperback novel, making notes in the margins.

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We settle down next to the bed, like a dog sitting next to her, waiting for attention.

Or maybe standing guard. Because we’re looking at the door.

CUT TO BLACK.

CLOSE ON a computer screen. Somebody’s going through emails and files, highlighting and deleting whole batches of them. We watch.

Pulling back, we see it’s Rebekah, sitting on the edge of the bed. Someone comes in the room and she looks up, just a touch more sharply than she should.

Rebekah’s up to some sketchy shit.

Chris, who’s just come home from work, takes off his tie.

He’s come around behind her, to get to the closet, and she can’t help but turn her screen, ever so slightly, almost involuntarily, so he isn’t afforded too clear a view.

Suspicious already, Chris notices.

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She keeps deleting. Chris keeps changing clothes, stealing the occasional glance at her.

Finally:

Chris is immediately furious. He changes out of his clothes and into new ones, seething.

When he can hold it no longer --

She looks up. That was as pointed as Chris ever gets.

Frosty.

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Chris looks back at her computer screen, which she is once again absorbed in.

He leaves. Some might say “storms out.” We follow him to Chloe’s room. She’s inside, reading on the bed.

He pauses, doesn’t want to disturb her. She senses him and looks up.

He turns away. Moving down the hallway, he hesitates outside Tyler’s room, where the door is also open.

Tyler’s back is to him. There’s a game on his computer, and he’s texting somebody. Oh, and his shirt’s off.

Chris can’t bring himself to knock. He moves on.

We follow Chris down the stairs and across the living room. He pulls his phone from his pocket.

Chris crosses the kitchen, opens the back door quietly, and steps outside into the smallish back yard. He moves away from the house as far as he can, and makes a call. We stop in the doorway as though there’s a barrier of some sort.

As it rings on the other end, Chris looks back over his shoulder at the house, to make sure he’s alone.

Someone picks up.

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He waits as he’s put on hold. He looks back at the house again, anxious.

Chris sags onto a rusted iron patio chair, rubbing his face.

Chris starts to break down.

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We back away. We don’t want to hear this.

CUT TO BLACK.

Another day. An empty living room. An empty house. We float.

The front door opens.

Chloe comes in, school backpack over one shoulder. She’s not alone. Ryan, Tyler’s friend who she met the other day, is with her.

Nobody else.

She drops her backpack. Ryan closes the door behind him.

Chloe takes a bottle from the cabinet over the refrigerator. She goes to the counter and pours a couple juice glasses half full of an unappealing liqueur.

She downs hers, and makes a face at its hideousness.

She flips him off.

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He shrugs. Beat.

He shrugs again.

She heads for the doorway, gesturing upstairs.

She takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs.

CUT TO BLACK.

CLOSE ON an aluminum foil wrapper, open on top of Chloe’s dresser. There are chunks of brownie in it, some crumbs, it’s mostly eaten. Obviously not a home baking project.

Chloe lies on her bed, looking up at the ceiling. Ryan moves around her room, snooping, with permission. They’re high as shit.

We watch. Mostly, we watch Chloe, but we keep an eye on Ryan.

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He’s at her dresser. There’s a mirror over it, some pictures tucked in its edges.

He leans in and looks at one in particular. It’s Chloe, posing with a pretty girl around her age. Ryan notes it, and looks over at Chloe, who’s on the bed, looking at the play of late afternoon light on the ceiling.

She looks at him. She knows who he means.

He looks around the room, then back at her.

She looks at him, meeting his eyes, and he doesn’t look away. Not bad, for seventeen, he’s direct.

Chloe rolls over, up on one elbow.

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She thinks for a moment. Can he handle it?

He comes over to the bed and sits down next to her.

She puts an arm over her eyes.

He reaches out and strokes her hair, gently.

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She kisses him. It’s a sudden move, sitting up and putting her hand around his neck and pulling him close. He isn’t quite sure what to do.

She stops.

She nods. She kisses him again, more thoughtfully this time. He pushes himself back into her, kissing back. It grows passionate quickly, but then she pulls away.

She puts her head on his chest, crying.

She nods. He holds her.

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She looks up at him and kisses him again, with an open mouth. He slides his hand up her shirt, and she presses into him.

And this, we do not like. As they start to make out on the bed, we move around the room, erratically, almost frantic.

We move back, toward the closet, through the closet door --

IN THE CLOSET,

-- but in the closet, we can still see them, through the slats, and things are heating up out there, Ryan is lifting Chloe’s shirt up, over her head.

And we lose it.

The image starts to SHUDDER again, rattling at its edges as it did when we moved the books. The clothes in the closet shiver, the hangers CLACKING on the bars.

The movement gets bigger, louder, and all at once a wooden bar CRACKS and pulls out of the wall, falling to the floor with a CLATTER.

Through the slats, we see Chloe and Ryan sit up abruptly, on the bed. Chloe pulls her shirt back down, alarmed.

He bolts off the bed and moves to the closet.

He yanks the door open and looks around.

We rush right up close to him, livid. Right in his face, but he does not sense us the way the Chloe does.

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Chloe comes up behind him, pulling herself back together. Her pants were also unbuttoned. Things were moving quickly.

Now Chloe moves up into the space Ryan occupied. We move closer to her.

