u/beardol

I’ve tried everything. Damp cloths. Lubricating drops. Boiling the kettle until the room is a sauna. Nothing works. My eyes are so damn dry.

It all started with that damn box. I never should have bought it at the flea market.

I just thought it was neat - a charming little tchotchke. Metallic, brushed brass, and no bigger than a small brick. On the front were two deep glass lenses; on the back, two eyes carved into the metal. A rectangular shutter button sat on top. The only writing was stamped on the bottom in a raised, winding font:

The Buskin Box.

The woman at the stall couldn't tell me much. A customer had traded it for an antique Sheffield penknife two weeks prior. She only remembered that the guy looked utterly exhausted - "like he hadn’t slept in weeks." She took the twenty bucks I offered for it, I tossed it into my tote, and I went home.

It was later that I took a closer look and realised what I had on my hands: The Buskin Box was a vintage viewing toy, like a View Master or a stereoscope.

I lifted it to my face and peered into the deep black lenses.

The image inside was dim. As my eyes adjusted, I made out a man standing in front of heavy red velvet curtains, like the backdrop of an old vaudeville stage. He was facing away from me, wearing a buttoned white shirt with his pomaded hair slicked back.

I pressed the shutter button.

Flash.

A blinding light burned the scene onto my retinas as a piercing, high-pitched note shrieked in my ears - the kind of sudden pressure you feel when an airplane cabin drops.

Nausea hit me like a wave, and I dropped the box. Then, just as quickly as it came, the sickness vanished.

I picked up the box and looked back into the lenses. Nothing. Complete darkness. I guess I broke the light mechanism when it hit the floor - twenty bucks down the drain.

When I blinked, the afterimage lingered. You know how staring at the sun leaves a floating burnt spot in your vision? It was like that.

Except it didn't fade.

Every time I blinked, the image refreshed. All afternoon, the ghost of that skinny man and his red curtains floated in front of my vision. By nightfall, I had a killer headache, so I called it early and went to bed.

Lying in the dark, the image grew unnaturally vivid. I found myself inspecting the scene behind my eyelids: the crimson drapes, the spotlight, the man’s silhouette. It felt so tangible I could almost reach out and touch it.

Then I noticed something impossible. The man was turning.

Earlier, I had only seen the back of his head. Now, he had rotated just enough for me to catch the profile of a long nose and the edge of a wet, bloodshot eye.

I figured I was exhausted and forced myself to sleep.

I don't remember what I dreamed, but I woke up at dawn screaming, soaked in sweat.

My vision was still wrecked. Every blink brought up the picture, locking me in a feverish haze for the whole of the morning. I was unable to function, so I went back to bed, closed the bedroom curtains, and tried to sleep it off.

That’s when I noticed the image had shifted again.

The man had turned completely. He was staring straight at me.

He looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting - slicked hair, white apron, buttoned collar. But his expression was pure malice. His eyes were rimmed red, dripping wet, and filled with a horrifying mix of agony and rage. It was an unmistakable look that screamed: HOW DARE YOU LOOK AT ME?

I blinked twice, trying to clear my sight.

He moved.

It was an inch, but it was real. His face contorted into deeper fury and he was closer to me than he had been the moment before.

Panic set in. I sprinted to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto my face, blinking rapidly to wash the hallucination away.

That was a mistake.

He moved with every single blink. Frame by frame. A sick, living flipbook.

Blink. Move. Blink. Move.

He was raising his arm, reaching toward me. I could feel hatred radiating off him like heat from a fire. He despised being seen, and he wanted to destroy me for looking.

I ran into the living room, snatched the box off the floor, and searched desperately for an off switch, a latch, instructions - anything.

But there was nothing. Just those three stamped words: The Buskin Box.

In a rage, I slammed it against the hardwood.

The moment it impacted, a white-hot spike of agony shot through my frontal lobe. I collapsed, trembling and sweating as the pain ebbed away.

When I looked behind my eyes again, he was right there. "Mr. Buskin" was leaning forward, his clubbed fingers inches from my face.

I had fifteen, maybe twenty blinks left before he touched me. And I knew - with the absolute certainty of instinct - that if he touched me, I was dead.

I had to ration my blinks. Keep my eyes open. Buy time.

But the harder you try not to blink, the faster your body forces you to. I burned through six blinks in three minutes. His teeth set into a snarl; his hand strained forward.

Hysteria threatened to grip me. So I tried the opposite: I clamped my eyes shut. If I didn't blink, he couldn't move.

I slammed my eyelids down and pressed my knuckles into my sockets. But in the dark, his hatred was amplified. Malice, disgust, and loathing washed over me so intensely my skin felt like it was peeling off in a boiling pot. I couldn't bear it.

I opened my eyes. I was out of time.

