Damian Cross

HOME – MORNING – FL

ith budding strength, his locs tied back, still wide-eyed with innocence-stands in front of a mirror adjusting his shirt collar. His mother, SARAH-graceful, with soft brown skin a

A

ling

when your uncle gets here! I

MI

his eyes,

eah, I

turkey and stuffing drifts through the house. His little sister,

MI

h it, Sp

A

inn

ow, bi

g in the living room where his dad hums to

A

amp. You sl

MI

d dreams a

A

out l

those horror

orbell

A

an!

MI

inn

h,

, jolly man in his late 40s with a thick be

LE

There's

LE

ling

g, little man. Yo

MI

y that e

A

year it's

s begin arriving-cousins, family friends, even Mr. Banks, Dam

ING ROOM

ach other, kids running around, uncles arguing over football, Maya trying to

nge from the setting sun. He loo

see

or's yard. A demon. Its long limbs jerking unnaturally

MI

ing to

the h

hes in a blur b

, heart pounding. He look

ck inside witho

'S ROOM – M

w. He doesn't know what to do. He grabs his headphones and curls up

MILY HOUSE – LI

ink, drinks pour, music hums softly beneath the chatter whil

LE

g, holdin

d we were MI6 agents. Swear down, D

A

ng his

erman, mate! You

A

ou wer

A

to sneak biscui

all l

AMIAN'

to drown out his racing thoughts with music. His hands a

The glow from his desk lamp barely

nt track. Something louder. Something tha

thing

He knows

letal, eyes burnin

AN (

rick of the light. Just some freak in a costu

d. He grips the headphones tighte

h

muffled

Pulls the headph

th

h

O

ams downstairs. Followed by shou

oots up,

AN (

the

is door. Pauses. Breath

und of something tear

curdlin

a

N (wh

ya

LIVIN

ing room, the hallway ahead

re over

s cl

d the corridor. Heavy footste

N (wh

no no

but instinct pulls him back. From w

rah, collapsed

aming for Maya to run. The little girl, barefoot and crying, dashes

(barely

ya.

vid, pinning him against th

n his throat. But the demons don't se

e kitchen, collapsing to the

e hears the screams of guests being torn apart. Glass

ing...

KIT

self, as the screamin

blood remains. And the demons

HIDEOUT – NIGH

le

where above. The hideout is dimly lit, worn-down, and quiet

, shirt off, body still bruised from the last battle. Sweat

the floor, lo

still echoes

s. His fis

N (so

've stop

e

N (qu

ve done so

moves b

O (

like that, and you'll be dead

esn't tur

MI

it breaks your soul? Not just you

ser. He's quie

I

... I

's a bitch with claws, hotshot. But gui

es bloodshot but burning with som

t the bag

MI

time I brea

nods

I

ut t