|
First-Place Winner, November 2005 – April 2006 Screenplay Contest – Full-Length Series
“Visions”
Written by Danny Howell
LOGLINE
When a lonely teen's visions of her classmates' murders by an unseen killer start coming true, she suspects her own father.
SYNOPSIS
Cynthia has visions of deaths of girls from her school, at the hands of someone whose identity she can't make out. When the girls start turning up dead in real life, Cynthia suspects her own abusive father is the killer – she knows he’s been watching the girls with bad intent.
Cynthia has never been able to tell anyone about her father’s abuse, not even her well meaning but living-in-denial mother. Now she can't bring herself to tell anyone about her terrible visions -- not even when the girls start turning up missing.
Then Cynthia falls for Adam, a geek rebel. Together, they discover the body of one of the victims, and the murder weapon - a knife just like one Cynthia's father owns.
Attracted to her darkness, Adam agrees to help Cynthia find out if her father is the killer. After a harrowing encounter with Cynthia's father, Adam is a believer. He helps Cynthia break into a shed where her father keeps his hunting knives, to see if the one they found is missing. Inside, they discover an "alter" of photographs and stolen objects of the murdered girls.
Adam calls the police. Facing arrest, Cynthia's dad kills himself, after failing in one last attempt to manipulate and control Cynthia.
Afterward, Adam comforts Cynthia as she tries to pick up the pieces of her life. Cynthia sleeps with Adam for the first time, then has a vision of Adam’s murder -- by the same killer whose face she could not quite make out in her previous visions. Adam's life depends on realizing in time that Cynthia is not who she appears to be, and that her visions are really part of her own extreme form of acting out.
SCRIPT FOLLOWS
FADE IN
EXT. RUTH ANN’S BACK YARD, JUG ROCK, INDIANA -- DAY
RUTH ANN BOUIE and SHERYL GRATZER, both 16, wearing impossibly scant bikinis, lie on their stomachs on brightly colored beach towels, eyes closed, skin slick with lotion. A portable cd player blares glitzy pop music.
R.C. BARDAHL, 50, stands a few feet away, watching. Burr haircut, thick neck and arms, gray work shirt with rolled up sleeves, sweat stains radiating from the armpits – and a large knife, held loosely in one hand.
Ruth Ann wakes to the sound of the cd skipping.
RUTH ANN
Shit! I just bought it!
She gets up, goes over to the player, bends over, takes out the cd and blows on it, pops it back in.
When she straightens up, she is face to face with Bardahl. She opens her mouth, then her eyes go to the knife. She closes her mouth.
RUTH ANN
(calmly, as if to
a rabid dog)
What do you want, Mr. Bardahl?
Bardahl licks his lips. The cd is still skipping. Ruth Ann crosses her arms over her breasts.
RUTH ANN
Mr. Bardahl? What are you doing here?
BARDAHL
(grinning)
Your record’s warped.
RUTH ANN
What’s a record?
BARDAHL
From playin’ it in the sun, that’s
prob’ly why.
He turns his attention to Sheryl, still asleep, and absent-mindedly begins to make small circles on the crotch of his dungarees with the knife blade.
BARDAHL
My, how you girls have grown.
RUTH ANN
Sheryl, wake up.
BARDAHL
Just like my girl.
RUTH ANN
(a little louder)
Sheryl.
BARDAHL
You girls never come over to see
Cynthia like you used to.
RUTH ANN
That was way back when we were kids,
Mr. Bardahl.
BARDAHL
You ain’t friends no more?
Bardahl keeps making circles with the knife. The blade slits his trousers. Soon a dark stain appears on his upper thigh.
BARDAHL
You should come see her. You’re
welcome anytime.
RUTH ANN
You’ve cut yourself.
BARDAHL
(as if in a fog)
Huh?
RUTH ANN
With your knife. You’re bleeding.
He looks down, lets out an audible burst of air.
BARDAHL
Where the hell’s my mind at these days?
Sheryl stirs and moans. Ruth Ann clears her throat.
RUTH ANN
Mr. Bardahl? What’s the knife for?