And she moves closer to us.

We get right up in her face, eye to eye --

-- and we blow.

Chloe’s hair flutters, she feels it, she YELPS in surprise and leaps back.

Chloe recovers, trying to figure out what happened, deciding to keep it to herself. This isn’t something she’s ready to share.

He puts his arms around her again, pulling her in.

He tries to move her back toward the bed, but she shrugs him off.

He turns her back to face him. He is a picture of understanding.

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CUT TO BLACK.

End of the day, not yet dark out. The family sits around the table in the kitchen. Takeout containers are open. We’re with them, floating around, listening.

There’s an awkward silence at the table, and it’s more than just the usual quiet from this group. They’re looking at Chloe, who seems to be waiting for an answer to a question.

It’s a long pause.

Finally, Chris asks, diplomatically:

Tyler puts his fork down, too forcefully, not even bothering to hide his contempt.

Rebekah picks up her phone and absorbs herself in it.

Tyler goes back to eating, voraciously. Chris looks to Rebekah for help, but she’s lost in her phone.

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Chris, left alone, turns back to Chloe, trying to give her a straight answer.

She darts a look at her mother and brother.

Rebekah speaks, but doesn’t look up.

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Rebekah and Tyler don’t even look at her. Only Chris hangs in there. His patience is heartbreaking.

Tyler can take no more.

Rebekah looks up and puts a hand on Tyler’s arm calm him, but he pulls away, hard.

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Unclear who she meant that for.

Chloe stares at him, livid.

Chris explodes.

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That’s huge, from the normally quiet Chris, and it shuts them all up.

Tyler shoves his dinner plate away, it CRASHES into the other dishes, and he storms away from the table.

Rebekah looks at Chloe, resentful, then at Chris.

Again it’s unclear who she means. She leaves the table, following Tyler upstairs.

Chris and Chloe are left alone. Silence for a long moment.

Chloe looks down, hands covering her eyes. Tears drip onto her plate from behind her palms.

Chris reaches out, takes one of her hands, and pulls it away from her eyes.

He holds it.

CUT TO BLACK.

The image is of the living room, but it’s fuzzy and distorted. We can make out the usual furniture, and somebody seated on the couch. Another figure comes down the stairs, somebody big.

They’re too blurry to make out, but we recognize a VOICE:

We turn, and realize why the blur -- we’ve been in the mirror. Chris is the one on the couch reading, with a glass of wine. Tyler’s come down on the stairs.

Chris gestures -- sit down. Tyler does. After a moment:

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Chris looks at him, surprised.

Curious, we move closer to Tyler, floating around him, studying him. We don’t usually get this close to him.

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Chris stands, too old for his seventeen-year-old’s lecture.

He goes upstairs.

Tyler stays. We linger, studying him.

CUT TO BLACK.

Morning. Chloe is just out of bed, not dressed for school yet. She’s late, from the way she’s moving.

Rebekah appears in the doorway, holding a shirt on a hangar.

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She holds it out, a tad awkward.

She takes it and hangs it on the corner of the mirror, to wear.

Rebekah lingers. So does Chloe. Neither one knows what to say, and probably wouldn’t say it if they did.

She turns to go, but abruptly turns back, goes to Chloe, and gives her a hug. It’s stiff, as is Chloe’s frozen reaction.

Rebekah releases, turns, and leaves.

CUT TO BLACK.

Tyler is telling a story, animated. Chloe is staring down at her hands, trying to ignore it.

Chris is in a chair with a glass of wine, a generous pour. He looks kind of miserable. Rebekah’s the only one following Tyler’s story, delighted, laughing along.

Chris waves it off, never mind. Tyler continues.

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We turn and look at Chloe. She is picking at the skin around her fingernails, hard, and not for the first time. Her fingertips are red and raw, clawed at habitually.

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We look over at Chris, who is miserable. He’s watching Chloe, intent on her phone now, the other hand picking at her fingers.

We turn to Chloe, and she really doesn’t like this story, not one bit.

And you know who else doesn’t like it? We don’t. The image starts to shudder as Tyler goes on, his voice fading into the background a bit --

We jump across the room, moving fast, a blur of motion, and now we’re looking at Tyler from the other side, agitated.

We move again, fast, a blur of motion, far away now --

We move again, right up beside Tyler’s jaw, as if we’d like to hit him.

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We shake and vibrate, and a high-pitched WHINING sound starts, barely perceptible on the soundtrack, but --

-- we whip over to her, she heard it, she heard us, but the others ignore her, they must not have heard it, and Tyler’s story is reaching its climax.

We spin, trying to settle ourselves, and end up on Chloe, but she’s picking, ever harder, at her fingers, and now a drop of blood falls from her fingertip and SPLASHES on the wood floor.

Tyler goes on and on, we hear him behind us, we can’t escape him.

Chloe finally looks up, at Tyler, full of loathing.

They all look at him. Chloe holds up her phone, showing a picture of a teenage girl, showing her naked torso.

Tyler’s caught in a lie. And doesn’t care.

We can’t take anymore. The WHINING sound rises up louder, and we fly across the room, fast, up the stairs --

White Production 42.

-- toward the closed door to Tyler’s room, then through the door

-- and into Tyler’s room, where we lose our mind.

