Harry Jackson had formed his every morning daily schedule in his new office: strong espresso, overnight stock moves, and then all of the scripts that had come in from all corners of the industry. He had formed a simple writers cave - not for television this time, for his film aspirations.
He wanted something lean, something sharp and something unsettling. After days of sorting through mind-numbing speculative horrors, trite thrillers and screen formatted novellas where the first part was promising everything simply not felt like it.
He absently looked over everyday whatever he could find that got submitted to Inktip, Script Pipeline, and the occasional direct attachment submission he would get from friends of friends from the screenwriting community. He would look over ghost stories, psychological twists, and even a couple of misguided action pieces, again, nothing had "light-a-fire"-ed him to march forward.
Then one gray Wednesday, nestled somewhere between an amateur detective piece and a teen romance piece situated in Napa Valley, something stood out. The title was lovely: The Providence Ritual.
The logline stopped his finger mid-scroll: A disgraced journalist returns to his eerie hometown of Providence, Rhode Island, to write about a suicide cluster, but uncovers a sinister pattern suggesting these deaths are ritualistic executions. As he descends into obsession, he confronts the truth: the town's elite are part of a centuries-old secret society protecting something buried beneath Providence—and they've been expecting him.
He leaned back, his heart racing. This was something else, something cold and atmospheric, something he could manipulate.
He downloaded the first twenty pages then the rest. He worked late. His eyes scanned that dim office until dawn came and the mellow gold of the city lights in Los Angeles changed to sharp neon.
The script had the right mix—not just small town dread but with supernatural impressions trending towards pure nihilism, the specter of social degradation. The characters jumped off the page, especially the journalist, who was haunted and scrappy.
The longstanding Rhode Island setting was bracketed in mossy detail; and the ritualistic society underneath was practically exclaiming for a visual treatment.
Except for one problem: the writer credited—Gerald Northcott—had died five years prior. There was no representation; no responses. Ghost. Some other suspect must've uploaded it unrepresented to their profile. This would explain the raw form but further complicate the rights.
Harry got Marsh on the phone. "I need some due diligence. Identify any estates, any surviving rights-holders. If it all falls to public domain no one, I can buy the script unnamed as a property, then resolve it myself."
A week later, Marsh confirmed no heirs remain, but the estate goes to some distant cousin who lives in New Hampshire. marsh made a few discreet calls which led to a meeting. Harry bought the script outright for a mere six figures-- held in escrow under FunTime Films thereby, Harry called the team who generated SpongeBob and Power Rangers.
The duo, Bob Wilson and his brother Sky Wilson, who had helped clarify writing mindsets, jokes, and tempo. When Harry had them in his office, he slid the script over to them.
"I found our next film," he said, as their fingers skimmed the pages. "I want it lean-- no CG skyscrapers fall. Only dread and discovery. Providence. Rituals. Obsessions. "
They began right away, hadn't let agreement linger more than a few minutes, offered each other thoughts and ideas back and forth in a hush of hum. Bob suggested sharpening the first act, setting up the journalism's arrival to add lingering eeriness.
Sky spotted character beats could parallel the ethical erosion of elite institutions. Together, they punched-up the dialogue, deepened the atmosphere, and solidified the creeping tension of the archive.