BARDAHL
To gut something. See?
(holding it up)
It’s serrated.
They stare at each other. He fingers the expanding dark spot on his trousers.
BARDAHL
Well. You girls come over and see
Cynthia anytime.
Sheryl wakes up as he walks away.
SHERYL
Is that Cynthia’s dad? What the fuck
was he doing here?
RUTH ANN
Being strange. Like his daughter.
SHERYL
The nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.
RUTH ANN
What’s a record?
EXT. BARDAHL HOUSE
An iron picket fence, half fallen over and covered with Queen Anne’s Lace, fronts the yard. The gate is permanently rusted open. Car parts litter each side of an oil-stained sidewalk.
CYNTHIA BARDAHL, 16, sits on a porch swing, fiddling with something in her lap. Long-legged and big-boned, her baggy shorts and oversized t-shirt mask her figure, but her face is exotically attractive – blue eyes, pale complexion, light reddish brown hair.
She smiles, revealing perfect teeth. The smile vanishes when Bardahl walks up.
BARDAHL
Whatcha got there, honey?
CYNTHIA
(without looking up)
Somethin’ I made.
BARDAHL
Well, let your daddy see.
She holds up a collection of small bones on a string.
CYNTHIA
It’s a cat’s spinal column. I boiled
it and then ran the string through.
Bardahl looks confused.
BARDAHL
That’s nice, honey. Lookee here, your
old dad’s cut hisself.
She doesn’t look.
BARDAHL
These pants are ruint, I guess. I’ll
go take ‘em off, then you come in and
help daddy get cleaned and bandaged up.
He opens the screen door and goes inside. She dangles the cat’s-spine-on-a-string, making it dance.
BARDAHL (O.S.)
Cynthia? Daddy’s ready. Come on
inside.
She throws the bones down, stands up quickly and goes in. The empty swing creaks as it sways back and forth.
INT. BARDAHL HOUSE – KITCHEN - THE NEXT MORNING
Sink with a hand pump; metal dinette set with yellow plastic edging. Cynthia, wearing a baggy shirt and pants, sits at the table drinking juice. DESI BARDAHL, 52, her skin as faded as her print dress, scrambles eggs at the gas range.
Bardahl comes in, dressed in a work shirt with “R.C.” stitched above the shirt pocket. He tickles Cynthia on the back of the neck; she cringes.
DESI
(distractedly)
Don’t tease her.
BARDAHL
(ignoring Desi)
Cyn, ain’t you friends with that Ruth
Ann no more?
CYNTHIA
(quietly)
Not since third grade.
BARDAHL
She sure has grown. In all the right
places, if you know what I mean.
He pours coffee for himself and takes a plate of eggs from Desi. He looks at Cynthia and frowns.
BARDAHL
Speaking of, what kind of way is that
to dress for school? Go put on
somethin’ that shows off your figure.
DESI
R.C.! What a way to talk.
Cynthia gets up and leaves the room.
INT. CYNTHIA’S ROOM
Totally utilitarian décor - dark colors, no photographs, no personal possessions.
Cynthia holds up an even baggier black t shirt. She pulls off the one she’s wearing – she does have a nice figure.
Her stomach is criss-crossed with cutting scars, some fresher than others.
EXT. PAUL MCNUTT HIGH SCHOOL – DAY
Dozens of laughing teenagers walk in pairs and threes up the front steps. Cynthia walks alone, her black t shirt a dark spot on the sun against the other kids’ bright pastels.
INT. CLASSROOM
Synthetic and sterile furnishings from the ‘70s are etched with generations of teen hieroglyphics. The federal and state flags flank a massive teacher’s desk.
MR. BETER, 59, hands in pockets, jingles change as he paces. His expression suggests a mild kidney stone attack.
MR. BETER
Thank you, Ralph, for that, um,
exuberant reading of your poem . . .
(checking his notes)
“I Can’t Wait To Join the Marines And
Learn To Kill”.
Muted chuckling. RALPH, a crew-cut Alfred E. Neumann look-alike, beams and accepts punches from his buddies.
MR. BETER
That’s enough, people. Who’s next . .
