Screenwriting Sample

FADE IN:

EXT. FAMILY LAKE HOUSE - NIGHT

A pristine stone mansion looms on the lakefront, its reflection mirrored perfectly in the dark water. The surrounding landscape is eerily immaculate, perfectly manicured, as if frozen in time.

Wind rattles dead branches, a rhythmic tapping against the pristine windows, as if the house itself is trying to speak. A single upstairs window glows faintly, its light flickering like a dying breath.

A FIGURE stands in the yard—EMMA (30s, hollow-eyed, grief-worn). Her once-vibrant complexion is pallid, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones. Dark circles smudge beneath her weary, sunken eyes. Her long, unkempt hair, tangled and windblown, whips around her face.

She grips the house key so tightly it cuts into her palm. Her clothes, loose on her frame, hang with the weight of neglect—an oversized sweater swallowing her thin shoulders, jeans that once fit snug now bagging at her hips. She exhales, a cloud of breath dissolving in the cold.

INT. FAMILY LAKE HOUSE - ENTRYWAY - NIGHT

The door creaks open. Emma steps inside.

The air is thick with dust, heavy with memories. Moonlight spills through cracked windows, illuminating sheets draped over furniture like ghosts waiting to be woken.

Emma flicks the light switch. Nothing. A familiar disappointment settles over her.

She pulls out her phone—its weak flashlight barely pierces the darkness.

A LOW THUD echoes from upstairs, reverberating through the silence like a heartbeat.

Emma stiffens, gripping her phone tighter.

INT. FAMILY LAKE HOUSE - HALLWAY - NIGHT

Emma moves down the hall, her breath tight, her steps careful. The hallway is grand yet suffocating, lined with gilded mirrors and towering mahogany bookshelves. Deep burgundy wallpaper with intricate gold filigree curls around the edges of the walls, peeling in places where time has dared to intrude. Ornate sconces shaped like cherubs clutching glass orbs line the corridor, their bulbs long since burned out. A Persian runner, faded but still opulent, stretches the length of the hall, its once-vibrant reds and blues muted by decades of footfalls. Heavy oil paintings of stern ancestors glare from their gilded frames, their expressions frozen in judgment.

The walls seem to pulse, the flickering light creating the illusion of movement, as if the house itself is breathing in anticipation.

A FAMILY PHOTO hangs crooked on the wall. Emma reaches out, her fingers hovering just above it— CRASH. A mirror in the adjacent room SHATTERS.

Emma spins, heart pounding.

INT. FAMILY LAKE HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT

She pushes the door open.

Shards of glass from a vanity mirror glisten on the floor like scattered stars. The vanity itself is a grand relic of another era—dark walnut wood with delicate carvings of roses and ivy winding up its legs. Crystal perfume bottles, some still filled with aged, amber-hued liquid, sit untouched beside an ornate silver hairbrush. Dust clings to everything, as if time itself has settled into the space. The reflection in the remaining shards—

HERSELF. BUT NOT HER.

The woman in the fractured mirror wears a long, flowing white vintage dress—elegant and timeless, its lace sleeves delicate against the dim light. She holds a book, its cover worn and well-loved, her fingers curled around it with an almost possessive grip. Her expression is unreadable, a serene mask that contradicts the unspoken weight behind her hollow eyes.

The woman in the fractured mirror stands still, watching Emma with vacant, knowing eyes.

Emma stumbles back, her breath hitching, her pulse thudding against her ribs like a frantic knock on a locked door.

A whisper slithers through the air, barely audible—

WHISPER (V.O.)
You never left.

The door behind her SLAMS SHUT with a force that rattles the very foundation of the house, sealing her inside.

CUT TO BLACK.