BLAIRWOOD STREETS – EARLY MORNING – SUMMER
The sun's barely up, but the heat is already rising off the pavement in shimmering waves.
JOHN BOOKER walks down the sidewalk in full uniform — thick police gear, long-sleeved shirt, his signature bandages wrapped around his face and hands. His hat is pulled low to block the sun, and a fresh layer of gauze peeks out from under his collar.
He mumbles to himself, dragging his boots through the dust.
JOHN (grumbling):
"Summer break, they said. Kids are home, it'll be quiet, they said…"
He wipes at the back of his neck, but the bandages have soaked through with sweat. Every step feels heavier than the last.
JOHN:
"And now I'm workin' mornings… in this heat? What am I, a roasted marshmallow?"
A car drives by, blasting obnoxious pop music. John glares at it like it personally offended him.
JOHN:
"Night shift had silence and moonlight. This—"
(points upward)
"—this is hell on Earth. The sun's out to finish what Osamu started."
He passes by a sprinkler going off in someone's yard and stares at it with longing.
JOHN:
"I swear if one more bird chirps at me, I'm gonna pistol-whip a pigeon."
A group of kids bike past, laughing. One of them waves at him. John raises a hand half-heartedly.
JOHN (quietly):
"At least someone's enjoyin' this damn weather."
He pulls out a rag from his back pocket, dabs at his face underneath the bandages, then hisses.
JOHN:
"Sunlight's like acid on these burns. Feels like my skin's tryin' to jump off my bones."
He reaches the local coffee shop, pushing the door open. The bell jingles.
INT. COFFEE SHOP – CONTINUOUS
Cold air rushes over him. He exhales like he's walked into paradise.
JOHN:
"Blessed be the AC. You, my friend, are the real savior of mankind."
The young barista behind the counter stares, visibly intimidated.
BARISTA:
Uh… same as always, Officer Booker?
JOHN (nodding):
Extra black, extra strong, and make it quick. Before I melt into your floor.
He steps aside, resting his hands on the counter, mumbling again.
JOHN:
"Summer break… what a joke."
He glances at the "Happy Summer!" sign on the wall and sneers.
JOHN:
"I ain't smiled since '03."
JOHN'S POV THROUGH WINDOW
Outside, down the quiet suburban street, Erma and Amy are walking side-by-side. Amy is talking excitedly, gesturing with her hands, while Erma listens silently as usual.
Amy makes a joking throat-cutting motion, clearly being dramatic about something.
Then — without hesitation — Erma calmly pulls out an actual knife from her sleeve and begins walking toward town with purpose.
Amy's eyes go wide. She dashes forward and wraps her arms around Erma from behind, trying to stop her.
AMY
(shrieking)
That's not what I meant! That's not what I meant!!!
INT. JOHN'S
John's jaw slowly drops open as he watches the scene unfold.
JOHN
(flat, tired voice)
Oh, for fuck's sake...
He grabs his badge and keys, muttering the whole time.
JOHN
I swear this neighborhood is gonna kill me before the burns ever do...
JOHN
(shouting)
Hey! Hey, tiny Grim Reaper! Put the knife down!
Erma stops mid-step, tilting her head calmly — not with menace, just confusion. The knife remains loosely in her grasp.
Amy is still clinging to Erma's waist from behind, panic painted across her face.
AMY
(to John, frantic)
I didn't mean to say something bad! I was joking! I didn't think she'd—she'd actually do it!
John walks up slowly, hands raised, voice steady like he's talking to a bomb with a pulse.
JOHN
Erma. Kid. I don't know what kind of cryptic spirit rules your soul, but knives are not for solving problems... unless you're gutting a fish or fending off a Wendigo. And I really hope it's not that second one.
Erma slowly looks at the knife, then to Amy. She sighs—silently, as always—and slides the blade back into her sleeve like she's done it a hundred times.
Amy exhales in sheer relief and drops her grip.
JOHN
(to himself)
Jesus. I need hazard pay just for living in this neighborhood...
He eyes the two girls, then squints down the road where Erma had been heading.
JOHN
(to Amy, dry)
What'd you say this time?
AMY
(defensive, frantic)
I just said I felt like painting the town red!
JOHN
(flatly)
...Yeah. See, to you, that means fun. To her, that means a full-on massacre and a possible trip to the Shadow Realm.
AMY
I didn't think she'd literally—
JOHN
Don't take idioms literally around ghost girls, kid. It's like giving a toddler a grenade.
