EXT. MORNING SKY – DAY
The rising sun streaks across a cloudless sky, bathing the
landscape in a golden glow.
Below, a vast forest stretches endlessly, divided by a
winding road.
A car sits motionless on the roadside. Silent. Still.
CUT TO:
INT. CAR – DAY
CHESTER BRAXTON (20s) slumps in the driver’s seat, asleep.
Unshaven stubble shadows his pale skin. Exhaustion etched
into every line of his face.
His chest rises shallowly.
The engine’s off. The world, quiet.
FLASHBACK TO:
EXT. CABIN LAKESIDE – DAY
A teenage Chester stands at the water’s edge. Alone.
We rise from his chest—the red T-shirt hanging loose,
rippling in the breeze. The wind catches it just enough that
we glimpse only part of the print: RIVERSIDE SUMMER—the rest
lost to movement.
His face finds the light. Still. Unreadable.
Then—just for a flicker.
A smile.
So quick you could blink and miss it.
CUT TO:
A RINGING PHONE.
It sits atop the dashboard, vibrating softly.
Morning sunlight reflects off its screen, illuminating dust
particles dancing through the air.
The phone rings again, its vibrations stirring the dust.
SUDDENLY—
Chester jolts up from the backseat, gasping for air like he’s
clawing out of a nightmare.
He rakes a hand through his short, messy hair. His wild eyes
scan the inside of the car.
Fast food wrappers. Unopened mail. A crumpled unemployment
form on the dash.
Somewhere, a phone rings.
Then, he sees it.
He lunges forward, fumbling until he grabs it and answers:
CHESTER
Hello.
A faint voice responds:
DR. RICHARDS (ON PHONE)
Hi, this is Dr. Richards. I’m
looking for Chester Braxton.
CHESTER
(beat)
Why?
DR. RICHARDS (ON PHONE)
I’m calling from Riverside
Hospital. We have a patient
here—Kristina Braxton. You’re
listed as her emergency contact.
Chester stiffens, nearly dropping the phone. He glances
around the car, as if weighing his options.
CHESTER
Yeah... that’s my Mom.
DR. RICHARDS (ON PHONE)
I see. Are you in the area? We were
hoping you could come by today.
Chester pulls the phone away, processing. He stares
ahead—looking for answers in the mess around him. He brings
the phone back to his ear.
CHESTER
How serious is it?
DR. RICHARDS (ON PHONE)
It’s pretty serious, Mr. Braxton.
We’d appreciate it if you could
come as soon as possible.
Chester’s face tightens—uneasy.
CHESTER
(beat)
Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. It’s
just—we haven’t really spo—
DR. RICHARDS (ON PHONE)
(cutting him off)
That’s wonderful. Thank you, Mr.
Braxton. We’ll see you soon.
The call abruptly ends.
Chester lowers the phone—stares out through the windshield.
Silence. The light shifts—time passing.
He picks the phone back up.
On screen: GPS search— **RIVERSIDE HOSPITAL.**
The screen light glows against his face, indecision
tightening his jaw.
Beside him—crumpled bills, an unemployment letter, the
clutter of a stalled life.
He exhales. Thumb hovering.
**DELETE.**
The screen clears.
He types something new—we don’t see what.
CUT TO:
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
2 -
Unlocking Change
EXT. HOUSE - DAY
Chester stands in front of a modest, two-story home. He scans
it, letting the sight sink in—this isn’t a hospital.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his key ring.
Finds the most worn one—faded brass, grooves smoothed by
time.
He studies the key—thumb tracing the grooves, the way someone
touches something they haven’t seen in years.
Tries the lock.
It doesn’t fit. The key grinds uselessly.
He stops, realizes—the locks have changed.
Chester exhales through his nose—a half-bitter laugh.
Of course.
Shaking his head, he looks down.
A doormat.
It reads: STAY AWHILE.
He lifts it. A key. Smirks as he picks it up.
Chester inserts the key, turns it—CLICK.