As the high-pitched sound rises higher still, pictures VIBRATE and fly off the walls.

We turn toward a dresser, trembling with rage, and the drawers fly open, clothes EXPLODING up into the air.

We turn again, to a far wall, lined with shelves that are thick with swimming trophies. The trophies rocket off the shelves, one after another, sailing across the room like missiles and SMASHING into the far wall.

From below, feet THUNDER up the stairs as the destruction goes on. We hear the door open behind us, BANGING off the wall, we whirl around --

-- and see Chloe and Tyler, first up, staggering into the doorway, SHOUTING in panic, their PARENTS not far behind them, shouts of “What’s going on?!” and “What the fuck is happening?!” all around.

The family stops, staring into the trashed room in amazement and horror.

A teetering trophy falls from the shelves and SMASHES on the floor.

Rebekah SCREAMS.

Chloe, the only one who dares, takes a few steps into the room.

She looks around, a hand held out, searching for us.

Delicately, she turns in a half-circle, searching.

We move too, avoiding her direct gaze, as if ashamed of what we’ve done. We don’t let her eyes fall on ours.

Chloe turns, slowly, to the rest of her family.

CUT TO BLACK.

We’re looking from Chloe’s window to where the driveway meets the back yard.

White Production 43.

Chris, Rebekah, Chloe, and Tyler are out here, standing close by one another, their breath curling up in front of them in the cold fall air.

Rebekah is smoking a cigarette with a shaking hand.

Rebekah exhales a cloud of smoke and Chris waves it away in irritation.

She takes another hard drag. Chloe, who alone seems unfazed by what happened, observes.

White Production 44.

Tyler looks at Chris like he just arrived from another planet.

Tyler, for once, says nothing.

Nobody does, for a long moment. Chris takes Rebekah’s cigarette and takes a long drag.

They turn and look at her. So do we. Chloe gets us. She always has. And for once, the rest of the family seems willing to take her seriously.

White Production 45.

Chris looks at her. He believes her. The other two can’t make the mental turn.

But Chloe is calm, strong, and she can take care of herself. She takes a step toward her brother, looking up at him.

White Production 46.

Tyler, a good six inches taller, looks down at her. Her gaze is unrelenting and unblinking.

And his lower lip is trembling.

Yes. He is that afraid.

Chloe reaches up, and puts a hand on his cheek. Tender, in spite of his coarseness.

The kid -- and that’s all Tyler is, a big, muscular, man-shaped kid -- nods. Grateful.

CUT TO BLACK.

Chris is on the phone, listening and nodding. The rest of the family watches him, expectant.

He hangs up.

White Production 47.

The family exchanges glances.

CUT TO BLACK.

Daytime. For the record, it’s both a school and work day, and nobody has gone to either.

Instead, the family sits in the living room, waiting. For what, we do not know. But we’re waiting with them.

Nobody talks. And nobody’s on their phone. They’re just waiting.

In some way, they sort of resemble a family again. Doing something together, even if it is nothing.

Finally, Chris’s phone BUZZES with a text. He picks it up and looks at it.

Everybody stiffens. Chris gets up, looking toward the front windows. We follow his gaze, and move over to the glass.

OUT IN FRONT

we see a Honda Accord at the curb. LISA, a woman in her thirties dressed in the uniform of a checkout cashier, gets out from the passenger side.

White Production 48.

She immediately stops and stares at the house. CARL, her husband (and Cece’s brother), exits the driver’s side and talks to her, leading her toward the house. She looks uncertain about going in.

We turn as Chris goes to the door and opens it.

Lisa and Carl enter. Lisa seems anxious, her hands clasped together in front of her.

Chris shakes Carl’s hand but senses Lisa won’t be doing that. He nods and turns to his family.

More silent nods are exchanged.

Tyler jumps up, the way one does when there’s a medical emergency, and runs into the kitchen. We hear a cabinet and the water running.

Chris leads Lisa to an armchair. She sits, eyes down.

Rebekah and Chloe just stare, fascinated, as they also sit.

Tyler comes hurrying out of the kitchen with a glass of water. Carl takes it and holds it.

White Production 49.

Chris and Tyler sit.

Quiet for a moment. Lisa is breathing rhythmically now. There’s sweat on her forehead.

Chris starts to speak --

Carl holds up his hand. Lisa suddenly stares directly at us. We back away.

Rebekah knows exactly what Lisa is referring to, but she feigns puzzlement.

Lisa looks around and notices the big mirror over the fireplace. She rises and moves to it. She studies it carefully, intrigued.

In the reflection, she looks at Chloe.

Oh. The room deflates. Lisa crosses right up to us. We don’t move this time.

Lisa turns and looks at Chloe.

White Production 50.

Chloe nods.

The directness and tenderness are overwhelming. Chloe tears up.

Kindness radiates off Lisa, genuine and deeply felt. She looks back at us.

Chloe nods. The others aren’t as clear about this.

White Production 51.

Lisa shakes her head.

As if hearing a sound, Lisa turns abruptly toward the mirror over the fireplace again. She goes to it.

We go right with the Lisa, not afraid of her now. We close in, just over Lisa’s shoulder, looking into the mirror with her.

Lisa reaches out a hand and lays fingertips on the mirror, to feel its surface.