I stumbled into the kitchen and yanked open the drawer, pulling out a dull chef's knife.

Blink.

He was closer.

Oh god. Okay. Keep it simple. Pinch the skin. Drag the blade. Pinch. Drag. Pinch. Then drag.

I grabbed my left eyelid, pinched the skin tight, and brought the metal up.

I began to slice. Halfway through, I realized the screaming echoing in the kitchen was coming from my own mouth.

I threw the wet scrap of flesh into the sink. I remember thinking how small it looked. Barely anything at all.

Blink. Fuck!

Right eye next. My fingers were slick with blood, making it impossible to grip the eyelid. I started laughing- or maybe crying; I couldn't tell anymore.

If I couldn’t pinch it, I would have to slice directly. I pointed the tip of the blade at the base of my right brow.

I counted to three. I held my breath.

And I pushed the knife around my eye.

That was three hours ago. I think. I might have lost time.

It’s hard to type with blood dripping onto the keys, and the screen is a blur, but I haven't blinked once.

I know if I do, Mr. Buskin will be there. Ready to get me.

But goddamn. My eyes are so dry.

My manager, Sally, sent me. I’ve recently been promoted to the head of department at my firm, and HR decided I needed "updated emergency response certifications." I didn't want to go. I hated the idea of spending a full workday away from emails, but it was made clear that missing it wasn't an option.

The morning of the course, I got a weird text from an unknown number at 6:00 AM:

PLEASE NOTE. TODAY'S FIRST AID COURSE HAS CHANGED LOCATION. IT WILL NOW TAKE PLACE AT FALCON HOUSE, 144 INDUSTRIAL ESTATE.

I checked the address on Google Maps. The venue was on the complete opposite side of the city in the middle of a decaying, sun-bleached industrial park. A bad day had just gotten a lot worse.

When I finally pulled up after sitting in two hours of traffic, the industrial park looked even worse than it had on my laptop.

The rusted tenant sign at the entrance was a fading graveyard of failed businesses. Peeling away at the very bottom like rotting skin was the name: HUFFMAN HEALTH & SAFETY.

I parked next to a row of five seemingly abandoned cars. It was only later - after everything happened - that I realized every single one had its registration plates stripped off.

I walked into the reception area. A tiny, lonely bell chimed overhead. It was quiet except for the violent, low hum of flickering fluorescent lights.

Hanging on the wall were framed photos of previous course attendees proudly holding completion certificates. Looking closely at their faces, I figured whoever took them was a terrible photographer: every single person in those photos had their eyes closed.

"Hello?" I called out.

"One second!" a gruff voice yelled from a back room.

I heard a heavy, wet dragging sound. Thud. Drag. Thud.

A heavy man with long sideburns stepped out and introduced himself as Fred Huffman. He was a meaty guy straining inside a tight nylon shirt, wiping something white and tacky off his hands with a grimy rag.

He handed me his sign-in clipboard. There was only one name on the entire list: mine. I wouldn’t even be able to phone it in or hide in a crowd. It would just be Fred teaching me the ins and outs of first aid.

He led me into a sterile training room with a single desk in the middle.

"Today will be hands-on," Fred explained, pacing slowly. "We will be simulating blood loss, breakages, and trauma. A good first-aider cannot be afraid of the human body."

He switched on an overhead projector, beaming an image of himself standing beside a standard CPR dummy onto the opposite wall. It looked like the one from the front of that Radiohead album.

"Learning to save lives on a piece of cold latex like this one is useless," Fred intoned. "Luckily, you signed up for the only course in the world using a brand-new training model of my own design. One with the exact weight, fluids, temperature, and feel of a real human."

Fred requested a drumroll. As I awkwardly tapped my desk, he retreated into the back room. The wet dragging sound returned.

When he backed into the room, he hauled out a full-sized, shiny plastic figure and laid her down in front of me. He told me her name was "Rita."

Rita was a deeply uncanny training mannequin. She was covered from the top of her bald head, right down to the ends of her toes in glistening white skin. Dead, glassy eyes stared at me over a mouth frozen wide open in a silent scream. Weirdly, Fred had even dressed her in a cheap summer dress.

"Touch her," Fred instructed.

I hesitated, then reached out to grip the plastic arm. I froze.

She was warm. Too warm.

"How?" I asked, pulling my hand back.

Fred tapped his nose. "Secret of the trade. Now, let's practice CPR. Four compressions, two breaths."

I knelt beside the plastic figure, placed my hands on her sternum, and leaned down. Reluctantly, I put my mouth over hers and delivered a tentative breath.

As the air passed into her chest, a long, slow gasp rattled out of her throat - an agonizing, gurgling moan.

I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, hyperventilating. "What the fuck was that?!"

Fred burst into a wheezing laugh. "Agonal breathing! It's a natural reflex as air passes the vocal cords. I told you she was realistic."