Success.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
3 -
Echoes of the Past
INT. HOUSE – DAY
Chester pauses in the doorway, hesitant. His eyes scan the
first level of the home.
His chest tightens. Memories claw at the edges—he forces them
back.
He exhales, steadying himself, and moves deeper inside.
MOM’S BEDROOM
Chester hesitantly swings the door open wider and steps
inside.
Unease creeps in. A sensation—something watching. He walks
forward.
His gaze lands on the neatly made bed. The floral print—soft,
dated, trapped in another decade.
Quick Flashes—fragmented memory.
—Young Chester peering through a cracked doorway.
—Lucas asleep, arms wrapped around a melted, blackened action
figure—its warped face twisted in a permanent scream.
—Mom pacing, voice raised into the phone.
—The rattle of a baggy. A pipe in her shaking free hand.
—Her eyes snap up—she sees him.
The door slams.
Silence.
The memory fades.
Chester steadies himself, blinking back the past. His gaze
drops to the dresser.
A clutter of old envelopes, papers, and random trinkets
litter the surface.
But—one item stands out.
A prayer card. Standing defiantly upright amidst the
scattered junk.
Chester grabs it and studies it.
INSERT – PRAYER CARD
In Loving Memory
LUCAS BRAXTON
11/01/2004 – 08/02/2011
Beloved Son & Brother
END INSERT.
His fingers tremble before setting the card back down.
A deep inhale as he takes it in.
Then—like flipping a switch, Chester's expression deadens.
He lunges at the dresser, yanking drawers open, rifling
through them—frantic.
Searching. Nothing.
He whips around to the closet. Swings it open—and there it
is.
A safe.
A grin creeps across Chester’s face. He found it.
He crouches, inspecting the digital combination lock.
Chester thinks. Scanning the room. His eyes land on the
prayer card.
A smirk.
Chester enters:
11 - 01 - 04 (Lucas’s birthday)
SUCCESS!
The safe clicks open.
He reaches in—a pair of gold earrings.
His eyes light up.
He scratches one—cheap paint flakes off.
The spark in his eyes fades.
He tosses them to the floor and reaches in again—this time,
something stops him.
He pulls out an URN. Small. Black dominates The Urn,
fractured by abstract streaks of white.
Along the rim, the same design carries into a distinct band—
smooth, deliberate—but chipped away, as if a piece had been
carved out.
Chester’s grip falters—he almost drops it, then sets The Urn
atop the safe and steps back.
CHESTER
Jesus Christ.
Shaking his head, he rummages through the safe again—more old
jewelry, a single lottery ticket.
Three out of six numbers circled—not even close.
He exhales, a trace of amusement slipping out despite
himself.
Of course she kept it.
Chester sticks it in his back pocket.
The Urn sits atop the safe.
He stares—that same carved-out rim catching the bedroom
light.
A low hum rises—faint, mechanical, almost inaudible but
familiar.
It comes out of nowhere.
Chester leans closer, eyes following the curve of the missing
band until it fills our eyeline.
Metal glints off it.
Then—
A ring. A woman’s hand.
The same carved-out edge.
MATCH CUT TO:
CLOSE ON—A RING.
The same carved-out edge catching the harsh fluorescent
light.
It rests on a frail hand—skin pale, veins thin beneath the
surface. The hand lies still.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery","Psychological"]
Ratings
Scene
4 -
Karma's Reckoning
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY
Fluorescent light hums overhead.
Machines pulse beside the bed.
KRISTINA BRAXTON (50s) lies unconscious in bed—pale, frail,
her thinning hair clinging to her scalp.
Beside her, a wilted bouquet slumps in a cracked vase; leaned
up against it, an envelope—faintly creased, CHESTER scrawled
across the front in a trembling hand.
Across the room, Chester sits rigid, unshaven, staring
blankly at her.
His eyes tighten—not from grief, but from the weight of old
resentment pressing back to the surface.
On the small table in front of him—The Urn.
It watches, silent and patient.
Her chest rises once. Shallow. Then stops.
