The Mysterious Disappearance (incomplete)

This is an incomplete draft of my first-ever attempt at writing a screenplay. It isn't much, but I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“DAYLIGHT HOUR: THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE �" EPISODE ONE”

(incomplete)

By

PETER SCHAL

June 15, 2010

 

 

FADE IN

INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

CAPTION: CENTER HILL, TENNESSEE - 1992

The bedroom belongs to a little boy, maybe five or six years of age, curled up in the fetal position on a bed sprawling with disorganized blankets and sheets. He is sleeping soundly in the gloom, clutching a frayed teddy bear close to his side. The room itself is also in mass disarray: toys and small trinkets of every shape and sort are scattered helter-skelter about the place; the glow of a luminous full moon casts small shadows on the walls.

EXT. BACKYARD NIGHT

Wind is whistling against the tree branches, and crickets can be heard chirping away. We notice a rusted white swing-set, with its sole swing swaying to and fro in the rough evening breeze. A two-story modern home sits against a black velvet backdrop of dark night sky. A singular light in the window of the second floor catches our attention.

INT. HALLWAY NIGHT

We travel down a dimly lit corridor. A room in the distance with a door open emits a dancing apparition of light out into the foyer. We edge closer to the door, and as we approach the threshold the static hum becomes more and more audible.

A couple is asleep in one another’s arms, snoring deeply. The hum of static comes from the television set, which displays nothing but snow. The static of the television and the glimmer of the snow fill the void.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM NIGHT

The boy is still asleep in his bed. A long, slender shadow cuts across the luminous glow of the bed-sheets and along the walls. The child grumbles incoherently, switching from his fetal position to laying flat on his back. In the background we hear incoherent whisperings. The boy rustles beneath the sheets. The whisperings are heard again, more audible this time.

WHISPERS:

Jacob… Wake up, now, Jacob. Jacob…

Jacob awakes sluggishly. He props himself up on his elbows, looks about his surroundings with heavy, droopy eyes. He is just about to collapse back onto the mattress when the voices speak up again.

WHISPERS:

Jacob… Don’t be afraid, Jacob. We won’t hurt you.

Jacob sits bolt upright now. Looking around the room, the window is open. White silk currents are billowing in the breeze, glowing in the silvery moonlight. Jacob gets out of bed, frightened, and walks up to the window to close it.

WHISPERS:

No need to close the window, Jacob. We’re friends, remember?

Jacob steps up on the tips of his toes to reach up to close the window, but something catches his eye in the backyard below. A slender, large-headed figure stands erect and motionless on the ground beside the swing-set. The wind is blowing more roughly now, but the swing itself doesn’t move an inch. The gloomy, tall figure raises its long arm in greeting.

WHISPERS:

Come with us, Jacob. Come along and play. We’ll have a spectacular time together. Trust me. Trust us…

Jacob somehow cannot help himself. He smiles, looks behind his shoulder once, and steps out of the window. We look back inside the room just as Jacob’s small lower body exits the room out the window. There is one more, stronger breath of wind, then silence, and finally zero movement. The luminous moonlight slowly creeps to a dim flicker.

FADE OUT.

 

 

 

FADE IN:

INT. OFFICE DAYTIME

CAPTIONS: ONE YEAR LATER

We see a bustling office area; specifically an office straight out of a crime drama series. There are portly, balding men with gun holsters and white buttoned shirts sitting at desks and on telephones, women in grey skirts zipping hurriedly through one room to the next, clutching papers and documents. There are murmurs and conversations going on in each area of this office; we focus instead on a skinny young man with messy black hair and a tie partly undone at the collar. He seems haggard and distraught at the moment, talking on the telephone with a possible client.

ALAN MARX

Yeah… uh, right. Dr. Karlssen. I appreciate your help in this matter. Yes, uh, thank you very much. Yeah, thanks. Alright, good-bye.

Alan Marx hangs up the telephone and then places his hands on his face, running his fingers through his ruffled hair. We can see that he is clearly under stress. Just when he picks up the telephone to make a call, a young blonde woman in a grey and white dress suit enters carrying a thick sheaf of paper. She wears wire-frame eyeglasses with hair pulled up into a tight bun.

HELEN ROBB

Detective Marx, I have new leads on the Berger murder-suicide case.