As the Lisa’s fingertips brush softly across the surface of the mirror, we think we see movement in it.

And then we know we do.

Lisa’s breathing becomes heavier. In the mirror, just beyond Lisa’s fingertips, we detect movement in the ancient, distorted glass. Wispy tendrils appear, or maybe they’re faint shafts of light.

They seem to be trying to become a form, they’re on the verge of resolving into a human shape --

White Production 52.

-- and then the tendrils dissipate. Lisa exhales, suddenly exhausted. She crosses to the chair and Carl hands her the glass of water. She drains it.

Carl guides Chris toward the foyer.

A beat.

CUT TO BLACK.

The whole family just sits where they are, shell-shocked.

Chris looks at Chloe.

She nods.

Tyler, who is agitated, can’t take it. He gets up, angry or embarrassed or frightened or all three.

He storms up the stairs. We hear his heavy steps in the upstairs hallway, and then his door SLAM.

The other three are still there. Rebekah looks at Chris. It is not a loving look.

White Production 53.

He looks at her, but there’s no way to reach her.

Rebekah shakes her head.

She turns and goes upstairs.

Chloe Blu remains. She’s at the mirror, now running her fingertips over it, wondering what Lisa saw, and if she might see it too.

But she doesn’t. She turns away, and goes to Chris, still on the couch, unmoving.

She sits down next to him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

We can’t take it any more. We move away from Chloe and Chris, and drift up the stairs.

INTO THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAY,

and we drift down it, toward the room at the end of the hall.

ENTERING OUR ROOM,

we drift past Chloe’s bed, we float through the closet door --

-- and back into the closet, our closet, where we feel safe.

We stay there, looking through the slats.

CUT TO BLACK,

FADE UP ON the same view, through the slats of the closet, but now it’s morning.

Chloe’s in a hurry, getting ready for school, grabbing a sweatshirt and her backpack, leaving.

White Production 54.

We stay where we are.

CUT TO BLACK.

It’s night again, and we’re still in the closet.

Chloe’s in bed now, she CLICKS off the light and the room goes dark.

We stay where we are.

We’re not going anywhere.

CUT TO BLACK.

The light comes back up. Late afternoon light now, still seen through the slats of the closet door.

This time, we can make out two people in the room. Both of them are on the bed.

And we’re hearing the unmistakable sounds of SEX.

Oh dear. We move closer to the slats, to see what we can see. But it’s not really necessary. As the sex finishes, we hear soft VOICES, and we can see enough to know who’s in the room.

It’s Chloe, and she’s brought Ryan home from school with her.

Ryan sits up, and we move back sharply, as far back in the closet as we can get, in among the hanging clothes.

Ryan MURMURS, some post-sex words we’d rather not hear, this is * too much for us, too intimate, too terrifying.

Ryan stands and goes into the bathroom. We move forward again, looking through the slats and into the room. Now Chloe sits up in bed.

She’s in a tank top, and we see her move around, grab some other clothes. She’s fine, there was nothing forced or untoward about the sex, but we still don’t like it.

From the bathroom, we hear Ryan’s voice.

White Production 55.

As Chloe sits at the edge of the bed, we study her face. She looks anxious.

Ryan comes out of the bathroom, in jeans and a tee shirt now, and kisses her.

He turns back.

He takes off, THUNDERING down the stairs, full of teenage energy and just-released endorphins.

Chloe gets up and goes into the bathroom. We hear the shower turn on.

Still in the closet, we hear Ryan come back upstairs. He comes into the room, holding two glasses of orange juice.

He sets them on the bed table, casts a glance to the bathroom, where Chloe is in the shower. He goes to his backpack, pulls it over to the side of the bed, and opens an inside zipper pocket.

White Production 56.

Again, he casts a furtive look over his shoulder, into the bathroom.

Curious, we move out of the closet, to get a closer look.

IN THE BEDROOM

We draw closer to Ryan, even though he freaks us out.

Because he is up to something. He pulls a small plastic packet from the backpack, tears it open with his teeth, and dumps a white powder in one of the glasses of orange juice.

He stirs it around with his finger; it dissolves and disappears.

Quickly, he takes a long drink from the other glass, so the level is markedly different.

We grow agitated, the familiar SHUDDER returning to the image, as it does whenever we’re upset. We move closer to the glasses of orange juice on the table.

From the bathroom, we hear the water shut off.

We move closer still to the glasses of juice, the shuddering of the image more pronounced now.

Near us, Ryan sits back on the bed, affecting a casual posture. He calls out to the bathroom.

But we’re ignoring him now, all of our focus and energy on the juice glasses. The high-pitched WHINING sound starts to rise up on the soundtrack.

We hear Chloe come out of the bathroom, but we ignore her too.

White Production 57.

The shuddering of the image is intense, it’s canting almost forty-five degrees, twisting back and forth, the edges completely blurred now, only the one glass of juice in focus, the full one, Chloe’s, the one that has been doctored.

And all at once --

-- the glass of juice falls over.

It just flicks over onto its side, dumping its contents over the edge of the table and into the carpet.

We jump out of the close shot and into a wider one, as Chloe and Ryan, sitting on the edge of the bed, react.

But it’s too late, the glass rolls and THUNKS to the floor, soaking the carpet in sticky juice.

