The crew sweats in the Honda, parked in the dwindling lot of Ray’s Coffee Shop. Kelly and Lynne, the co-directors, sit in the front. In the back, Stanley, the Director of Photography, and Spike and Rachel, the actors, scrunch together. They talk through the shoot day, scaled down to just two scenes. The morning’s gone. They’re behind.
Rachel reads from the two-page script. “Stop…Don’t.”

a Hollywood Harriet production

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The crew sweats in the Honda, parked in the dwindling lot of Ray’s Coffee Shop. Kelly and Lynne, the co-directors, sit in the front. In the back, Stanley, the Director of Photography, and Spike and Rachel, the actors, scrunch together. They talk through the shoot day, scaled down to just two scenes. The morning’s gone. They’re behind.
Rachel reads from the two-page script. “Stop…Don’t.”
“No! We’re not done,” Spike says, reciting from his script. “I want to see. Give me your phone.” He reaches out, begging. “Even if it devastates me, I want to see it.”
In the front seat, Lynne fidgets with the collar of her button-up, scanning her script, mouthing the lines with the actors.
“I’m leaving,” Rachel says from the backseat.
“Let’s stop,” Kelly says. She flops her pages on the tail of her tie dye shirt and crosses out lines with a pen. “She should just get up and leave…Also, ‘even if it devastates me.’ That’s a little much.”
Spike glares at Kelly. “I emailed this like three days ago. You have notes now?”
“This isn’t college anymore,” Kelly says. “We’ve got jobs.”
“I quit mine,” Stanley says.
Kelly holds up her script. “For this?”
“Okay. Okay. We’re locking the pages,” Lynne says to the windshield. “We need to shoot something we can keep.”
“Guys. Guys,” Rachel says. “Maybe we just improvise a little.”
Lynne rubs her forehead. “We don’t have permission at this location. We just shoot the lines and get out.”
“I wouldn’t want to see this movie,” Kelly says. “I don’t care about these characters. They’re not interesting. They’re not dangerous.”
“What do you want dead bodies?” Spike asks.
“Kind of,” Kelly says.
“Not everyone wants to see that,” Rachel says.
“I care,” Lynne turns to Kelly. “I care about what happens to these characters.”
Stanley checks his watch. “The asshole manager starts her shift in sixty.”
“We’re moving,” Lynne says, yanking her door open and popping out of the Honda. The crew follows. Kelly lags behind, shaking her head.

INT. RAY’S COFFEE SHOP – DAY
The coffee shop steams. Patrons haunt round tables, tapping laptops and sipping hour-old lattes.
RACHEL, early 20s, covered in chapstick and scarves, hunches on a stool across from Spike, early 20s, black hair and Opeth t-shirt.
Rachel tightens her arms around her stomach.
RACHEL
Stop…Don’t.
Spike raps the tabletop with his fingertips, struggling to prop up his flailing delivery.
SPIKE
No. We’re not done. I need it…To see it…

At a table behind Rachel, Kelly sits with an open laptop, her eyes locked on a DSLR framing Spike. She raises her arms in an X and presses the push-to-talk button on her walkie talkie, whispering, “Cut.” Her voice buzzes in Lynne and Stanley’s earpieces.
Stanley sits two tables behind Spike. A telephoto lens pokes from his half-closed backpack, capturing Rachel as she squirms.
Along the back wall, Lynne, monitoring a wireless audio recorder, speaks into the mic dangling midway down her earpiece: “Tell them to go again.”
Kelly twirls her finger to Spike and mouths, “Action!”

INT. RAY’S COFFEE SHOP – DAY – CONTINUOUS
Rachel tightens her arms around her stomach.
RACHEL
Stop…Don’t.

Ding!
The coffee shop’s entrance bell chimes. Jane, late 40s, framed by a bob haircut and gray turtleneck, walks in. Johnny, ten, in a virgin-white button-down, trails behind her.
Spike notices them. The blood drains from his face.

RACHEL
Hello?
Rachel waves at Spike.
SPIKE
Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Going again.
Rachel winces, then resets, tightening her arms around her midsection.
RACHEL
Stop…Don’t.
Spike’s attention drifts to the order counter.

Jane waits in line, scanning the room. As her gaze nears Spike:

Spike jerks his hand to his face, rubbing his brow to hide.

Searching for what caught Spike’s attention, Kelly swivels her camera and spots Jane and Johnny. She shifts back to Spike and lifts the camera, zooming in as he absently picks the skin off his fingers until blood emerges.
“Cut,” Lynne says over the walkie.
“No, wait! Keep rolling,” Kelly says. Rachel turns to her.

