Script Peek: Mother Nature

Last week, I was reminded of a horror screenplay contest that had 12 days left. I thought it’d be an interesting challenge to write a script with no preparation in 12 days. Chan-wook Park’s Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance was written in two weeks and that turned out fine. The rules I gave myself were that I couldn’t know the ending until I got there, I couldn’t think too far ahead, I have to make a turn anytime I feel that I know what’ll happen next while making the turns fit the story, and to not restrict myself in darkness, sex, or violence. If I don’t make the deadline, that’s fine because it’s still a nice experiment. But I’ll definitely try to meet it. I have more pages written, but here are the first five. Everyone gets to see the effect of all those Daily Dialogues.


The building, scattered with couples, is like a large, white
canopy, with glass walls and string lights along the
ceiling. The restaurant is lit only by the tiny lights,
which makes the conversations all the more intimate. One
such dialogue of intimacy happens twixt two women.
The woman with the bleach-white hair, beads threaded all
over, wears a polka-dotted dress. Her name is GLORIA
WHITTAKER. She rests her chin on her folded hands, like a
cradle, and looks lovingly into the other woman’s eyes.

You have a very interesting last
name, Ms. Barker-Bathory.

BIANCA BARKER-BATHORY slowly spins a spoon lengthwise twixt
her thumbs and forefingers. Her crimson hair is parted to
the left, and she wears a black, sleeveless dress that zips
up front.

My parents married, but didn’t take
each other’s last names. When I
entered their lives, they chose to
give me both.

Makes you sound…



That’s a little better than

BIANCA’S bare foot trails up and down GLORIA’S fishnetted right calf.

Especially now.

GLORIA smiles.

You tend not to hear wedding bells
on the first date.

She then opens her legs.

I’m more interested in choirs.
She puts down the spoon and picks up her glass of red wine.
GLORIA glances around and scoots her chair closer to the
table, until her chest presses against it.

The entire choir?

BIANCA gently shakes her head as she sips her wine.

Just an alto singer.
Her foot raises high and between GLORIA’S thighs.

GLORIA slowly drops her hands to the sides of the table and
grips them as she closes her eyes.

Oh yeah?

BIANCA smirks.


She continues sipping her wine as GLORIA’S breathing begins
to slow and grow heavy, as her thighs tighten around the
tantalizing foot, as her hips begin to slowly rock.

My voice can get pretty high.

I bet.

And, suddenly, BIANCA stops. She then sits back and crosses
her legs. GLORIA’S eyes shoot open and look around for
someone who could’ve spotted them.

No one saw us.

GLORIA sighs.

Then why’d you stop?

I’d rather be your only audience.
She holds up her glass.

And I still have more wine.

GLORIA snatches the glass with a grin, drinking as much as
she can before coughing.

BIANCA leans in with her napkin and dabs the wine around
GLORIA’S ebony lipstick.

I guess we better go to your
theatre, Ms. Barker-Bathory.

BIANCA licks the wine-stained napkin.

I guess so.


The freight elevator gets to the floor as the two make out
as if they taste like candy, the sweetest white chocolate.
GLORIA can’t keep her hands off of BIANCA. BIANCA is more
still, but is still enjoying herself.

BIANCA pushes herself away, her red lipstick smeared with
her kissing partner’s black lipstick.

I have to open the door.

GLORIA pulls her back, lips smeared in a similar way.

Mmm, no, you don’t.

I will when I tell you where I
found a junkie once.

GLORIA pushes her away.

Yeah, open the door.

BIANCA lifts the door and lets GLORIA walk into her
APARTMENT. She follows, after pressing a button, and lowers
the door slowly.

The elevator whines its way up.

Being a loft, it’s essentially one giant room. One wall as a
series of windows with a second-story view of the
neighborhood. BIANCA keeps the loft sparse. Different rugs
are scattered on the wooden floor like patches. All the
lighting on the inside comes from white cubes on the floor.
A canopied bed occupies one corner, and a kitchen area
occupies another. A wine rack as high and wide as the grave
stands next to the refrigerator. The BATHROOM is tucked away
by the kitchen.

Gloria, I know it’s not much…


But take a look around. I’m gonna
get more comfortable.

GLORIA smiles.

Then your lips can finish what your
toes started.

She makes a disappointed noise.

That sounded better in my–

BIANCA shuts her up with a kiss, then goes to the bathroom.

GLORIA looks around the APARTMENT, then goes to the antique,
mirrorless dresser near the bed. Above it, on the brick
wall, are two framed painting reproductions: Caravaggio’s
Judith Beheading Holofernes and Jacques Resch’s Retour. She
squints at the Neo-Surreal Retour, and leans in close to the
Baroque Judith.

Wow, a Caravaggio.

She walks to the window wall, then stands at it while
looking down. The bar across the street is loud and has the
only people around for at least two blocks in either

Her fingers trail her neck as she remembers the magic at the

You kn–

A butcher’s knife is STABBED through the base of her skull.
The blade goes through her mouth, chipping a tooth.
GLORIA’S head SLAMS into the window as the blade PIERCES
through the glass by inches.

The elevator groans downward, bringing tendrils of fog with

She SQUIRMS as she CHOKES on her blood, the same blood
that’s staining her bleach-white hair and polka-dotted
dress. The same blood that SPLATTERS onto the window,
spiderwebbing cracks from the blade.

Her screams are gurgled groans… then coughs… then

BIANCA waits until the victim is utterly dead before YANKING
the knife out and watching the corpse DROP onto a rug.
The elevator door is raised and the fog belches outward.

Make sure her right leg is ok,
Wendy. I don’t want the same
mistake that happened to Camille.

From the elevator, a woman steps out. A woman in only the
loosest term. Her grotesque figure is hunched over and
wrapped in bandages, and her back is covered with long nixie
tubes. Four on either side. The glass tubes flicker various
numbers with a red-orange, pulsing glow. The bandages are
tattered, dangling, and molding. Each step is helped by her
spike-like crutches that are stitched to her wrists. Her
blood-red eyes twitch as they examine parts of the room
before seeing the late GLORIA. The steps grow quicker as she
makes her way to the corpse. The hem of the dress is flung
up, and the grotesque woman gazes at the right leg as a fly
would its meal. WENDY looks at BIANCA.

The leg is good, my queen.

Her voice is beautiful.

Good. Begin your preparations, and
tell your sister, Lisa, to clean
the blood.
I shall have a bath.

BIANCA walks away, first to the wine rack and then to the
BATHROOM, as she takes a bottle and takes off her dress.

Yes, my queen.


One Response to “Script Peek: Mother Nature”

  1. Wow. I want MORE!

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