Monster Cave

Screenplay draft

Title: I get so many ideas AI is the perfect tool to get them out fast. I made this…
Credit: Written by AI Assistant
Author: AI Assistant
Draft date: October 10, 2024
Contact: via script supervisor

FADE IN.

INT. MONSTER CAVE RETAIL FLOOR - NIGHT

Fluorescent tubes flicker across wet stalactites turned into shelves. Jars of toenails sit beside shrink-wrapped coffin liners. A handwritten sign reads "Blood Types Sorted While You Wait." Oxblood-red labels catch the green light. Dripping water echoes from deeper passages.

GREG FINCH, 38, beige suit damp with rain, ducks through the entrance. He pants, checks his watch, then peers back outside. A METER MAID’s shadow passes the cave mouth. Greg flattens against a display of scream suppressant bottles. The bottles rattle softly.

From the shadows above, BARNABAS GRIME, pale with an exaggerated widow’s peak, descends upside-down from the ceiling. His black cape lined with receipts brushes the limestone. Long fingers twitch once.

BARNABAS
Shift starts now. Register’s under the third stalagmite on the left. Don’t let the gargoyles eat the change again.

Greg spins. The cave’s wet gray walls glisten under the buzzing lights. Barnabas is already gone, vanished into the rafters. A low growl echoes from Aisle 9. Greg looks at the cracked register beneath the dripping stalagmite, then at his own name tag still clipped to his suit. He flips it over to hide the accounting firm logo.

Greg steps behind the counter. His shoes stick to a patch of dried plasma. He scans the shelves: hoof polish in neon pink tubs, vintage screams in mason jars, glow-in-the-dark ectoplasm tubes stacked in symmetrical rows. The fluorescent hum fills the silence.

Greg clears his throat.

GREG
Hello? Anyone still here?

No answer. Only the steady drip of water and the distant grinding of stone from the gargoyle alcove above the entrance. Greg adjusts his loosened tie. Sweat stains darken under the arms of his too-large suit.

He reaches for the register drawer. It sticks. He yanks harder. The drawer pops open with a metallic ding that bounces off the stalactites. Inside sit neat stacks of crumpled bills and a single blood-stained receipt.

Greg glances toward the cave mouth. The meter maid’s shadow has moved on. He exhales, shoulders loosening for half a second, then straightens when the low growl returns, closer now.

BARNABAS (O.S.)
(whispering from above)
Smile when you say it.

Greg forces a tight, apologetic grin at the empty air. The fluorescents buzz louder. One tube flickers, casting brief shadows across rows of coffin air fresheners. Greg stands alone behind the counter, name tag reversed, waiting for the first customer.

INT. MONSTER CAVE RETAIL FLOOR - NIGHT

Fluorescent tubes buzz and flicker green across wet limestone shelves. Jars of labeled toenails line the oxblood-red bins beside shrink-wrapped coffin liners. A dripping stalagmite supports a cracked register. The handwritten sign above it reads “Blood Types Sorted While You Wait.”

GREG FINCH, 38, beige suit soaked at the shoulders, presses flat against the scream-suppressant display. His watch ticks. Outside the cave mouth a meter maid’s flashlight sweeps past, then fades.

From the ceiling, BARNABAS GRIME descends upside-down, cape pockets rustling with receipts. His chalk-white face and widow’s peak hang level with Greg’s.

BARNABAS
You’re late. Register’s under the third stalagmite on the left. Every monster needs one thing that still scares them—service with a smile.

Greg spins, mouth open.

GREG FINCH
I—I just ducked in to—

BARNABAS
Don’t let the gargoyles eat the change again. Full-moon rush starts at dusk. Restock the ectoplasm before it dries.

Barnabas releases his grip. He glides upward into the rafters, cape folding like a closing ledger. A single receipt flutters down and lands on the register keys. Dawn light creeps across the cave mouth, turning the fluorescent tubes a sickly pink. Greg stands alone. A low growl echoes from Aisle 9. He looks at his name tag, then flips it face-down against his damp lapel.

