I wrote this screenplay like years ago now. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot and rolling in to 2018 maybe a goal will be to get it produced. Or not. Who knows. The end of the year is a good time to look back on old work.
The Listeners, based on the poem by Walter de la Mare
A single road cuts a scar across the empty landscape. The light slowly bleeds from the sky as a pair of headlights appear like pinpricks on the horizon.
They grow in size as the car navigates the curves of the asphalt.
It’s an old car, all cracked leather and chipped chrome.
The TRAVELER drives alone, she is in her late 20s, her hair whips in the wind from the open window, a cigarette hangs from her mouth.
She grabs a scrap of paper from the passenger seat, it’s been worn soft from repeated handling. She holds it close to her face, squinting. She shakes her head in frustration and slaps on the overhead light. She holds the paper under the dim orange glow.
She looks from the paper to out the windshield and back again.
She turns the wheel hard.
The car turns hard left onto a thin dirt road, kicking dust up into the night. It glows red in the taillights.
Trees crowd the road and soon the car is obscured by the forest. Headlights and taillights flicker in and out between the trunks of oaks and Douglas firs. The eyes of small creatures blink in and out of life in the darkness.
The car rounds a curve and the wood thins into a clearing. The dirt road ends at a crumbling stone wall, slowly loosing a war against the vines and creepers of the forest.
The headlights flick off, the filaments slowly fading into
The interior lights cast a harsh orange light into the growing blue dark. The Traveler looks out the windshield, past the deteriorated wall. She scans the letter again and folds it deliberately before sliding it into a pocket of her jacket. She flicks off the light and takes a long pull on her cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly through her nose as she stubs it out in the overflowing ashtray.
The Traveler lets the car door swing shut behind her. She walks up to a rusted metal gate, hanging open, creaking quietly in the breeze.
A cobbled path winds through overgrown rose bushes, tracing a broken line up the hill to the empty house perched precariously at its apex. Black windows stare out behind broken shutters, the foundation sags dangerously to one side, and the creepers from the wall have begun their ascent. They pull the house down rather than climb up.
She pushes the gate open. It screams in protest, startling the night roosting birds. The Traveler flinches, the sound of wing beats echoing into the night.
She picks her way carefully up the path. Thorns snag at her clothing and broken flagstones threaten every footstep. Her eyes dart between her next footstep and the house looming above her.
She places a tentative foot on the first step of the crumbling veranda. The wood moans under her weight but holds.
A heavy wooden door stands sacrosanct in front of her. Its age hung heavy in the air around her, a spectre of chipped paint and ancient oak. A heavy brass doorknocker clings to the center, the bronzed skull of a cat, fangs bared.
The Traveler raises her hand to the tarnished metal. It falters in the air for a moment. She takes a quick breath and closes her hand on the cold metal. She raps it against the wood three times in quick succession.
The sound reverberates through the space, spreading into every corner. It moves past empty chairs and dusty curtains.
The Traveler knocks again.
The only thing that moves is dust in moonlight.
No one answers. Her voice is swallowed by the empty space. Her face peers through the dusty window. She glances up the stairs. No feet tread down to answer.
She wraps her knuckles against the glass.
The doorknob rattles against the lock but does not yield. She turns her back to the house and steps out of the window frame.
The Traveler steps to the edge of the veranda. She pulls a packet of cigarettes from her jacket and slaps them against the palm of her hand. She pulls out a cigarette and twirls it between her fingers.
She takes a breath and looks back at the house then down at the cigarette in her hands.
An overgrown path creeps around the side of the house. She jams the cigarette back in the pack and makes her way around the house.
The Traveler walks around the house. Appearing a disappearing past cracked windows. A shadow passes along a wall.
The Traveler presses her head against a window and looks into the empty house. She makes eye contact with the entity watching her from inside.
She shivers and quickly looks away.
EXT. BACK OF HOUSE - NIGHT
The Traveler comes around the corner. A large rose bush dominates the path and a large portion of the house. She pushes past it as it cuts her hand and cheek.
The backyard has gone to seed. Moonlight illuminates the slowly shifting grasses. Small animals scurry through well worn tunnels of grass and dirt.
The back veranda is heavily rotted. The Traveler carefully picks her way across to the back door. She knocks and peers through the window. A thick curtain covers half the window but the other half lays in a shredded pile on the floor.
She knocks harder and tries the doorknob. Locked.
Something peaks around the curtain, watching her at the
EXT. FRONT OF HOUSE - NIGHT
The Traveler emerges from the back of the house. A trickle of blood seeps from the cut on her cheek. She wipes it away as it drips on the cobblestones.
She steps out into the yard and looks up at the quiet house.
Hello!? Is there anybody there!?
The house remains silent atop the hill. She kicks the dirt at her feet. The rattling of the stones the only sound in the night.
She pries a broken stone from the path and hurls it at the house. It clatters against the siding. She grabs stone after stone and heaves them at the house.
Stones rain against old wood.
The Traveler looks small from an upstairs window. The sound of the stones thud through the house and knock dust from the walls.
EXT. FRONT OF HOUSE - NIGHT
Birds cry out from trees just outside the yard. Their wings slapping the night air.
I came and no one answered!
A stone hits an upstairs window. Glass shatters and tinkles against the house.
The Traveler stands panting. Tears mix with the blood and sweat on her cheeks. Her hands are red and shaking. She brushes the tears off her face and fumbles for her cigarettes and lighter. She puts the cigarette to her mouth.
She lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, flicking the lighter closed.
She walks back to the car, brushing the last tears from her cheeks.
The house stands silent as the taillights fade into the night.
jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