And God knows whatever was in it.

Chloe jumps up and runs into the bathroom, and we take a step back, looking at Ryan.

He’s looking around the room, a little freaked out, as he puts the glass back on the table.

Chloe comes back into the room with a wet towel, drops to the floor, and tries to clean the spilled juice out of the rug.

White Production 58.

He looks at her, then looks around the room. Does he sense us? No way.

But he’s anxious as hell. He picks up the empty juice glass and takes into the bathroom. BLUR/SHIMMER --

IN THE BATHROOM

He goes to the sink and washes the glass thoroughly, really scrubbing its sides with his fingers, to get everything out.

Chloe’s voice comes from the other room.

The implication being, you gotta go.

Ryan holds the glass up to the light, to make sure it’s completely clean. A few grains of white powder cling to one of the sides.

He puts it back under the water and wipes them away.

Shaking the glass out, he heads back to the bedroom. BLUR/SHIMMER --

Ryan goes to the bedside and puts the clean glass back on the table.

Chloe sits up, but the floor’s got a ways to go. He sits on the bed, next to her, and turns her face up to see his.

White Production 59.

He leans down and kisses her softly on the lips. She kisses back.

Completely freaked out, we move away fast, backwards, zipping all the way back

White Production 60.

INTO THE CLOSET

where we started. We hear Ryan’s voice SOFTLY, from the other room.

They kiss.

We pull away, back into the shirts.

What is Ryan up to? Why was he trying to drug her?

We are terrified.

CUT TO BLACK.

That night. Just one light on. Chloe is at her desk, studying for her chem test. It must be late.

She senses something and turns, startled to see her father standing in the doorway.

He lingers.

He does. He comes in, and sits at the edge of the bed. He runs a hand through his hair.

White Production 61.

He trails off. Chris isn’t much of a talker, especially about uncomfortable things.

He looks up, smiles at her.

Chloe nods, trying to understand. Not entirely loving this thread of conversation, but bearing with it.

Chloe smiles.

White Production 62.

She looks at him -- where is this going?

Chloe’s not sure she understands what he’s trying to say.

He looks up at her, earnest. He lowers his voice to a whisper.

Chloe nods, moved.

Chloe moves to sit next to him. She puts her arms around him and holds him tight.

We drift out of the room, and

INTO THE HALLWAY

There, we hear more voices, these coming from downstairs. We float in that direction now, down the stairs --

-- where it turns out Chloe and Chris aren’t the only ones having a heart-to-heart tonight.

At the kitchen table, Rebekah is putting away a decent amount of vodka. Staring into her glass, at the moment.

Tyler is next to her. The silence between them is far more fraught and tense than the tender mood we just witnessed upstairs.

White Production 63.

She looks up at him, and it’s clear this is drunk-talk, of the kind you should never, ever share with your kid. But here she goes anyway --

She shakes her head, waves it off. Doesn’t want to answer that one directly.

White Production 64.

Tyler, uncomfortable as hell, gets up from the table and heads upstairs.

Rebekah is left alone.

Fair to say the family has reached its nadir.

CUT TO BLACK.

We’re looking through the window at the driveway. Chris is talking to Lisa in front of her Honda Accord.

She looks up at us.

CUT TO BLACK.

Daytime. Chris sits in an armchair in the bedroom, while Rebekah crosses back and forth in front of him.

We watch Chris, straight on, keying in on him now.

White Production 65.

Chris is unhappy, but putting on a brave face. We study him, intent.

She crosses in front of him again, carrying a few things toward the bed.

She doesn’t answer.

Chris summons himself, gets up, and goes to the bed. We go with him. He sits, next to an open overnight bag that Rebekah is packing.

He looks down, avoiding eye contact.

Rebekah’s hands pause, just for a split-second, as she packs the bag. Then she resumes.

White Production 66.

She goes to the closet for a few more things. Chris chews a lip, waiting. When she returns, he looks up, directly at her now.

She stops what she’s doing and looks down at him. His earnestness is heartbreaking. But she’s not there yet.

She hesitates, holding his eyes. These next words are hard, almost a whisper.

God, she wants to tell him. But she doesn’t.

She makes a face and half-shrug, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Her eyes tear up. Of course she knows exactly what he means, and it’s a touching offer. Overwhelming, even.

White Production 67.

A long moment.

She ZIPS her bag, picks it up, and heads for the door. But she pauses, halfway out of the room.

That was as close to an invitation as he’s going to get. He gets up and follows her, picking up his already-packed bag on the way.

We follow them both, out of the room and into the hallway.

They head down the stairs, Rebekah in the lead. She CALLS OUT, to the house at large.

We swoop down the stairs with them, clinging. We don’t want them to go.

Chris and Rebekah come into the living room, then to the entryway.

They put on jackets, scoop up car keys, wallets.

Chloe appears at the top of the stairs, and we look over at her, then back at Chris and Rebekah, getting a little panicky now. We really don’t want them to leave.

White Production 68.

She opens the door and heads out, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Chris offers Chloe a little wave, then isn’t happy to leave it at that, drops his bag, and starts up the stairs. Chloe rolls her eyes, it’s sweet, and comes down a few steps.

He gives her a tight hug and a kiss on the forehead.

Chloe nods. It’s unconvincing.

