INT. BEDROOM - PRE-DAWN
Absolute silence. The wind has died.
MORRIS (68), his hair thin and stark white, opens his eyes.
His breath plumes in the stagnant air, faint white tendrils rising.
He shifts. The old springs GROAN beneath him.
Beside him, EVELYN (66) is a motionless mound under a heavy quilt.
Morris pushes back the covers. The air is heavy, smelling of old dust.
He swings his legs out.
Bare feet hit the floorboards. He winces, toes curling against the wood.
INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
Pitch black.
Morris shuffles forward, hand trailing along the wall.
He reaches for a doorknob.
He recoils. It is ice-cold.
He grabs it again, twists. The brass SQUEAKS.
INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
A black pit.
Morris fumbles on the counter.
CLICK. A battery-powered lantern flares to life.
The beam cuts a weak yellow wedge through the gloom.
Morris pauses.
He tilts his head.
DRIP.
Silence.
DRIP.
He aims the lantern upward. The ceiling is shadowed, indistinct.
The smell of wet drywall hangs in the air.
INT. BASEMENT STAIRS - CONTINUOUS
Morris descends.
The wood CREAKS with every step.
The air grows colder. Heavier.
DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.
INT. BASEMENT - CONTINUOUS
The lantern beam sweeps across cobwebs and dust motes.
It lands on the far wall near the washing machine.
A dark, blooming stain spreads across the drywall.
Below it, a puddle reflects the lantern light like a disturbed eye.
Morris kneels.
He touches the water. He jerks his hand back.
He traces the path of the water up the wall to the ceiling tiles.
The paint is soft. Peeling.
INT. BEDROOM - MOMENTS LATER
Morris shakes Evelyn’s shoulder.
Evelyn. Basement.
Evelyn’s eyes flutter open. She sees his face.
She sits up immediately, pulling the quilt tight.
How bad?
Water. Near the laundry.
Evelyn swings her legs out. She hunts for her slippers with her feet.
I’ll get the towels.
INT. BASEMENT - LATER
Dim lantern light flickers on damp walls.
Morris shoves a heavy laundry bin aside. He grimaces, clutching his lower back.
Evelyn drops a stack of old bath towels over the puddle.
The towels darken instantly as they soak up the freezing water.
Morris prods the ceiling tile with a broom handle.
The tile is sodden. It sags under the pressure.
Water dribbles down the broom handle.
Ice dam. Unless a pipe burst.
(Low)
Just got the kitchen settled.
She wrings out a towel into the laundry sink. The water SPLASHES loudly.
INT. KITCHEN - DAY
Sunlight glares off the snow outside, blindingly white.
A propane camping stove HISSES on the counter.
The percolator begins to SPUTTER.
Morris zips up a heavy winter coat. He pulls on thick gloves.
He grabs a pair of sunglasses from a hook.
EXT. BACKYARD - DAY
A landscape of frozen drifts. The wind has sculpted the snow into hard waves.
Morris steps out. The snow CRUNCHES loudly under his boots.
He squints against the glare.
He stops.
Three panels of the cedar fence lie flat, half-buried in a drift.
Splintered wood juts out like broken bones.
Morris kneels by the wreckage.
He grabs a piece of the wood. It is frozen solid to the ground. It doesn't move.
He looks toward the garage.
The door is encased in a thick sheet of ice.
INT. KITCHEN - LATER
The lantern is off. The power is back on. The refrigerator HUMS.
Morris paces, phone pressed to his ear.
Evelyn sits at the table, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She watches him.
(Into phone)
Rotting ceiling. Drywall. Three fence panels ripped out. Garage frozen shut.
He stops pacing. He listens.
His grip on the phone tightens. His knuckles turn white.
Limitations?
He listens again. He closes his eyes.
I see. "Climate-driven extremes."
He lowers the phone. He taps the screen to end the call.
He looks at Evelyn.
High deductible. Out of pocket.
Evelyn takes a sip of coffee. She doesn't blink.
We’ll clear the snow first.
INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
Fire dances in the wood stove. The orange glow fills the room.
Morris and Evelyn sit on the couch, wrapped in blankets.
Morris stares into the flames.
BZZT. BZZT.
He looks at his phone. A text message.
ON SCREEN: "Hey Dad, heard about the storm. Everything okay?"
Morris types.
ON SCREEN: "Power's back. We'll manage."
He sets the phone down face first.
Clara?
Morris nods.
Just checking in.
Silence settles over the room. The fire CRACKLES.
Morris leans his head back. He closes his eyes.
Above them, the floorboards CREAK.
Morris opens his eyes.
It isn't a footstep.
CRACK.
A slow, deliberate SPLINTERING sound echoes from the ceiling.
It comes from deep within the structure.
Directly above the basement.
Morris sits up, rigid.
The sound continues.
TEARING wood. STRESSING metal.
Morris looks up at the ceiling.
The firelight reflects in his wide, tired eyes.