Beast Within

Screenplay draft

Title: Beast Within
Credit: Written by
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FADE IN.

INT. HARLAN ROOT CELLAR - NIGHT

Rook’s breath fogs the single barred window. Stone walls sweat moisture. A lone bulb swings on its cord, throwing bruised shadows across raw pine shelves and the iron ring bolted to the floor. Silver cuffs dangle from the ring, already stained dark at the edges.

Upstairs, boots stomp in rhythm. The family sings along to a country song on the radio, voices muffled through floorboards. Lila’s laugh cuts through clearest, bright and nasal.

Rook’s right hand rises toward the frost on the glass. Fingers lengthen. Knuckles pop. Black claws scrape a thin line through the ice. The sound is soft, wet, like a blade through meat. He watches the claws, amber eyes catching the bulb’s yellow glare. His wrist skin splits along old silver scars.

He forces the hand back down. Joints crack in reverse. Claws retract with a wet click. Blood beads at the cuticles. He presses the hand flat against cold stone, breathing through his teeth.

The cuffs creak as he threads his wrists through them again. Silver bites. Smoke rises in thin threads from the contact points. He swallows a growl that wants to climb into a howl.

Footsteps descend the wooden stairs. The door opens a crack. Light from above spills in, sodium-vapor yellow bleeding into fog.

HARLAN SR.
You good, son? Moon’s high.

Rook forces his voice flat, careful, the rural drawl steady.

ROOK
I’m good, Pa. Just tired.

The door stays open a moment longer. Harlan Sr.’s steel-toe boot rests on the top step, flannel sleeve visible at the edge of the frame. Then the door closes. The bolt slides home with a heavy finality.

Rook exhales. His eyes flash yellow for one frame, pupils narrowing to vertical slits. The yellow fades. He shuts his eyes, forehead pressed to stone. The singing continues upstairs. Lila’s voice rises above the rest, then fades into the song’s chorus.

Rook’s fingers twitch once against the cuffs. A single claw tip emerges, taps the iron ring, then withdraws. The bulb swings. The cellar holds its breath.

INT. HARLAN HOUSE - NIGHT

A long pine table fills the center of the room. Lantern light pools over mismatched plates and a cast-iron skillet still hissing with venison. Outside the single window, Black Hollow fog presses against the glass like breath. Silver bolts gleam on every door frame.

Rook sits rigid at the far end. His fork scrapes the same bite of potato in slow circles. The sleeves of his flannel are buttoned tight over silver scars. His amber eyes stay down.

Lila leans forward, elbows on the wood, voice quick and nasal.

LILA
Pa, you should’ve seen the size of the track by the south skid. Bigger than my whole hand. Think it’s that same bear from last winter?

Harlan Sr. saws at his meat with a hunting knife, gravel in every word.

HARLAN SR.
Ain’t no bear leaving prints that clean, girl. Logging crew said the same thing last month. Whatever it is, it’s getting bold.

Lila’s silver locket swings as she reaches for the salt. She grins at Rook.

LILA
You hear that, Rook? Maybe you and me go check the traps tomorrow. Before the moon gets any fuller.

Rook forces a small nod. His jaw works once, twice. A low register answer slips out careful.

ROOK
Maybe.

Harlan Sr. chuckles, short and dry. He points the knife at Rook’s untouched plate.

HARLAN SR.
Eat, son. You’re looking thin again. That cellar ain’t doing you favors.

Lila chatters on, faster now, about school and a new logging road. The words blur into the creak of the floorboards above and the faint tick of claws that aren’t there yet, tapping once beneath the table before Rook’s fingers curl tight into fists.

Harlan Sr. laughs at his own joke about a truck that threw a chain. Lila laughs with him. Rook’s throat moves like he’s swallowing something larger than food. The lantern flame flickers. Outside, the fog thickens against the window, turning the glass the color of old bruises.

EXT. BLACK HOLLOW MAIN STREET - DAY

Rook steps from the tree line onto the mud rut road. His sleeves hang low over his wrists, fabric brushing the faint silver scars that ring the skin. Weak daylight filters through fog that clings to the shuttered storefronts. Logging trucks sit idle at the curb, their beds empty, chains coiled like sleeping snakes.

He keeps his shoulders hunched, head down, amber eyes flicking toward every closed door. A sodium light buzzes overhead even though the sun has not yet set. Its yellow glow bleeds into the mist and turns the puddles the color of old bruises. Rook’s boots sink an inch with each step. Wet earth sucks at the soles.

A logger in a faded red cap crosses the street twenty yards ahead. Rook nods once, the motion small and automatic. The man returns the nod without slowing. No words pass between them. Rook pulls his sleeves lower, fingers pressing the cuffs flat against his forearms so no scar shows.

The Harlan house sits three blocks behind him now. Its root cellar door is still locked from the inside, silver bolts cold under the porch light he can no longer see. He tastes the memory of those cuffs anyway, metallic and sharp on his tongue. His jaw tightens. A low sound threatens to rise in his throat; he swallows it and keeps walking.

Farther down the road the veterinarian’s office windows are dark. A tray of raw meat sits on the back step, covered by a cloth that flutters in the damp breeze. Rook’s nostrils flare. He does not turn his head. He forces his stride to stay even, human, the same pace the Harlans expect when they send him for supplies.

Wind rattles a loose shutter on the old feed store. The sound travels like distant claws on stone. Rook’s right hand twitches inside his sleeve. Black claw tips press against the fabric from beneath, then retract. He exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and keeps the sleeves pulled tight.

The road curves past the last cluster of trucks. Fog thickens here, swallowing the edges of the buildings. Rook’s reflection ghosts across a mud-spattered windshield as he passes. For one frame the eyes that look back are not quite his. He blinks hard. The reflection steadies. He walks on, sleeves low, breath fogging in the yellow light.

INT. HARLAN ROOT CELLAR - NIGHT

Rook stands at the iron ring bolted to the stone floor. The silver cuffs hang open like waiting jaws. Moonlight leaks through the single barred window above, painting cold blue across his bare forearms. He snaps the first cuff shut around his left wrist. The metal hisses against old scars.

He tests the chain. It holds.

Rook lowers himself to the packed earth and draws his knees up. His right hand shakes as he closes the second cuff. The lock clicks. Breath fogs in front of his face. Upstairs the radio plays a slow country tune, fiddle sliding over the boards. Boots cross the kitchen. A chair scrapes. Laughter leaks through the ceiling, thin and distant.

Rook presses his spine to the wall. The stone is damp and cold. He closes his eyes and counts the beats of his heart, forcing each one slower. The cuffs bite. Silver works under the skin like tiny teeth.

His fingers twitch. Knuckles crack once, lengthening. Black claws push through the nail beds and tap the floor. Rook grits his teeth and forces the change back. The claws retract with a wet sound. Sweat runs down his temple.

The radio song ends. Another begins, louder. The floor above vibrates with stomping feet. Rook swallows hard. A low growl rises in his throat. He clamps his jaws shut until molars creak. The growl dies. He exhales through his nose.

His reflection in the window glass shows amber eyes flaring bright, then fading. The moon pulls at the base of his skull. Joints ache. He rocks forward, forehead to knees, and stays there while the cuffs hold his arms outstretched.

The radio crackles. A commercial jingle plays. Rook listens to the ordinary sound and matches his breathing to it. In. Out. In. The chain links scrape stone w

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