FLATLINE—a long, continuous tone fills the room.
Chester doesn’t flinch. Slowly, he rises.
He places a hand on The Urn, then lifts it, setting it beside
her bed—almost ceremonial.
A faint, cold sneer creeps in as he looks from The Urn to her
lifeless face.
CHESTER
Karma’s fucked, ain’t it?
He flicks his hand at her, dismissive.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
I didn’t have much prepared.
Honestly... it’s easier this way.
He glances at The Urn, a sarcastic grin forming.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
Your shining fucking star made it,
though. I made sure of that.
Leaning in, voice low, sharp:
CHESTER (CONT’D)
Just because there’s no more blood
pumping through that blacked-out
heart of yours doesn’t mean you get
to rest.
(beat)
I’m gonna burn it all down.
(beat)
Goodbye, Kristina.
He grabs The Urn, tucks it under his arm, and starts toward
the door.
Then stops.
Something catches his eye—the envelope, leaning against the
vase.
His name. CHESTER. Her handwriting.
He hesitates. Steps closer.
Runs a thumb across the name—careful, almost reverent.
Glances to her body—still, empty, lifeless.
He steadies himself, then pockets the letter.
Turns and leaves.
Kristina lies at peace. Her face, calm. But the room isn’t.
The room pulls away, fading with her.
Genres:
["Drama","Psychological"]
Ratings
Scene
5 -
The Haunting Urn
INT. CAR – NIGHT
Chester sits behind the wheel, lit by the dashboard glow. He
checks his reflection in the rearview mirror—runs a hand
across his face. Then—his eyes flick upward. Past himself.
Into the backseat.
In the mirror: THE URN. Upright. Watching.
He stares at it. Blinks—once, twice.
On the third blink—The Urn is whole. The carved band gone. A
flicker of disbelief. He blinks again— It’s broken once more.
He rubs his face. Looks away.
We stay fixed on the mirror. Behind us, keys jingle. A
seatbelt unclicks. The engine shuts off.
The mirror image pulls us in. Closer. The frame dissolves—
We pass through.
Now inside the car’s backseat, face-to-face with The Urn.
Its surface dull. The carved-out band visible again.
From behind, the driver’s door SLAMS shut.
The Urn, for a heartbeat, appears whole.
It fills the frame. Unblinking.
Passenger door opens. A hand reaches in—snatches The Urn.
CUT TO BLACK
Then, a single point of light cuts through the darkness—
Genres:
["Drama","Psychological","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
6 -
Echoes of the Past
EXT. CABIN - NIGHT
—it's Chester’s phone, casting a beam on the old, weathered
cabin. Small windows flank a rusted front door. Paint peels.
A worn backpack hangs from his shoulder as he searches for a
way in.
He tries the door. Locked.
Moves to a window. Also locked.
Steps back, frustrated. Notices a doormat.
WELCOME TO THE MADHOUSE.
He chuckles dryly, lifts it. No key.
Without hesitation, he grabs a rock and smashes the window.
Glass scatters across the floor.
INT. CABIN – NIGHT
Chester climbs through. The air’s thick with dust and mildew.
He wipes dust from a warped photo of his mother. Sets it
down, scanning the room.
Charred streaks spider across the floor. Chester touches the
ash, staining his skin.
FLASH—
YOUNG CHESTER holds Lucas’s action figure—the same one we saw
Lucas cradling in his sleep—over a lit fireplace.
The plastic softens, warps in the flames.
A faint smile curls across Young Chester’s face—menacing,
deliberate.
BACK TO SCENE—
Chester looks away from the burn mark, unsettled.
Genres:
["Drama","Psychological Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
7 -
The Divide
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
The door creaks open.
Chester steps inside.
The room is split in two—frozen in time.
Lucas’s side looks untouched, full of life. Chester’s
side—empty, stripped bare.
He sets his backpack down beside the bed and sits.
Stares across at Lucas’s side of the room.
The contrast gnaws at him.
He exhales, rubbing his hands together, uneasy.