Erma just stands there innocently, eyes wide, knife still in hand like she's unsure why they're all upset.
John sighs heavily, walks over, and gently takes the knife from Erma's hand.
JOHN
(patting her head)
Go paint with watercolors, not arterial spray. Got it?
Erma gives a small nod. Amy exhales hard in relief.
AMY
Next time I'll say "let's hang out." That's safe, right?
JOHN
Depends who's listening.
He turns and begins walking away.
JOHN
(under his breath)
I need a damn vacation. Or an exorcist.
Amy and Erma walk off in the other direction.
AMY
...So how do you paint the town red without blood?
Erma shrugs.
Then a slow, mischievous grin crosses her lips.
EXT. BLAIRWOOD STREETS – MIDDAY
The sun blazes overhead. Officer John Booker drives slowly through the town in his cruiser, sweat building beneath his bandages. The AC barely works. He's grumbling to himself, sipping lukewarm coffee.
JOHN
(grumbling)
Damn heat… this town feels like it's sittin' on the sun's back porch.
Suddenly, his radio crackles to life.
DISPATCH (V.O.)
Unit 03, we've got a disturbance call. Mr. Smiles Dentistry. Witness says there's screaming inside and someone may be injured.
John sits up straighter, annoyed but alert.
JOHN
(sighing)
Because of course there is...
He flicks on the lights and heads toward Forest Avenue.
EXT. MR. SMILES DENTISTRY – MOMENTS LATER
John steps out of his cruiser, hand instinctively brushing against his holstered Colt. The glass front door is wide open. One of the flower pots outside is shattered. A pair of rosary beads lies on the sidewalk.
INT. MR. SMILES DENTISTRY – RECEPTION AREA
John enters to the sound of chaos—shouting, metallic clanging, and a voice trying to calm someone down.
He rounds the corner into the main room—
A priest lies unconscious on the floor, knocked cold, a bump forming on his forehead. Dr. Felix Smiles, the dentist, is standing in front of an examination chair, arms raised in panic.
SMILES
(panicked, trembling)
Erma! We're almost done! Please! Just… breathe!
In the chair, Erma is standing, hair wildly whipping in all directions like black fire, eyes glowing faintly. The air around her crackles unnaturally.
A nearby tray is bent. A dental lamp has been ripped from the ceiling. The room looks like a storm hit it.
John instinctively draws his Colt, aiming it low—not at Erma, but in case things go worse.
JOHN
What the hell happened here?
JOHN enters, expression unreadable behind the bandages. He takes one look at the priest, then at the wild-haired girl in the chair.
JOHN
(talking calmly)
Erma.
Her head jerks toward him, hair twitching. Her eyes are glowing faintly, watery with pain.
JOHN
Kid, I've been set on fire, dropped off a cliff, stitched back together by a guy named Rufus, and still showed up to work the next day. But even I can't handle dental work.
Erma stares. The glow in her eyes dims just a little.
JOHN
(softer)
You're tougher than me. One more molar. Then we leave, and I buy you a milkshake... or ten.
Dr. Smiles glances at John, hopeful.
SMILES
It'll take five seconds. I swear.
Erma slowly—very slowly—settles back in the chair. Her hair drops back around her face like a curtain. She closes her eyes and opens her mouth again.
SMILES
(gently)
Good girl... almost there...
He begins the extraction again. Father Dominic groans in the corner.
JOHN
(to himself)
I miss night shift.
After a while, the quiet is broken by the slow approach of Dr. Smiles—his white coat now wrinkled, his collar ripped, and a clear bite mark on his gloved hand. John Booker trails behind, limping slightly, a milkshake in one hand and a dead, unblinking stare in his eyes.
SMILES
(grimly, presenting Erma by the shoulder)
I believe this is yours.
SAM
So... how did she do, doc?
SMILES
(sarcastic, deadpan)
Well… she levitated dental equipment, flung the suction hose like a whip, knocked out Father Dominic—again—broke free of her safety straps, floated through the entire office like a haunted Roomba, bit me, and screamed in Latin I don't even think she knows.
Sam raises an eyebrow.
SMILES
(sighing)
Officer John here took most of the damage.
(turns to John)
I mean, a real tank, this guy.
John's eyes narrow.
JOHN
(dead serious)
Wait… there was a last time?
SMILES
(stepping away quickly)
Oh yes. She punched a hole in our drywall with her head and cursed the X-ray machine in Sumerian.
(pauses, brushing dust off his coat)
We'll be sending you the bill.