Chris turns and hurries off, down the stairs, scooping up his bag on the way.

We go after him. We’d grab onto him if we could.

He turns back, in the doorway.

White Production 69.

He blows a kiss, goes out the door, and closes it behind him.

Slowly, we turn back to Chloe. She hesitates on the staircase for a moment, then turns and walks back upstairs.

We drift toward the stairs. We hear her bare feet pad down the upstairs hallway, reach her room, go inside, and close her door softly.

We turn and look out the front window.

Outside, we see the car pull out of the driveway and head off, away down the street.

I think we’re alone now. We linger, and the daylight outside --

CUT TO BLACK.

There’s LOUD MUSIC playing in the living room now, something edgy and harsh, and the mood in the house is different. We can feel it.

We turn from the window and move toward the couch. Tyler sits alone, his mother’s bottle of vodka on the table in front of him, a few shot glasses and some takeout containers, not opened yet.

Tyler sits, by himself, listening to the music, MUTTERING the lyrics along with the singer. The words are dark and intense, and he feels them deeply.

He pours himself a shot of vodka and downs it. Doesn’t look like it’s his first.

He rocks, to the music, absorbed in himself and his upsetting thoughts. There’s a lot going on inside Tyler. We wish we could help him.

He looks up suddenly, right near us.

We freeze. Does he sense us? His eyes search a little, come almost upon us. He looks scared.

He does sense us. We move a little closer, hesitant --

White Production 70.

-- but Tyler’s phone BUZZES with a text, breaking the moment.

He checks it. He gets up from the table and goes to the door.

We go with him.

OUT THE WINDOW

we see someone coming up the walk, can’t quite make out who.

Tyler opens the door.

Ryan comes into the house.

He has a backpack over one shoulder. His energy is different.

Bro hugs commence. Tyler closes the door and Ryan saunters in like he owns the place.

He drops his backpack by the couch and drops onto it.

He takes two glasses and pours them half full of vodka.

White Production 71.

He starts to get up, to go to the kitchen, but Ryan’s already ahead of him.

He picks up the glasses and goes to the kitchen with them.

We drift toward him. We want to follow, but are too scared to get up close to him.

Nearing the kitchen, we see the refrigerator door open, and Ryan take out a half-full jug of orange juice.

He keeps talking to Tyler, loud, to be heard in the living room and over the music.

While Ryan talks, we move closer, and see what he’s doing in the kitchen. With his back to the living room, he’s pulled a small orange prescription bottle from his pocket and dumped a capsule into his hand.

Ryan breaks the capsule, dumps the contents into one of the glasses, and swirls it around.

He picks up the glasses and comes back into the living room.

We scurry back, afraid of him now.

White Production 72.

He hands a glass to Tyler and stands over him, holding his own out in a toast.

CLINK.

They drink. Ryan ostentatiously pounds his, so Tyler does too.

He picks up the vodka bottle.

CUT TO BLACK.

Later. We’re still in the living room. The music has changed to something more ominous, but it’s still loud.

Tyler is passed out on the couch, hard. He’s half-seated, half- slumped into the pillows at one end, drool collecting in a little pool under his slack-jawed mouth.

Ryan sits in the armchair. Staring at him.

We cower nearby, watching the events unfold and powerless to stop them. We do not like the look on Ryan’s face. At all.

No answer.

No answer. Like, it’s not even close.

Ryan gets up. He goes to Tyler’s phone, swipes it, pushes pause on the music.

Suddenly, it’s very quiet in the room.

White Production 73.

Ryan goes to the coffee table and kneels down in front of it.

He takes two of the glasses, pours small shots of vodka, and splashes a bit more juice into them.

He slides his backpack over next to him. He unzips a small compartment on the top, reaches inside, and pulls out a small plastic envelope.

It’s clear, like the one he used the other day, and that familiar white powder is inside.

He RIPS open the packet, dumps the white powder into one of the glasses, and swirls it around till it’s dissolved.

He holds the glass up to the light this time and watches the liquid, transfixed by it. We do too, watching the evil little crystals swirl in the liquid. Ryan stirs again, until they’re fully dissolved.

He holds the glass in his left hand, then picks up the other glass, the one he made for himself. He compares their levels, which are the same.

Carefully, he takes a long drink from the glass in his right hand, then compares the levels again. As before, it’s now noticeably lower.

He gets up, with the glasses, and we follow him with dread. He walks across the CREAKY living room floor, and goes up the old staircase to the second floor.

He heads for Chloe’s room. So do we, watching him like a hawk.

He raises one of the glasses and TAPS the lip against the door, to knock.

He pushes the door open and goes inside.

CHLOE’S ROOM

Ryan comes into Chloe’s room. She’s sitting up on her bed, in pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, reading.

She closes the book. There’s a marked change in her tone.

White Production 74.

He comes and sits on the side of the bed, holding the drinks.

She nods. That had been the plan. She looks away, chewing a lip.

She looks at him.

He looks down.

She shrugs, fighting back emotion.

White Production 75.

Ryan looks down, at the two drinks in his hands.

He nods, thinking. Thinking hard. He looks up at her.

He forces a smile. He plays hurt, and looks back down.

He stares at his lap, still holding those two drinks. He looks forlorn.