A faint creak—something subtle—draws his attention.
A dresser drawer hangs slightly ajar. It pulls him.
He rises slowly, crosses the room.
The space seems to close in with each step.
He reaches the dresser, fingers brushing the edge.
A hesitation. Then—he pulls it open.
FLASHBACK TO:
Genres:
["Drama","Psychological Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
8 -
Echoes of Doubt
FLASHBACK – INT. DINING ROOM – DAY
YOUNG CHESTER slips quietly into the house, a duffel bag
slung over one shoulder.
He’s still wearing the same oversized red T-shirt from
before—now clearly visible:
“RIVERSIDE SUMMER CAMP – 2011.”
He pauses.
Partially deflated balloons sag in the corners. One reads:
CONGRATULATIONS!
Paper plates and empty cups clutter the table—the remains of
a celebration already over.
He takes it in. The house is quiet. Hollow.
He moves on.
KITCHEN
From the hallway, Chester stops. He hears his MOTHER’s voice.
MOM (O.S.)
I don’t know… maybe I fucked him
up.
He freezes—the words sink like a knife.
MOM (O.S.) (CONT’D)
Because he’s… different. I don’t
know.
(MORE)
MOM (O.S.) (CONT'D)
(beat)
I told you what he did to Lucas’s
toy. He’s freaked the fuck out now—
and so am I.
(beat)
It’s different. He’s been away
thirty days, and I’ve been sober
thirty. What does that say?
Chester’s face swells—anger, confusion, tears threatening.
He holds them back. Steps away—quiet. Making sure she never
knows he was there.
KIDS BEDROOM
Chester slips inside.
Dust floats in the still air.
Everything’s where he left it—untouched, waiting.
He notices a dresser drawer slightly open.
Out of place—he doesn’t remember leaving it that way.
He steps closer.
Inside—swim trunks. Bright, colorful, lively. A whole stack
of them.
Chester lingers, hand brushing the fabric. He looks up—
Through the window, LUCAS plays at the water’s edge,
carefree.
Chester exhales. Turns from the drawer. Heads out.
END FLASHBACK:
Genres:
["Drama","Psychological Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
9 -
Embers of Memory
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
Chester stares at the empty dresser drawer—the ghost of what
once was. A faint relief washes over him.
He looks down at the backpack by the bed, grabs it, unzips
it, and pulls out The Urn. He sets it on the dresser.
Moonlight from the window glints off the rim—a small chip
catching the light, like something taken.
Chester studies it, uneasy. He can’t say why it feels
familiar.
Chester looks past The Urn to the window—the lake beyond it
dim and still, its reflection merging with The Urn’s dark
surface.
CHESTER
I remember the first time Mom
brought us here.
All we could talk about was that
lake.
It felt like the ocean—only bigger.
She promised she’d teach us.
(beat)
Instead, she’d lay in that lake for
hours, while we never let it go
past our knees.
(beat)
Like she was taunting us.
Like she knew what she was doing.
He pauses, searching for the next thought.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
But as I got older, I remembered...
I’d been here before.
Before we were ever told about it.
I must’ve been five or six. I
remember that drive—it felt
endless. You were asleep in the
back, and Mom kept saying I had to
check the windows— “Check the
windows! Check the windows!” Just
over and over again. So I did what
she told me.
He stares at The Urn, his voice dropping to a quiet
confession.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
The thing is, I can’t remember what
exactly I saw. But I remember the
feeling.
I just remember feeling stuck—like
being held in place, couldn’t get
my body to move.
Like I was supposed to see it.
Then... I don’t know.
Chester catches himself as emotion builds, stopping just
before going any further.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
But whatever it was—I told her.
And she... reacted.
FLASH.
YOUNG KRISTINA (MOM) fills the frame—a raw portrait of primal
grief. Her eyes shatter, wide and broken.
Tears and mucus streak her face—pure, unfiltered anguish
condensed into a single, devastating moment.
BACK TO SCENE.
He nods to himself, bitter.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
We're products of our environment,
right?