The doctor walks away muttering to himself about hazard pay, holy water, and why he didn't just go into orthodontics.
As Sam picks up Erma in his arms, she rests her head on his shoulder. John shakes his head in disbelief, still nursing his arm.
John (quietly, to Sam):
"You ever think of just… homeschooling?"
Sam (grinning):
"Every day."
Sam (warmly):
"Sam Williams. Erma's father. And, on days like this, emergency cleanup crew."
John (shaking his hand, nods):
"John Booker. Local officer. Burn victim. Occasional punching bag, apparently."
Milkshake Time – A Promise is a Promise
Exterior – Local Diner, just outside town. The afternoon sun casts long shadows as a quiet breeze passes through. The sign above the door buzzes faintly: "Milly's Malt & Diner."
Inside, the place is half-empty. 50s decor. A jukebox hums softly in the corner. John sits in a red leather booth, still bandaged and bruised from the dentist battle. Across from him is Erma, tiny, silent, with her milkshake glass almost taller than her head.
She sips quietly, her hair moving the straw without her lifting a finger.
John (grumbling, sipping coffee):
"I can't believe I got body-slammed by a ten-year-old over a toothbrush."
Erma tilts her head, expression blank, but there's a very faint upward twitch to her mouth—was that a smile?
John (sighs, then smirks):
"A deal's a deal, though. You took out a priest, shattered half a dental office… and still made it out with fewer bites than last time. That deserves a milkshake."
Erma raises her glass slightly in acknowledgment and sips again, still not speaking.
John (leaning back):
"You know, when I said I'd buy you a shake, I figured I'd still have a working spine by the end of the day."
Sam (deadpan):
"You sure you don't need a neck brace before going in there?"
John:
Don't worry. I've had worse."
Sam (raising an eyebrow):
"From dentistry?"
John:
"From life."
Sam (sips his coffee):
"Well, anyone who keeps their promise to my daughter after being assaulted by floating dental tools is alright in my book."
John (with a small grin):
"She earned that milkshake. Even if I lost a pint of blood getting her here."
Erma gently pushes her milkshake toward John again with her hair.
John (smirking):
"Sharing, huh? You're gonna make me soft, kid."
John (trying not to smile):
"...Thanks, kid. But next time, I'm bringing two priests."
Erma puts her milkshake down for a second and pulls out something from her pocket. It's the napkin drawing, with three figures: John, Erma, and Sam. They're all holding milkshakes. She pushes it across the table.
John picks it up slowly, staring at it in silence.
John (gruff, quietly):
"...She always draw like this?"
Sam (sipping his coffee):
"She only draws people she doesn't want to haunt."
Sam (softly, eyes steady):
"You know… I write horror for a living. Ghosts, monsters, demons… the usual. But you? You walk like you've been through all of it. The real kind."
John doesn't reply right away. His eyes drift to the reflection in the diner window — the faint burn marks that peek past the collar of his shirt, the wrappings on his hands.
Sam (careful, not pressing):
"What happened to you?"
A long silence follows. John exhales, heavy, like the question weighed more than it should. Erma glances at him now, her expression unreadable.
John (quietly):
"Japan. Years ago."
John (pausing for a moment, voice low):
"I come from a long line of military men. My family's been serving since the very foundation of America. Grandfathers, fathers, uncles — every one of them carried a rifle before they could drive a car. Naturally, I followed in their footsteps. Became a drill sergeant. Strict, by-the-book… until they sent me overseas."
Sam:
"Japan?"
John (nodding):
"Yeah. My assignment was to train young Japanese soldiers—green recruits mostly. Tough kids, but with heart. I whipped 'em into shape and earned some respect. After my duty ended, I figured I'd take a short vacation. Just a few weeks. See the country outside of the base. That's when I met her… Yori."
(John's voice falters slightly. He closes his eyes for a second.)
John:
"She was unlike anyone I'd ever met. Sharp mind, soft voice… eyes like she could see straight through you. We got close fast. Real close. I was going to ask her to marry me."
Sam (softly):
"She said yes?"
John (shaking his head):
"I never got the chance. Her father didn't like that a human was courting his daughter. Didn't like it one damn bit. So he... set me ablaze. Burned me alive and tossed me off a cliff like garbage."
Sam (stunned):
"Jesus Christ…"
John:
"I survived. Barely. Spent three years clawing my way back, both physically and mentally. I hunted for a weapon — a way to kill something like him. When I finally had it, I returned. I was ready to finish what he started… but then I saw her. Yori. Holding two children."