Here’s how good Ryan is -- a couple tears roll off his cheeks.

Chloe reaches out and puts a hand on his arm.

He nods, not looking at her.

He forces a smile and looks at her, then looks away.

Then looks back up, a puppy dog. He extends the drink in his left hand.

White Production 76.

She smiles. Of course we can.

She takes the drink.

She settles back against one of the pillows with it, getting comfortable. Ryan raises his glass.

They CLINK.

Clearly, we don’t like this, we are terrified by it. We start to tremble, the image SHUDDERS, but it isn’t enough this time. Nothing changes. The high-pitched WHINING sound starts, but not loud enough, not nearly loud enough.

Chloe drinks the drink.

All of it, in one quick gulp.

Ryan smiles and drinks his, then slides off the bed, onto the floor, next to her.

He waits, a long moment, then looks up at her.

Sure, good idea. The drink must be having an effect already, she seems relaxed. She slides down a little, nestling her head into the pillow.

Ryan gets out his phone, picks a song, turns it on. It’s soft, hypnotic.

He turns back to Chloe. He’s kneeling next to the bed now.

White Production 77.

He puts a hand on her hair and gently strokes it.

She nods.

He keeps stroking her hair.

Chloe blinks, a long, slow blink. He continues to stroke her hair.

White Production 78.

Another long blink, and this time her eyes stay closed longer before struggling open again.

She MURMURS something, but she’s dropping into unconsciousness now, and it’s hard to make out the words.

Chloe’s eyes flutter, she’s trying to open them. Because what Ryan is saying is getting weird, and she wants to respond.

But whatever he put in her drink is pulling her down into sleep.

Okay, that’s really fucked up, and with an enormous force of will, Chloe gets her eyes open. She’s wild-eyed, trying hard to focus but unable.

He passes a hand over her eyelids, closing them again, and goes back to stroking her hair.

He reaches into his pocket, looking for something.

White Production 79.

He gets up, onto his knees, takes hold of her by the hips, and slides her body down on the bed.

He’s a bit rough about it and she MOANS as her head comes off the pillow and onto the mattress, now lying flat.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small tube, about three inches long. He POPS the top off.

He pulls a small wooden dowel, just a few inches long, out of the tube. Carefully, he picks at an edge of something wrapped around the dowel and pulls it off.

He pulls a thin sheet of clear plastic wrap off the dowel.

He pulls the plastic wrap free and holds it up, waving it in front of her closed eyes. The thin sheet WAFTS in the air.

Chloe, inert on the bed, tries to rouse herself. Her eyelids flutter, but even the flutter is considerably less than it was before.

Ryan kneels, leaning over her, “showing” her the plastic wrap.

Gently, he waves the plastic wrap back and forth, brushing it across Chloe’s nose, her lips.

White Production 80.

She MOANS, trying to wake up.

Holding it by one corner, he lets the plastic wrap drift down, guiding it, fluttering it just so.

He lets it waft down over Chloe’s nose and mouth.

It settles into place, fluttering as she inhales and exhales. But it isn’t secured, so it’s stirred there as she breathes. Air is still coming in around the edges.

Ryan reaches out gently, just one finger, and touches Chloe’s cheek, through the plastic wrap, making it stick there.

He straightens and leans forward, touching it on the other cheek, making it stick there too.

Now the plastic wrap clings to Chloe’s face, and there’s less air.

The wrap fogs up. Chloe sucks air through her nostrils, but the wrap clings to them, forming a seal.

Chloe’s fingers twitch, on the bed, she’s trying to raise a hand but she can’t, she can’t.

Ryan bends down, his face right next to hers, eyes wide, taking in the process, every minute change in her expression and color. He’s utterly absorbed.

Chloe tries to stir, but can’t move.

Chloe’s face starts to change color.

We get agitated, bouncing back, trembling, shuddering, bouncing around the room. But there’s nothing we can do.

We whoosh back over next to Chloe, wishing we could wake her, unable.

Ryan reaches out carefully --

-- and snatches the plastic off her face.

She breathes normally.

White Production 81.

Chloe’s color starts to return and she stirs, but she can’t rouse herself.

With a flourish, Ryan FLICKS the plastic wrap and guides it down, over her nose and mouth again. He touches her cheeks, sticking it there again.

Immediately, it fogs up.

Again, Chloe struggles to breathe.

Her color starts to turn.

He pulls the plastic away.

Chloe breathes, still deeply unconscious.

Ryan puts the plastic back, quicker this time, touching the edges to seal it.

We can’t take it anymore.

We fly back, across the room and through the door --

-- down the upstairs hallway --

-- down the staircase --

-- into the living room, across the room, over to the couch, where Tyler still lies slumped, passed out, overcome by a mix of vodka and Ambien.

We hover over him, we vibrate, we shudder, we rattle and shake, harder than we ever have before. Whatever energy we have, we’re pouring it into him, hovering just over and in front of his face.

Tyler stirs.

We’re getting to him, even though he’s unconscious. We go in close on his eyes, really close, and they twitch beneath the lids, rapid eye movement gone berserk.

White Production 82.

We’re inside his head, somehow, affecting him, his eyes roll and vibrate in ways that don’t seem possible, and the image is rattling and vibrating so hard we can barely make him out.