(beat)
I told myself seeing all that shit
was good—a lesson.
How not to treat people. Like I
could somehow learn from it.
He gestures toward The Urn.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
Protect you from it.
Chester’s stare hardens.
CHESTER (CONT’D)
(quiet, certain)
One way or another.
Chester glances down—his backpack still by the bed where he
left it. He kneels, unzips it, and pulls out a half-empty can
of lighter fluid, then a small box of matches.
As he stands, something slips free from his back pocket—a
folded letter—fluttering to the floor. He freezes. Watches it
land.
For a moment, he just stares—like it’s something he forgot
existed. Then he crouches, picks it up, unfolds it.
It’s the same letter he found at the hospital—the envelope
that read “CHESTER” in his mother’s trembling hand.
We never see what it says. Only his reaction.
A flicker of confusion. Then pain. Then something darker. His
jaw locks. Eyes wet but unblinking.
Whatever’s written there... it cuts deep.
He lowers the letter—gaze locking on The Urn.
Chester rises slowly. The air hums faintly.
His eyes lock on The Urn.
FROM CHESTER’S POV—
The flaw is gone. The carved rim smooth, unbroken. Its black
surface gleams faintly, catching a sliver of impossible light
—not moonlight, but something colder, sharper. It looks new.
Untouched. Perfect.
BACK TO SCENE.
He exhales, steadying himself, accepting The Urn’s new
perfection without question.
Wiping his eyes, jaw tight, the matchbox trembles in his
hand.
The letter folds once, tight, before he sets it beside him
and grabs the lighter fluid.
Sprays it across the room—the dresser, the walls, Lucas’s
bed.
He shakes out the last drops, tosses the empty can aside.
A match strikes—a soft hiss of sulfur.
He stares at the flame—entranced, the reflection dancing in
his eyes.
Then—he flicks it.
WHOOSH.
Flames rush across the bed, devouring it. Smoke thickens
fast, swirling up the walls.
Chester steps back through the haze.
He grabs The Urn from the dresser—holds it close—and heads
for the door.
Behind him, the fire consumes what’s left.
Genres:
["Drama","Psychological","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
10 -
Into the Depths of Fear
EXT. CABIN LAKESIDE – NIGHT
A loud CRACK from behind—part of the cabin collapses in a
burst of flame.
Chester flinches, but keeps moving.
Ahead: the cabin’s private lake. Quiet. Moonlit.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t think.
He walks straight into the water—jeans, shirt, boots—The Urn
clutched tight.
The cold bites, but he doesn’t react.
The flames roar behind him, reflecting on the black surface
of the lake.
He lowers The Urn into the water. It drifts, rocking gently,
the faint current pulling at it.
Chester watches, breath shallow, until a faint grin creeps
across his face—hollow, ironic.
CHESTER
(quiet, realizing)
You were scared of me.
Terrified, actually.
Maybe you should’ve been.
But tell me—who made me that way?
And why weren’t you terrified of
them?
He watches The Urn vanish beneath the surface, that faint
grin holding—empty, resolved.
He floats on his back, eyes on the stars—caught between
memory and dream.
Chester blinks.
A chill slides over him—sharp, sudden. The lake feels colder
now.
Above him, the stars have vanished and only blackness is
seen.
A haze hangs over the lake. Thick. Clinging.
A SOUND—faint. Distant. Almost imperceptible.
WHISPERS (O.S.)
(indistinct, overlapping)
Murmurs. Hushed tones. Words we
can't quite make out.
Chester tenses. His breath shallows.
The whispers intensify, faint and haunting, circling him from
every side.
Then—a break in the noise.
A single phrase cuts through, clear as day:
WHISPERS (O.S.) (CONT’D)
Lies!
Chester's eyes widen. His breath catches.
SUDDENLY—
Something YANKS his legs.
WHOOSH! He’s pulled under.
Chester thrashes beneath the surface—muffled bubbles, limbs
flailing in the dark water. The lake swallows him whole.