Sam:
"...Yours?"
John (eyes darkening):
"I didn't know. Still don't. They looked happy… so I walked away. Left the past behind, or tried to. Ended up here in Blairwood, patching together whatever pieces of myself are still left."
Sam (quiet):
"...You ever regret walking away?"
John (long pause):
"Every damn day."
Sam (quietly, after a long silence):
"John… that's one hell of a story. Tragic. Raw. Real."
(He leans forward a bit, hesitant.)
"I know this might sound like a weird time to ask, but… would you ever be okay with me using your story in one of my books?"
John (raising an eyebrow, tone cautious):
"You wanna write my story?"
Sam (nodding slowly):
"Not word-for-word. I'd change names, details. But the core of it—what you went through, the pain, the survival, the… choice to walk away—it's powerful. It could help people. Or at least make them feel something real for once."
John (leans back, thinking, voice flat):
"I didn't go through all that to end up as entertainment, Sam."
Sam (quickly, sincerely):
"It wouldn't be entertainment. It'd be truth wrapped in fiction. A message buried in pages. People need to hear stories like yours—not just the monsters and mayhem—but the soul underneath. The scars. The choices. I'd treat it with respect. I promise."
John (long pause, then sighs):
"...You write it like it matters—not just like a damn campfire tale—and we got a deal. Just… leave my name out of it."
Sam (smiling a little):
"You got it."
John (smirks faintly):
"And if you screw it up, I'll know. I still got friends in very weird places."
Sam (chuckling nervously):
"Noted."
Sam (adjusting his glasses, tone thoughtful):
"You know, John... if you're comfortable with it, I'd really like to hear more. Not just the pain or the scars, but the man behind all that."
(He gestures gently.)
"I write better when I can sit with someone. Listen. Ask questions. Would you consider coming over to my place sometime this week? I'll make coffee—or something stronger if you prefer."
John (grunts, folding his arms):
"Depends. You gonna psychoanalyze me like one of your characters?"
Sam (smiling lightly):
"Only a little. Occupational hazard. But seriously, I'd like to understand. Not as a writer, but as someone who's seen his fair share of ghosts and wonders how the hell you're still standing."
John (quietly):
"I don't stand. I just... don't fall over."
Sam (with a bit of sadness in his voice):
"Even that takes strength."
John (after a long pause, sighs):
"Alright. But no nosy questions about Yori unless I bring her up myself. Deal?"
Sam (nods respectfully):
"Deal. My place, Friday night. I'll make sure the kids are in bed, and the house is quiet. Just you, me... and the truth, if you're up for it."
John (standing up slowly):
"Don't expect too many happy endings, Sam. My life's not the kind you wrap up with a bow."
Sam (softly):
"Sometimes the most important stories don't end happy. They end honest."
The Williams Family Home — Later That Evening
The soft amber light of the setting sun filters into the cozy living room. Sam Williams steps inside, setting his notebook on a small table near the door. Across the room, Emiko Williams is folding laundry, humming softly, while Erma is sitting quietly in her room sketching.
But then, Erma's head lifts slightly.
From down the hall, she hears her father mutter to himself, a small grin tugging at his lips:
Sam (quietly):
"Well, looks like we're having a guest over Friday night…"
That was all Erma needed.
Her long black hair gently sways as she floats out of her room like a breeze. Her expression is blank, but there's a subtle brightness in her eyes. She stops in front of Sam, holding up her sketchpad with freshly scribbled words:
Erma's note:
"Is the burned man coming?"
Sam (startled, then chuckling):
"Were you listening in again?"
She tilts her head and gives him that quiet, innocent look only she can. Sam sighs, shaking his head fondly.
Sam:
"Yeah. He's coming. Said he'd drop by for a chat. Thought it'd be nice to invite him over."
Without hesitation, Erma twirls mid-air, floating down the hall to the dining room. She grabs her favorite cup—one shaped like a tiny black cauldron—and gently places it in front of the seat across from hers. The guest seat.
Emiko (walking in, smirking):
"She heard, huh?"
Sam:
"She always hears. She's been different ever since she met him. Like she sees something in him."
Emiko:
"Maybe she does. You know how she is with new people."
Meanwhile, in her room, Erma starts a new drawing. A sketch of John Booker, sitting on their couch. He looks tired, but his eyes—deep and hollow—are a little softer. Sitting beside him is a small ghost girl, holding out a milkshake.
A faint smile creeps onto Erma's face. She hugs her sketchbook tightly, eyes glowing softly in the dim room.