. Adam.
A gangly kid with glasses in a short-sleeved oxford shirt, ADAM BUNDY, 16, slinks down in his chair. Behind him, DUANE FERGUSON, a Hitler Youth type, open-palms Adam in the back of the head.
DUANE
You’re up, pizza face.
MR. BETER
That’s enough, Duane.
DUANE
Sorry, Peter – I mean, Mr. Beter!
The boys in class snicker at the millionth rendering of the joke. If possible, Mr. Beter looks even more tired.
MR. BETER
Let’s go, Adam.
ADAM
I left it at home.
A piece of paper sticks out of Adam’s notebook. Mr. Beter walks over and plucks it, letting it dangle in front of Adam.
MR. BETER
What’s this?
Adam takes it resignedly and walks the plank to the front.
ADAM
(reciting)
“The air conditioner rattles and stares
at me,
Scares me sometimes – it has no eyes,
see.
But I need the company – it’s a small
empty room.
So I leave it on and pretend to be
listening.
“The others don’t say much, they listen
too well.
The Frigidaire doubtless too old to
make small talk, let alone decent
ice cubes.
“And it’s alright, really, I don’t mind
staying
Alone like this – that is, till the
walls
Grow tired of my presence and start
crowding in.
They pressure me out – me alone with
the monsters.”
After a beat, an explosion of laughter.
MR. BETER
Shut up!
They don’t.
MR. BETER
Shut the hell up!
The profanity gets their attention.
MR. BETER
Comments?
Uncomfortable silence. HEATHER, 16, clears her throat and starts to raise a hand, her metallic pink nail polish dazzling under the ceiling fluorescents. Overweight, she dresses in denial.
MR. BETER
Heather?
HEATHER
(hesitatingly
I liked it.
MR. BETER
Okay, that's a start, I guess. But
what do you think Adam’s poem is about?
HEATHER
(looking down)
I don't know how to say it.
MR. BETER
Well, let's find someone with some
language skills.
He looks around, then settles on a dark form in the corner.
MR. BETER
Cynthia? Are you with us today?
CYNTHIA
(quietly)
Loneliness.
Nervous silence. In the front, Ruth Ann rolls her eyes.
RUTH ANN
(loud enough to make sure
she’s heard)
Takes one to know one.
Relieved laughter from the class. Cynthia sinks into her seat. Adam slinks back to his.
MR. BETER
For this I got a master’s degree.
INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE CLASS
As students file out, Ruth Ann waits by the door. When Cynthia emerges, Ruth Ann pulls her over roughly.
CYNTHIA
(angrily)
What?
RUTH ANN
(eyeing her over)
Nice fashion statement. Listen, nut
case, tell your Dad to keep out of our
yard or I’m gonna tell my folks.
CYNTHIA
What are you talking about?
RUTH ANN
As if you didn’t know. Just tell him
he better keep his perv self on his own
property.
Ruth Ann trots off. Cynthia sees Adam standing nearby and runs off. Adam watches her go.
EXT. BARDAHL HOUSE – NIGHT
Bardahl scrapes food scraps over the side of the front porch. A large black tom cat runs up and pounces on them.
INT. BARDAHL HOUSE
Desi adjusts her hat in a mirror, then smoothes her dress. Cynthia lies on a couch, propped up with pillows, rubbing her forehead.
DESI
Seems like every day by the time you
come home, you got a sick headache.
CYNTHIA
I probably have a brain tumor.
DESI
Shush! You’re gonna miss a good
sermon.
CYNTHIA
They’re always the same – we’re going
to burn in hell.
DESI
We are.
CYNTHIA
You and Dad can tell me all about it.
Desi picks up a vinyl purse.
DESI
He’s staying home with you. He didn’t
feel right leaving you alone.
Cynthia sits up.
CYNTHIA
I feel better. I’m coming with you.
DESI
What’s wrong with you? What if you
have to vomit again? Remember the last
time? Right in the middle of “Rock of
Ages”. Besides, you aren’t even
dressed.
Bardahl steps into the room, wearing only boxer shorts.
BARDAHL
Your Mother’s right, honey.