Everything slows. Sound fades to a low, underwater hum.
FLASHES—
INT. CABIN – NIGHT (EARLIER)
Chester sits on the edge of the bed, unfolding the note.
Moonlight spills across his face. His eyes scan the page.
INSERT—LETTER (FIRST LINE ONLY)
You are me... and I am so fucking sorry.
HARD CUT TO:
UNDERWATER – NIGHT
Chester sinking, limbs heavy. Bubbles rising.
Dark water swallowing him.
HARD CUT TO:
FLASHBACK – LAKESIDE (DAY)
Young Lucas smashes the melted toy into the sand, laughing.
HARD CUT TO:
INT. CABIN – NIGHT (EARLIER)
Chester reads another section, breath shaking.
INSERT—LETTER (NEXT LINE)
I spent my whole life trying to outrun what I was... only to
watch you become it.
His jaw locks. His fingers tighten around the paper.
HARD CUT TO:
UNDERWATER – NIGHT
Chester reaches upward—instinctive panic, then stillness.
HARD CUT TO:
FLASHBACK – LAKESIDE (DAY)
The toy slips from Lucas’s hand.
It floats away.
He follows it toward deeper water.
HARD CUT TO:
Genres:
["Drama","Psychological","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
12 -
Drowning in Regret
INT. CABIN – NIGHT (EARLIER)
Chester struggles to keep reading.
His eyes flicker—pain, denial, rage.
INSERT—LETTER (NEXT LINE)
As much as I blame you, I blame myself. I was an accessory to
your fate... and I have been paying for it ever since.
He blinks hard. Jaw quivers. A tear threatens—doesn't fall.
HARD CUT TO:
UNDERWATER – NIGHT
Chester sinks deeper. Water churns around him.
HARD CUT TO:
FLASHBACK – LAKESIDE (DAY)
The lake surface goes still. The toy settles on the shore.
HARD CUT TO:
INT. CABIN – NIGHT (EARLIER)
Chester lowers the note. Breath trembles.
Then he forces himself to lift it again.
INSERT—LETTER (FINAL LINE — HELD)
Some things do not drown... they wait.
Chester’s hands shake around the paper.
HARD CUT TO:
UNDERWATER – NIGHT
A violent unseen force yanks him downward.
Darkness consumes him.
FLATLINE bleeds in beneath the water.
Light blooms overhead—blinding white.
VISION – INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – TIME UNKNOWN
Chester lies motionless in a hospital bed. Tubes snake from
his arms.
His MOTHER sits beside him, holding his hand.
MOM
(soft, breaking)
It’s okay, baby. Let go.
The flatline stretches—a single, piercing tone.
Chester’s eyes flick open. He turns to the mirror on the
wall.
His reflection isn’t his own.
LUCAS stares back—pale, soaked, eyes wide.
A faint purple bruising encircles his throat, half-hidden
beneath wet hair—evidence of something that never healed.
Chester’s breath catches—terror, recognition.
The flatline peaks—then *cuts to silence.*
FLASHBACK – LAKESIDE – DAY
The lake sits quiet. The same place it always was.
We rise from a figure’s waist—jeans soaked, water streaming
down his legs, darkening the dirt beneath him.
His hands hang at his sides—wet, trembling. Small cuts glint
across his knuckles—defensive wounds, faint but fresh.
The red T-shirt clings to his chest. It’s Chester. The bottom
half soaked, darkened by the water.
His face finds the light. Still. Unreadable.
That faint smirk again.
Small. Quiet. Knowing.
At his feet, the charred action figure drifts ashore, rocking
once before settling in the mud.
The lake behind him—calm. Still.
BACK TO LAKESIDE – NIGHT
Silence. Still water.
Moonlight trembling across the surface.
For a moment, nothing moves.
Then—
The Urn breaks through the surface.
Slow. Upright. As if placed, not carried.
It bobs once. Settles.
Scarred. Chipped. Imperfect.
Exactly as Chester found it.
FADE TO BLACK.