Before I could process it, Fred moved to the next module: wound care. He pulled out a heavy flick knife and, without warning, drove it straight into Rita’s plastic forearm.

A jagged tear opened, spraying a dark, syrupy red liquid that hit my clothes and splashed directly into my mouth. It didn't taste like dye or syrup. It tasted thick and metallic - like copper pennies.

Panic set in and I thought I was going to faint. I excused myself, stumbling into the grimy restroom to scrub the drying red crust off my face. My hands shook so violently I couldn't grip the paper towels. Pulling out my phone, I saw a voicemail from Sally:

"Where the hell are you? The first aid organizer called asking why you missed the session. If Head Office finds out you skipped..."

My stomach dropped into a void. If Head Office hadn’t sent the change of location, who had?

I slowly cracked open the restroom door. Across the hall, Fred stood over Rita, gently stroking her synthetic cheek and adjusting her dress while whispering, "Very pretty."

I stepped into the hallway, trying to act calm. "Fred... I just remembered I have an urgent meeting. Sorry, but I have to leave."

Fred turned slowly, the light behind his eyes completely flat.

"That's a shame. We haven't even gotten to my favorite part of the course. Breakages."

Without looking away, Fred grabbed Rita’s plastic forearm in both hands and snapped it over his knee with a horrific crack.

The synthetic skin ripped open and splintered; real human bone punched through the white plastic, dripping with fresh marrow and blood.

I ran as fast as I could.

I sprinted down the corridor toward the front exit and threw my weight against the glass doors.

Locked.

It’s still a blur, but I think I grabbed a plastic reception chair and smashed it into the glass until the bottom pane shattered.

Behind me, I heard Fred walking down the hall, his footsteps heavy and unhurried.

I threw myself headfirst through the broken pane, crawling through as quickly as possible. By the time I scrambled back into the front seat of my car and threw it into gear, Fred was at the door watching me. He was laughing. Actually laughing.

Naturally, HR didn’t believe me when I finally recounted what happened. They assumed I was offering over-the-top excuses for skipping a course they knew I didn’t want to attend. It took extensive convincing to finally get the police involved.

A detective listened and agreed to drive by the industrial estate with me. But there was no sign for Huffman Health & Safety anymore. It looked as though it had never been there.

We checked the building: no broken window pane, no sign of any business - just an empty unit.

Knowing I wasn't crazy, I demanded that the site's security team unlock the building so we could look around. At that point, the detective was likely just humoring me, but he agreed.

There was nothing inside. No reception desk, no projector, no Rita, no Fred.

The only thing we found was a small puddle in the very back room - white, sticky, with a plastic sheen under the light. The edges were already drying. Those were the parts that felt like human skin.

Word has gotten around at work. People side-eye me and laugh when I pass, finding it bizarre that I'm sticking to a story everyone else thinks is bullshit.

I know one thing, though: if you are ever sent to an emergency first-aid course at an isolated industrial park, and the trainer asks you to perform CPR on a dummy that feels warm - please, get the hell out of there as fast as you can.

Hi all,

I've previously seen people share their feedback from the Slamdance screenplay competition on here, and it was useful in helping me to decide to enter my most recent screenplay - ESCA, so thought I would do the same.

Logline: After his father is killed in a quarry blast that awakens something buried beneath the chalk, a lonely fifteen year old boy becomes obsessed with the beautiful woman appearing in an empty house and is drawn into a predatory bargain that turns his grief, shame, and sexual confusion into a feeding ground.

Feedback:

'This is a striking, nasty, emotionally specific horror script with a strong command of place, period, and adolescent humiliation. The Writer does a great job making Luke’s world feel cramped from every angle: the dead father, the exhausted mother, the brutal brother, the schoolyard sexual cruelty, and Chivers’ grooming all press on him before the monster ever fully reveals itself. That is what makes the late turn work, when the Woman is exposed as the Creature’s lure and Luke chooses to bring it more people rather than simply escape. The Chivers set piece gives the script its sharpest moral complication, because the victim is horrifyingly chosen but Luke’s cold participation still changes the read of him in a lasting way. The main issue is that the first half occasionally circles Luke’s isolation and sexual frustration longer than it needs to before the story’s active bargain takes hold. A next draft could sharpen the middle by giving Luke a clearer escalating objective earlier, so the Hadfield house plot does not only seduce him, but starts actively reorganising his choices sooner. The ending, with Luke pulled underground and then seemingly reappearing months later, lands with a strong, bleak final image.'

I'm really happy with this feedback. It shows proper engagement with the story, and an understanding of the vibe I was trying to achieve. Their criticism is valid I think, and something I will look to refine in further drafts.

Overall, I'm really happy I have entered the Slamdance screenplay competition.

Hope this helps others considering it.