          ALAN MARX

Good, what have our boys been up to now?

          HELEN ROBB

I can’t say for sure, sir, but I do believe that one of our police dogs found another body in the backyard of one of the suspects, under a garden of roses. The plants themselves appeared to be unharmed when the dog uncovered the carcass.

          ALAN MARX

I swear to God, these f*****g b******s are sick. No questions asked. Do you have any more leads?

          HELEN ROBB

Not that I am aware of at the moment. What I have here are the police reports and written documents from the coroner’s office and the medical examiner.

          ALAN MARX

Any information on the stiff?

          HELEN ROBB

Not yet, sir. Our officials are working on it.

          ALAN MARX

That’s fine by me. Thanks for the updates.

          HELEN ROBB

You’re welcome, sir. Is there anything else that I can do for you?

          ALAN MARX

No, that’s it. You can go now. Leave the documents on my desk.

Helen Robb drops the files on Alan’s desk and leaves. Alan resumes massaging his temples. Eventually he removes his hands and reaches for the telephone, punching in numbers on the dial. He cradles the phone against his ear and shoulder, using his free hand to leaf through the file folder. In the background a dial tone is heard.

                        RECIPIENT

                         Hello?

                       

            ALAN MARX

Hey honey, it’s me. I’m sorry I couldn’t call in earlier.

            RECIPIENT

It’s alright. Is everything okay at the office?

            ALAN MARX

Everything is fine. I’ve got some new leads on the murder-suicide case. I think I’ll be working late tonight.

            RECIPIENT
             (sighs)

Oh… okay. I’ll save some dinner for you.

            ALAN MARX    

Thank you, baby. Say hi to the girls for me.

            RECIPIENT

I will. I love you, Alan.

            ALAN MARX

I love you too, hon. I have to go.

            RECIPIENT

Okay. Goodbye.

            ALAN MARX

‘Bye.

Alan hangs up the telephone without another word. Throughout his conversation with his wife, he fiddled through the documents. Now he sets them down on the desk, sits back in his chair, and close his eyes.

FADE OUT.

 

 

 

FADE IN

INT. HOUSE DAYTIME

The Marx residence is vacant, at least for the moment. We find ourselves in the corridor leading away from the front door, down a hallway whose walls are littered with family photographs, mostly of a young boy. There is a mahogany fireplace juxtaposed to a flight of stairs; on the mantel are more photographs, a statue of an angel and candlesticks. We continue down the hall to a dining room. In the background, the soft click of a computer keyboard can be heard.

In the dining room large windows are open, allowing brilliant sunlight to glimmer off of the wood dining table and the white walls dotted with more portraits and photographs. In the corner there is a small desk, complete with a large Macintosh computer. A woman sits at the desk, her back to the camera, typing. We move closer to her.

KARA MARX
  (typing)

… I still don’t know what to say. I have two twin daughters who are the most beautiful things in my world. I still have one void missing in my life, and my husband is still working hard to solve it, on his own time. There have been no leads, no suspects, nothing. It’s like he vanished right out of sight.

Kara finishes typing and sits back in the chair. Her gaze floats to a picture of her son, a young boy with wavy blonde hair, green eyes, hugging a golden Labrador retriever. A tear forms in her eye, and she resumes typing.

KARA MARX
  (typing)

Jacob was a wonderful child. His personality (though a little immature at times) could bring out the laughter in everybody. If he were to grow up to be a young man, many people would have probably looked up to him. Many, many people.

Kara leans back into her chair. She places her hands on her face, rubbing her worn eyes with her fingers and her forehead with the palm of her hand. She reads over what she had just typed, then turns off the monitor. She takes one last look at the photographs on the wall in front of her, gets up, and walks out of sight. We zoom in on the picture of Jacob embracing the golden Labrador retriever.

 

CUT TO:

EXT.

         

 

         

 

 

 

Author's Note

I need your honest opinion: should I complete it? (and if the paragraph format is wrong, I apologize. It's not entirely my fault).

Reviews

[J.T. Ruhland]

Awesome so eerie please finish!

[JulieZee]

Not sure of the format. I've never even attempted to write a screenplay. I want to know what happened to the boy. I liked the opening, very eerie. Finish it.