3 Spooky Scriptwriting Short Stories

Deep from within the crypts of coffee shops, the shrill screams of scriptwriters echo around cavernous halls, unable to comprehend the ungodly terrors within these tales three. For what profession could be more utterly terrifying than that of the lonely scribe? So, fill up your chalices with special brew from your basement, sit back in your creaky armchair (then sit forward again, and then back, and so on), and prepare yourselves for a spine-chilling series of spooky short stories showing scary scriptwriters in shocking situations. Seriously...

1) P-Die-F.

“You’ve got 6 hours, Ray. Get it done, by whatever means necessary.”

Dial tone. The white glare of a laptop monitor shone across Ray’s face, as he placed his phone down by his side. Ray had been good today, eliminating all distractions so that he could finally finish off his draft in time for the producer’s arrival this evening. And finished it, he had. What he had failed to anticipate was this...

“Converting to PDF: 0%”.

47 minutes it had been doing this. Not that Ray was counting. His conveniently placed digital clock had just turned to 14:00. 6 hours to go.

Ray wasn’t resting on his laurels either. Still high from his writing work buzz, he had tried everything he could think of to get that progress bar moving. Turning the program off and on again, turning the laptop on and off again, trying different software, turning that off and on again... everything.

Needless to say, Ray was starting to get a little bit nervous. Pacing up and down his study (i.e. bedroom) and turning his back to the screen, only to spin around quickly to try and catch it out. Nothing. No progress. The clock flashed over to 15:00.

Ray started to shake, looking around his room for answer. Desperately searching. Glancing back at the clock, Ray did a double take. His terrified stare illuminated by that lava lamp he’d nicked from a car boot sale in Durham last year. 16:00.

Knowing time was no longer on his side, Ray angrily marched towards his clock and turned it away. The red digits now shining upon his back shelf. Ray paused and leaned in, seeing a familiar sight in the red light. A signed photograph of Ray with David Lynch at a Scriptwriters Award Ceremony. Suddenly, it clicked.

Ray beamed, as he sat back at his laptop, opening up an email tab. Add attachment. Send to: dlynch@twinpeaks.com. Subject: HELP ME DAVID. NEED PDF ASAP. Send.

Ray sat back in his chair, catching his breath. A wave of relief spilling over him. DING! An email response. Ray leaned forward faster than ever before in his life. His eyes widened. 4 words...

“Sorry can’t. Internet Broke.”

Ray trembled, trying to hold in the anguish. The pain. The confusion. But he could no longer, unleashing a colossal scream of pure torment. He leapt to his feet, smashing everything he could find around him. Destroying the room he’d spent years working from. Falling off the desk in the melee, the clock read 19:00. 1 hour left.

Ray grabbed his picture of David Lynch and punched it with his free hand, glass shattering everywhere. Ray shrieked in pain as a deep cut emerged on his knuckle. BEEP.

Ray froze and looked at his laptop. 1%. The number looking almost foreign to him. He held up the shattered picture frame, Lynch’s kind eyes trapped behind it, and ran another finger along the broken glass. Another cut. Another BEEP. 2%. Ray’s face filled with determination.

20:00. Knocking at the door. The voice from the phone calling out for Ray.

Alone in the destroyed room, submerged in a thick pool of scarlet blood, the laptop BEEPED a final time. 

“Converting to PDF: 100%”. “PDF Complete”.

2) Writer’s Room Doom

The studio had assembled a crack squad of up and coming writers to pen the next big Hollywood zombie movie, and locked them all into a cramped writers’ room. After exchanging pleasantries and discussing the distinct lack of food in the room, the five hopefuls got down to business, throwing ideas around and onto the white board if there was unanimous agreement. All were experts in different genres – Julia in Comedy, Harry in Romance, Bill in Action, Nancy in Sci Fi and Tiberius in Satirical Hardboiled Courtroom Steampunk Fantasy Animation.

“How about we set it in a shopping mall? There could be a sweet sequence where the zombies start bashing down the barricades, and the survivors are all like “ARRRGGGHH”, shooting their M16s at-“

“Can I stop you there, Bill?” interjected Julia. “I really think a mall is a little too cliché for a setting, unless we were doing a total parody, which I’m totally down for by the way.”
“I agree with Julia”, chimed Tiberius. Julia smiled, thanking him, before spotting Harry taking notes, muttering something about “establishing support between protagonists” under his breath.

Sensing the group turning to her for an opinion, Nancy felt the pressure to choose a side. She looked over at Bill, nodding enticingly. Trying to reel her in, Bill mouthed the word “MALL” in the most unsubtle manner possible. Nancy gulped down the lump in her throat and spoke up.

“Well... the mall could be an allegory for the rampant nature of modern consumerism?”
“Oh come on, Nancy! Not you too! We’re trying to write a new film here guys” sighed Julia.
“Yeah, but, like, a mall would be like a SICK place to hang out during the apocalypse, because there’d be loads of food and shelter and all the stuff would be free” argued Bill. 

Julia looked disbelievingly between him and Nancy, who shrugged her shoulders and nodded, now even more taken with the idea. Julia addressed the room.
“Have any of you people ever even seen a zombie movie? That’s the exact strategy the heroes always use and it NEVER WORKS”.
“I agree with Julia”, chimed Tiberius.
“Thank y- don’t keep agreeing with me for no reason Tiberius!”
“Sorry Julia. You’re absolutely right.”

