Urban System in America

"So," he said, "how's it coming along? The script. You didn't really get the chance to talk about it yesterday."

Aren paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up. Last night had been chaos, him in borrowed waiter's clothes, stumbling from one rejection to another, his pitch drowned in mockery until Rex, the only one who'd listened, had bought his script outright. Even now, the memory carried both sting and relief.

Rex continued, his tone was easy, like they were just chatting about the weather. "I read through it last night. Didn't exactly get to hear your side of it at the party. Had too many drunks, too much noise."

Then cautiously replied, "It's… coming together. I've been working on Paranormal for months, rewriting, fixing. It's not perfect yet, but—"

Rex nodded, encouraging. "Tell me about it. Not just the pitch you gave last night, the real thing. Words on a page are one thing. Hearing the creator spit it out… different story. So, go on. Sell me. What's this film in your head? What's the heart of it?"

Aren hesitated, fork halfway to his mouth. Maybe it was Rex's tone, challenging but not mocking. Maybe it was the food warming his stomach. Or maybe it was just the thought that this was the first time someone actually wanted to listen.

"It's… about these friends," Aren finally said, the words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice low but steadying with each word. "See, the heart of it isn't the haunting… it's the people. A regular couple, normal as hell, and that's what makes it terrifying. They're not ghost hunters, they're not priests… they're just regular people in a house.

They move into a house, start filming everything for fun, but then… strange things begin happening. At first small, doors moving, shadows. Then bigger. The camera becomes proof, a witness they can't escape from. It's about… how fear grows when you can't explain what you see."

Rex nodded, letting him run. His expression stayed calm, but his eyes were alive, sharp, following every word.

"Go on."

The invitation loosened something in Aren. His words began tumbling faster, carried by the passion he'd kept bottled. He leaned forward, gestures animated. "The tension isn't just in what happens, it's in what doesn't. The silence between sounds, the empty rooms the camera lingers on. It's the anticipation that drives people crazy.

You don't show the monster, you let the audience's imagination torture them. Like… like you leave the camera on the bedroom while they sleep. Nothing happens for two minutes, and then suddenly the blanket shifts on its own. Just a little movement. You don't scream it in their faces, you let it crawl under their skin. Make them doubt what they're seeing."

Something shifted in Aren's eyes. At first he was tentative, measuring his words as though expecting to be dismissed again. But the longer Rex listened without interruption, the more his voice found strength.

"It's not just about ghosts jumping out and scaring people," Aren said, leaning forward now, fork forgotten. "It's about the silence. The waiting. The sense that something is there, even when nothing moves. The camera isn't just recording, it's like a prisoner's eye. The characters can't escape it, and neither can the audience. That's where the fear comes from."

Rex didn't interject. He let him go on, nodding every so often, giving Aren the rare gift of an attentive ear.

Encouraged, Aren's words spilled faster. "And the house itself… it's normal, ordinary. That's important. If it's a creepy old mansion, the audience expects horror. But if it's just a couple's bedroom, the kitchen, the hallway you've walked a thousand times… it becomes personal. You can't dismiss it as fiction, because it feels too close to home."

His voice picked up speed, his passion driving him forward. "And the budget stays low because you don't need big sets. It's all about sound design, timing, where the camera sits. That's the genius. I can pull this off without Hollywood backing, without millions. All it takes is commitment and a crew willing to bleed for the story."

Rex finally raised a hand. "Alright, slow down, Spielberg."

"Spielberg?" Aren didn't understand.

"Ahem! I mean great director," Rex coughed, he forgot that there was no Spielberg in this world.

Aren blinked, then let out a nervous laugh. "Maybe. I just… I believe in it. Even if no one else does."

"That's exactly why I put money on the table," Rex said, his tone steady. "But," Rex continued, leaning back, "let me play devil's advocate for a second. You've got the bones. You've got atmosphere…" He leaned forward slightly. "You can push it further."

Aren tilted his head, curious now rather than defensive. "Further how?"

"Think of tension like a heartbeat," Rex explained. "Right now your script breathes, but the rhythm sometimes slips. A scene lingers too long, or a reveal comes before the audience's nerves are tight enough. For example, the bedroom camera sequence… you build it well, but you give away too much by night three. Stretch that. Make them beg for something to happen. Let them dread the silence itself."

Aren frowned, chewing on the thought. "…But if I cut that, won't it get too slow?"

"Not if you balance it. Keep the little stuff, the creaks, the shadows. Think of it like… boiling water. First you hear the soft bubbling, then a few clinks against the pot, then the full rolling boil. Don't dump it all in at once."

Aren's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes… I see what you mean. So instead of the bed covers moving early, I could… hold back, use sound first. A creak, a faint shadow. The audience leans in, waiting, and when it finally bursts—"

"It lands twice as hard," Rex finished for him.

The two shared a brief smile, like co-conspirators.

Rex continued, "And some parts you can trim. The subplot with the friend who doesn't believe? It weakens the flow. Too much time spent proving the haunting to someone outside the house takes away from the claustrophobia. Keep the focus inside. Make the house a cage."

" You don't want a third of the film being doors creaking. You need escalation. Peaks and valleys. Small scare, normal moment, then a bigger scare, then relief, then bam—hit 'em harder. Like pulling a rubber band back, then snapping it."

Aren nodded slowly, chewing on the idea. "So, less dragging, more rhythm."

Aren leaned forward eagerly, nodding. "Yes. That's… that's perfect. You're right. I didn't see it that way before. If the couple is trapped alone with the entity, no escape, no external validation… then the fear becomes suffocating."

"Exactly. And you've got that possession bit near the end? Where the girlfriend's acting strange?"

"Yeah, that's—" Aren's eyes lit up again. "That's where it all breaks loose. The slow burn finally pays off."

"Good. But make it sharper. Right now, it drags a little. Too many 'is she or isn't she' scenes. Cut a few. Make the shift sudden, jarring. One night she's normal, next night she's standing by the bed for hours straight while the guy sleeps. That's the real gold. And that's what makes it terrifying as hell."

(End of Chapter)