INT. MONSTER CAVE RETAIL FLOOR - NIGHT

Fluorescent tubes buzz and flicker over stalactite shelves. Jars of toenails line one row beside shrink-wrapped coffin liners. A hand-lettered sign in oxblood ink reads BLOOD TYPES SORTED WHILE YOU WAIT. Another rack holds spray cans of scream suppressant, the labels peeling at the edges.

GREG FINCH stands alone behind the cracked register. His beige suit clings damp at the shoulders. He turns the name tag over again, then sets it face-down on the stone counter. Water drips from a stalagmite onto the receipt roll.

Greg steps out from behind the register. He runs a finger along a display of glow-in-the-dark ectoplasm in small glass vials. The liquid inside pulses faint green when the fluorescents surge. He picks up a jar labeled VINTAGE SCREAMS, 1957. The lid rattles softly.

He moves toward the cave mouth. Rain still falls outside. Greg leans forward, checking both directions along the hillside path. The METER MAID’s shadow stretches across the entrance again, ticket book open, flashlight beam sweeping the wet pavement.

Greg flattens against a rack of hoof polish. Three cans topple. One rolls under a display of neon pink sale signs that read FULL MOON SPECIAL—STOCK UP NOW. He crouches to retrieve it, breath held.

The meter maid’s shadow lingers. Greg stays low. His eyes track the rows of merchandise: a stack of hex mirrors, a bin of used fangs, a rack of torn flannel shirts sized for broad shoulders. He exhales through his nose and stands.

Greg walks back to the register. He opens the cash drawer. It sticks, then slides open to reveal a single crumpled receipt and a handful of loose change. He closes it again. The low growl from deeper in the cave echoes once and fades.

Greg pulls his tie fully loose. He checks his watch, then the cave mouth one more time. The meter maid’s shadow has not moved. He turns toward the aisles, fluorescent light catching the sweat stains under his arms.

INT. GARGOYLE SECURITY ALCOVE - NIGHT

Three stone gargoyles perch above the cave mouth, claws curled around yellowed ticket stubs instead of prey. One has a chewed receipt jammed between its teeth. Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, casting flickering green light across wet limestone. The air smells of damp stone and old plasma.

Greg Finch steps toward the exit, beige suit still damp, tie loosened. He glances back at the retail floor, then peers outside where a meter maid’s flashlight sweeps past. He exhales, reaches for the threshold.

The middle gargoyle’s head grinds sideways with a low stone scrape. Its eyes flare faint red. The other two shift on their perches, wings unfolding in slow, deliberate cracks.

Greg freezes. He clears his throat, offers a nervous half-smile to the empty air.

GREG FINCH
Just stepping out for a second. Fresh air.

The left gargoyle drops a single stone claw onto the floor, blocking the path. Ticket stubs flutter down like confetti. The right one grinds its beak, producing a sound like a cash register drawer jamming.

Greg backs up one step. The gargoyles track him without blinking. Their shadows stretch long across the oxblood-labeled shelves behind him.

He turns, looks deeper into the cave where the retail floor glows under the same flickering tubes. Jars of toenails line the nearest stalactite. A low growl echoes from the register area.

Greg adjusts his name tag, flips it so the accounting logo stays hidden, and walks back inside. The gargoyles settle with final stone clicks, eyes dimming to dull gray.

INT. MONSTER CAVE RETAIL FLOOR - NIGHT

Fluorescent tubes buzz and flicker above wet stalactites turned into crooked shelves. Jars of toenails line one row beside shrink-wrapped coffin liners stamped with oxblood-red labels. A handwritten sign swings from a stalactite: "Blood Types Sorted While You Wait."

GREG FINCH stands alone in the beige suit, rain still darkening the shoulders. He scans t

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