The room now clearly divided, with Julia and Tiberius on one side and Bill and Nancy on the other, all eyes fell upon Harry, buried deep in note-taking. Julia snatched his notepad, much to his annoyance, and began to read aloud to the group.

“Two lonely souls, brought together by chance in confusing circumstances, only to find solace in each other’s arms. They’re forced to stick together when the other members of the group pressure them to follow their lead, establishing support between the protagonists. Things get particularly steamy when they find themselves to be the last ones left, locked in each other’s embrace as doom slowly approaches them...”

Julia looked up, noticing Nancy and Bill looking deep into each other’s eyes. She glanced down at Tiberius who gave her a creepy wink. Shuddering, she handed Harry back his notepad. With that, Bill leaned over to him, and lightly whispered one word. “Mall”. Nancy looked at Harry too, and echoed Bill’s statement. “Mall”. Slowly realising that it might be the perfect setting, Harry nodded slowly and exclaimed to himself... “Mall”.

Julia stood up, shaking her head in fear.
“No, no, no! Please God! Not the Mall!”
Tiberius stood up alongside her, resisting the urge to agree out loud. Bill, Nancy and Harry slumped out their chairs, arms outstretched towards the non-believers, groaning “Mall” over and over. Advancing like some sort of brain-dead horde.

Backed up in the corner, Tiberius and Julia held each other, accepting their grim fate. Tiberius leaned in for a kiss, but Julia punched him in the gut (at this point, it might be worth mentioning Tiberius was like 3 times older than Julia and had two glass eyes). In their final moments, the cacophony of the word “Mall” reached a dizzying crescendo as Tiberius and Julia both screamed it harmony with their aggressors.

Outside the writers’ room, a studio exec sat checking his watch. After a moment, he pulled off his shirt, revealing a McDonalds uniform. The writers’ room was in the centre of the food court at the Mall all along...

3) The Exorcism Of A Terrible Idea

A withered hand knocked three times on the door, before retreating out of the pouring rain. As the door opened, light poured out onto the doorstop, showing a haggard old man wearing a black robe. The man was Reverend Vern. In the doorway, and concerned husband and wife nodded and welcomed the mysterious man inside.

The couple led the man up the spiral staircase, stopping on the landing. Vern looked at them before looking ahead. An ominous sign before him.

“Timmys Room”. It was worse than Vern thought. The boy was too young to even know apostrophes existed. Vern nodded to the parents, who hastily retreated downstairs. Vern approached the doorway, and slowly pushed it open...

Sat in the centre of the room, wearing a dinosaur onesie, playing with his cuddly toys, was little Timmy. No more than 3 or 4 years of age. He barely noticed as Vern took a seat on a small stool, regularly used by Timmy to “reach the big toilet”.

Vern observed the boy for a moment. He seemed perfectly normal, like any other boy. Vern leaned in, ready to ask the question he had travelled miles to ask...

“Tell me about the Teen Vampire Fiction series you’re planning on starting, Teresa”.

With that the boy’s head rotated 180 degrees, meeting Vern’s gaze with piercing blue eyes. Timmy responded with a horrifically distorted blend of his youthful voice and that of middle aged woman -
“That is no business of yours, Priest! I’ve completed a treatment and a step outline for all 14 installments, and only I may see them before I give them to Hollywood!”

Vern was taken aback at the response. It was as he feared.
“Why have you chosen Timmy as a vessel to complete your mission from Hell?”
The voice rasped back, “The boy is strong! He will do well for the idea to be taken seriously!”
Vern shook his head, “Teen Vampire Fiction is a saturated market, Teresa. Leave this mortal coil peacefully, or greater powers shall have to intervene.”

Timmy’s head rotated back around rapidly, as he leapt up onto the ceiling, sticking to a poster of Phineas and Ferb. The demon spat out his tongue at Vern, taunting the old man. But the priest would not be that easily bested, and reached into his robe. Timmy tilted his head, curiously, before recoiling in pure fear, the demon within shrieking for mercy.

A copy of “STORY” by Robert McKee, held outstretched by Vern, burning the demon from within Timmy. As ghostly powers circled around the room, the old priest recited the ancient incantation...

“I cast thee out, unclean spirit, alongside all similar flimsy narratives aimed at pre-pubescent girls, straight back to the fires from which you were spawned! In the name of all that is good characterisation, efficient plotting and decent in the realm of film-making, I command you release this young innocent, and ne’er return to spread your corruption, your vile nature or your ineffective depiction of female characters. In fact, and I’m going off book here, let’s say your male characters as well. Seriously. Anyway, where was I? Oh right, yeah... BE GONE!”

With a flash, the demon was banished, and Timmy fell from the ceiling safely into the priest’s arms, who set him down in his bed before leaving the room. Now finally silent.

Leaving the house through the living room, the priest was modest as Timmy’s parents thanked him. Vern turned to leave, before stopping in his tracks. A bookshelf on the far end of the room. Vern’s face turned grim once more.

The complete Twilight series sat on the shelf. He looked at Timmy’s parents, disappointed in their lack of subtlety, before leaving for good – his faith in humanity truly shaken to the core.

James Cottle, after studying Scriptwriting for 4 years, is now an embittered real life freelance writer, and seeks to unlearn everything he knows. But he needs your help... Follow him on Twitter @Jxmxsc and share this blog to help spread his anarchic plight for reform amongst the writing masses.