Suddenly blood runs out the corner of Tyler’s left eye, it streaks down his cheek --

-- and we SCREAM.

The SHRIEK is horrible this time, high-pitched, inhuman. We do it again, swooping close to Tyler’s EAR, and whether this SCREAM is in his head or in the room, it doesn’t matter, because he’s suddenly --

-- AWAKE.

Tyler struggles up out of unconsciousness and sits bolt upright, holding the sides of his head in pain and GASPING for air.

He looks up, toward the stairs.

His word’s a slur and his body weighs a thousand pounds, but he drags himself to his feet, knowing something is wrong.

He staggers across the room to the staircase.

Tyler’s hand claws at the stair railing and he drags himself up, his feet slipping and SLAPPING on the treads.

He tries to shout it, but his tongue is thick and he can’t get the word out.

He pulls himself to the top of the stairs. We go with him, the SHRIEKING continuing, persistent, we’re not about to let him pass out again.

Tyler staggers down the hall and BANGS into the door to Chloe’s room --

-- where he sees Ryan, hovering over Chloe’s unconscious form, the plastic over her face.

Tyler ROARS.

White Production 83.

Ryan starts to stand, but Tyler’s already hurling himself across the room toward him.

He SLAMS into Ryan with his full weight and they fall back, toward the window --

-- and out the window, SMASHING through it.

Their bodies hit the driveway with a nauseating CRACK.

We move to the window and look down.

Their bodies are twisted. Blood pools out around them.

Ryan is dead, eyes wide open, skull split apart.

BLUR/SHIMMER and we --

-- reach Tyler, who’s still alive, looking up into space, as if searching for us. His eyes drift in and out of focus as the life slowly drains out of him.

Finally, when we’re just inches from his face, his focus locks on us. Steady. Making contact.

Tyler dies.

A long time later. For a while, we’re just there, as we were at the beginning. Waiting.

From downstairs, we hear FOOTSTEPS. It’s someone hurrying up the stairs, and then they’re in our room, and then the closet door is yanked open, all at once.

It’s Chloe. She looks into the closet, eyes searching.

But, this time, she doesn’t see us. She’s not even looking for us, it turns out, in this empty closet.

She stands up on her tiptoes, feeling around on a top shelf, and finally pulls down a yellow scarf that was left there.

Guess that’s what she was looking for. She closes the door and leaves.

We pass through the door --

White Production 84.

-- and into Chloe’s room, which is empty now, and so it’s our room again.

The broken window has been replaced, the frame repaired, stickers still on the new glass.

We look at Chloe as she stops in the doorway, taking one look back at the room.

We move right up to her, hoping to be seen. But Chloe doesn’t see us anymore.

She turns and hurries out. We drift after her, down the staircase.

The house is empty now, no furniture at all. The old mirror over the fireplace is the only thing that remains. Guess it goes with the house.

Chloe moves into the living room, where Rebekah stands in her coat, looking around the place.

Rebekah is the picture of grief, sunken eyes, no color in her face, no spark of hope or determination remains.

Chloe goes to her and puts an arm around her waist.

Chloe nods, tender with Rebekah now.

Chloe leaves, but we stay with Rebekah, hearing the front door open and close again.

Rebekah turns, taking in the empty house.

She starts to sob.

They’re not just any sobs, these are desperate, soul-racking, garment-rending wails of grief. It’s sorrow at its most profound, a person torn in half.

Rebekah goes to the fireplace mantle and puts a hand on it for support, because she can barely stand.

White Production 85.

She hangs her head, tears streaming off her face and onto the hearth.

We move around her, sinewy, desperate for her to see us. We wrap through her arms and under her, looking up at her face as her agonized tears drip around us.

And then she sees us.

Rebekah, the bereaved one, looks directly into our eyes. She straightens, her hand covering her mouth, and she SHRIEKS, piercing, the sound echoing off the walls of the empty house.

We stay with her, holding her eyes as she stares into us, regaining herself enough to speak.

She senses something and turns, toward the mirror.

There’s movement in there, a familiar movement. Those wispy tendrils that twice tried to form into a shape are back, more distinct this time, and they’re taking a recognizable form.

They resolve themselves into something resembling a human face, and it’s a face that we recognize. It’s the Presence.

It’s Tyler.

The Presence is and always was Tyler, of course.

The form becomes ever more distinctly Tyler, and Rebekah puts her hand on the mirror, to touch his face.

The face of the Presence bends, as if to fold itself into the palm of her hand.

Rebekah sobs.

The Presence starts to dissipate and Rebekah pulls away, her fingertips coming off the glass.

The front door of the house flies open and Chris and Chloe race in, having heard Rebekah’s cries from outside.

White Production 86.

They run to her as Rebekah backs away from the mirror, sagging to the bare floor, sobbing, her knees too weak to keep her up any longer.

Chris and Chloe drop with her, putting their arms around her, a family shattered but still together.

Chris holds Rebekah tight.

We circle them, floating upwards, towards the ceiling --

-- then we move through the ceiling --

OUR (NOW TYLER’S) ROOM

-- and up, still rising, above his empty room, up through that ceiling --

-- then through the roof, and straight up over the house, and still upward, upward.

As wispy clouds pass in front of us, we lose track of the house, just one of many houses, on many streets, in the world we can see.