RACHEL
Keep rolling on me. I’m just going to say my lines.

“Uh, huh. Sure,” Kelly tells Rachel, then speaks into her walkie. “Stanley, get a shot of the woman in line.”
“Copy.” Stanley pans off of Rachel and zooms in on Jane and Johnny.

RACHEL (O.S.)
Stop…Don’t.
At the counter, Johnny steps away from Jane. She snatches his elbow and pulls him back.

“Guys, I said ‘cut!’” Lynne calls into her walkie.

Jane grabs a tuft of Johnny’s hair and pulls, straightening his back.
Spike winces, like someone jabbed him in the kidneys.
RACHEL (O.S.)
Why do you want to hurt yourself?
Spike stares at the tabletop. A nervous giggle slips out, before his gaze snaps back to Jane. She’s staring right at him.
Spike bolts, tumbling off his stool, through the coffee shop.

“Stanley,” Kelly says into the walkie.
“Fucking cut!” Lynne hisses.
“Stay on the woman,” Kelly says.
“Yep,” Stanley replies.

Jane’s eyes follow Spike as he twists between tables and slips outside.

“Cut,” Kelly says.

Kelly shoves her camera bag into the Honda’s trunk and climbs into the driver’s seat. Beside her, Lynne stares out the windshield, shaking her head. In the backseat, Rachel silently pleads with Kelly to start the car and drive them away. She’s wedged between Stanley, reviewing footage on his DSLR, and Spike, unresponsive and hunched, nearly tumbling into the car’s footwell.
“We agreed,” Lynne says. “Co-directors. You know, co, as in work-fucking-together.”
“I found something interesting,” Kelly says.
“What?”
Kelly points to Spike, curled in the fetal position in the back.
“No. No. No. You can’t just do that. He’s a real person. This seems serious.”
“Yeah, serious. Seriously real. Let’s do it.”
“Do what?”
A sucking sound, like an overpowered vacuum swallowing a wet sponge, escapes Spike. Stanley looks up from his viewfinder. Rachel grips the overhead handle in retreat.
Snatching the audio recorder from Lynne’s bag, Kelly presses record and twirls her finger at Stanley to roll on Spike.

INT. KELLY’S HONDA – DAY
In the backseat, Spike unfurls and takes a few breaths. A tear slips down his cheek.
KELLY
Spike? Who was that?
SPIKE
Who was who?
Lynne shakes her head at Kelly mouths ‘Stop.’
Kelly checks the levels on her audio recorder, then aims the shotgun mic at Spike.
KELLY
In the coffee shop. I saw you looking at that woman.
SPIKE
Oh, her? She’s a bad lady.
KELLY
Why is she a bad lady?
LYNNE
Stop it.
Lynne reaches over to block Stanley’s camera. Stanley maneuvers the lens around her hand.
Spike’s face softens, shedding fifteen years. His Rs slur into a speech impediment.
SPIKE
She hurts people.
KELLY
How?
Spike rests his head on Rachel’s lap.
RACHEL
Guys…
SPIKE
You want to know about the bad lady?
LYNNE
No.
KELLY
Yes.

Dusk approaches. The crew waits in the Honda at the bottom of a silent cul-de-sac. They watch a two-story Craftsman home across the road, its yard trimmed, windows dark.
Beside Lynne, who chews the sleeves of her button-up, Kelly cradles a DSLR in the driver’s seat and asks, “What’s the code again?”
“462973,” Spike says.
“Is someone inside? It looks like no one’s inside,” Rachel says from between Spike and Stanley in the backseat, white-knuckling a shotgun mic tethered to the audio recorder.
“That’s the point,” Spike says.
“Which room?” Kelly asks.
“Upstairs bedroom.”
“What’s up there?” Lynne asks.
Spike stares at the floor mats, his face stretching like he’s about to answer, but nothing comes out.
“Spike, what’s up there?”
“Um…The best buddies room.”
Swirling a microfiber cloth over his telephoto lens, Stanley pauses and glances up.
“What’s a ‘best buddies’ room?” Lynne asks.
“A bad place,” Spike says.
“What’s bad about it?”
“The bad people are there.”
“Why are they bad?”
Kelly watches Rachel and Stanley’s eyes dart between Spike and Lynne’s circuitous dialogue, then lifts her camera and says, “Let’s roll on this.”
Rachel fumbles with her audio recorder. Stanley leans across and presses the red record button for her.