DESI
R.C., I told you I don’t want you
parading around in your underwear!
BARDAHL
I forgot, Honey. I’ll put some pants
on directly.
She stares at him with a dazed expression.
DESI
Well, I’d better go.
The door slams, then quiet. Bardahl walks over to Cynthia and stands in front of her, saying nothing.
CONTINUED
FADE IN
EXT. RUTH ANN’S BACK YARD, JUG ROCK, INDIANA -- DAY
RUTH ANN BOUIE and SHERYL GRATZER, both 16, wearing impossibly scant bikinis, lie on their stomachs on brightly colored beach towels, eyes closed, skin slick with lotion. A portable cd player blares glitzy pop music.
R.C. BARDAHL, 50, stands a few feet away, watching. Burr haircut, thick neck and arms, gray work shirt with rolled up sleeves, sweat stains radiating from the armpits – and a large knife, held loosely in one hand.
Ruth Ann wakes to the sound of the cd skipping.
RUTH ANN
Shit! I just bought it!
She gets up, goes over to the player, bends over, takes out the cd and blows on it, pops it back in.
When she straightens up, she is face to face with Bardahl. She opens her mouth, then her eyes go to the knife. She closes her mouth.
RUTH ANN
(calmly, as if to
a rabid dog)
What do you want, Mr. Bardahl?
Bardahl licks his lips. The cd is still skipping. Ruth Ann crosses her arms over her breasts.
RUTH ANN
Mr. Bardahl? What are you doing here?
BARDAHL
(grinning)
Your record’s warped.
RUTH ANN
What’s a record?
BARDAHL
From playin’ it in the sun, that’s
prob’ly why.
He turns his attention to Sheryl, still asleep, and absent-mindedly begins to make small circles on the crotch of his dungarees with the knife blade.
BARDAHL
My, how you girls have grown.
RUTH ANN
Sheryl, wake up.
BARDAHL
Just like my girl.
RUTH ANN
(a little louder)
Sheryl.
BARDAHL
You girls never come over to see
Cynthia like you used to.
RUTH ANN
That was way back when we were kids,
Mr. Bardahl.
BARDAHL
You ain’t friends no more?
Bardahl keeps making circles with the knife. The blade slits his trousers. Soon a dark stain appears on his upper thigh.
BARDAHL
You should come see her. You’re
welcome anytime.
RUTH ANN
You’ve cut yourself.
BARDAHL
(as if in a fog)
Huh?
RUTH ANN
With your knife. You’re bleeding.
He looks down, lets out an audible burst of air.
BARDAHL
Where the hell’s my mind at these days?
Sheryl stirs and moans. Ruth Ann clears her throat.
RUTH ANN
Mr. Bardahl? What’s the knife for?
BARDAHL
To gut something. See?
(holding it up)
It’s serrated.
They stare at each other. He fingers the expanding dark spot on his trousers.
BARDAHL
Well. You girls come over and see
Cynthia anytime.
Sheryl wakes up as he walks away.
SHERYL
Is that Cynthia’s dad? What the fuck
was he doing here?
RUTH ANN
Being strange. Like his daughter.
SHERYL
The nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.
RUTH ANN
What’s a record?
EXT. BARDAHL HOUSE
An iron picket fence, half fallen over and covered with Queen Anne’s Lace, fronts the yard. The gate is permanently rusted open. Car parts litter each side of an oil-stained sidewalk.
CYNTHIA BARDAHL, 16, sits on a porch swing, fiddling with something in her lap. Long-legged and big-boned, her baggy shorts and oversized t-shirt mask her figure, but her face is exotically attractive – blue eyes, pale complexion, light reddish brown hair.
She smiles, revealing perfect teeth. The smile vanishes when Bardahl walks up.
BARDAHL
Whatcha got there, honey?
CYNTHIA
(without looking up)
Somethin’ I made.
BARDAHL
Well, let your daddy see.
She holds up a collection of small bones on a string.
CYNTHIA
It’s a cat’s spinal column. I boiled
it and then ran the string through.
Bardahl looks confused.
&nb | 