INT. KELLY’S HONDA – QUIET SUBURBAN STREET – DUSK
Stanley glances out the Honda’s rear window.
STANLEY
You said it was a black Suburban?
SPIKE
Yes.
KELLY
Where?
Stanley points.
STANLEY
Seven o’clock.
Spike zips his hoodie up to his chin.
As the Suburban pulls into the Craftsman’s driveway, Stanley cracks the passenger window and angles his lens out.
The Craftsman’s front door swings open. Jane rushes outside with JULIE, a 12-year-old in a long-sleeved dress.
Lynne turns to Spike.
LYNNE
That the same woman?
Spike nods.
In the Craftsman’s driveway, Jane shoves Julie into the Suburban, then climbs in beside her.
LYNNE
Who’s the girl? Wasn’t there a boy?
Spike plays with his hoodie’s drawstrings.
LYNNE
Where’re they going?
The Suburban pulls out of the driveway and speeds off.
LYNNE
Where’re they going, Spike?
Spike sticks his nose into his zipped hoodie.
INT/EXT. CRAFTSMAN HOME / FOYER – NIGHT
Kelly taps a keypad near the house’s entryway. A motor whirls as the deadbolt retracts. Stepping back, she points her camera at Lynne, who stares at the front door.
Rachel lingers a few yards away on the walkway, shotgun mic and recorder dangling, ready to run.
Kelly glances at the Honda parked down the road, where Stanley and Spike wait, and pinches the push-to-talk button on her walkie.
KELLY
You watching the door?
STANLEY
(over the walkie)
Got you covered.
Kelly points the camera at Lynne.
KELLY
Wanna see?
Lynne nods.
Kelly pushes the front door open. She and Lynne slip into the foyer.
Kelly pans to Rachel, frozen on the walkway outside, and waves for her to come in.
RACHEL
(whispering)
No alarm. He said there was an alarm.
Rachel points to a glow at the end of a hallway.
KELLY
People leave lights on all the time.
Swap!
A kitchen cabinet slamming shut echoes into the foyer. Kelly and Lynne jump.
Rachel tosses the mic and recorder at the stoop, then speed-walks back to the Honda.
Kelly turns to Lynne.
KELLY
We’re in and out. Just like that.
Lynne wants to believe her. She glances up the staircase to a darkened hallway. Light slips out from under a door. She picks up the mic and recorder, then nods.
The pair ascends the stairs.
INT. CRAFTSMAN HOME – UPSTAIRS HALLWAY – NIGHT – CONTINUOUS
Kelly and Lynne crouch outside the door where light leaks into the hallway. From behind it, the boops, bops, and yelps of a TV cartoon muffle out.
Kelly adjusts her camera and nods to Lynne.
Pointing her shotgun mic, Lynne twists the knob and inches the door open. Light spills into the hallway.
Inside, black velvet curtains drape the walls and windows. Wooden robots, comic books, and model cars from a bygone era clutter the desk and bookshelf. A crumpled Toy Story comforter lies in the corner of a lone twin bed.
Ten-year-old Johnny sits naked on a wool rug in the center of the room, staring blankly at a Popeye cartoon flickering from an ancient cathode ray tube TV.
Noticing the door’s rectangle of black on his periphery, Johnny squints into its darkness. He sees two shadowed faces: Lynne and Kelly.
Kelly zooms in on Johnny’s face: a dazed mask.
Hough!
Lynne flinches, nearly dropping her mic. She glances over the bannister. Below, a man ambles toward the stairs.
Lynne quickly pulls the bedroom door shut and shoves Kelly into a dark corner of the hallway.
PAUL, 40s, lean and shirtless, his face etched with deep creases, plods up the stairs carrying a glass of milk and a ham and cheese sandwich.
Paul slides open the bedroom door.
PAUL
(to Johnny)
Did you miss me?
As the door clicks shut, Johnny’s face crumples into silent tears.
STANLEY’s voice buzzes through Kelly and Lynne’s earpieces.
STANLEY
(over the walkie)
They’re back.
INT. CRAFTSMAN HOME – FOYER / LIVING ROOM – NIGHT – CONTINUOUS
The front door swings open. Jane stands on the house’s threshold. She catches a glimpse of figures disappearing down the dark hallway, then scrambles up the staircase.
JANE
Lockdown! Lockdown!
Kelly and Lynne stumble into the living room. Blackout curtains shroud the walls and windows. A Mickey Mouse night-light, plugged into a wall socket, casts a blood-red glow over the stale air.
Lynne bats her hands along the walls, searching for a way out. Kelly hyperventilates, panning her camera between Lynne and the living room’s threshold.
Lynne finds a sliding glass door. She grabs the handle and yanks. It doesn’t budge. She flips the lock, yanks again. Still stuck.
Pop!
Crack!

The curtains flinch. The sliding glass door flashes opaque as a bullet pierces it.

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