The Thirteenth Floor
The hotel doesn't have a thirteenth floor. But tonight, all four of you were assigned a room on it. The elevator says it exists. The numbers on your keycards say it exists. The night staff says it doesn't. You are each alone in identical rooms. Something on this floor wants you to stay.
Cinematic, intimate, fluorescent-meets-warm-tungsten. Hotel-room horror: teal-and-amber, slightly faded carpet, the wrong kind of art on the walls. Everything is too clean and too symmetrical. Vertical 9:16 framing throughout. Plates should always leave the center third clear for the performer. The four rooms must look ALMOST identical — the horror is in the small differences.
4 roles — each records from a different vantage. Roles can't be swapped mid-session.
The Business Traveler
phone_selfieMid-career professional, here for a Tuesday-to-Thursday work trip. Filming because they think they're documenting evidence — a complaint for the front desk, maybe a lawsuit.
You are not scared yet. You are annoyed. You are someone whose defense mechanism is competence and a calm voice. Hold that as long as you can. The cracks come later.
The Honeymooner
phone_selfieNewlywed, alone in the room. The new spouse stepped out twenty minutes ago to find ice. Has not come back. The hallway is empty. Filming because they don't know what else to do with their hands.
Whatever you are projecting — calm, performative happiness, anger, worry — there is something else underneath it. Let the something else show only when you stop talking.
The Conspiracy Theorist
secret_recordingBooked this room on purpose. Has been researching the Westmark Hotel for three years. The thirteenth floor is what they came here to find. Recording for their followers.
You are not afraid. You are vindicated. You have wanted this for three years. Speak with the giddy controlled energy of someone whose hypothesis is being confirmed in real time. The fear comes only when something stops fitting your theory.
The Night Clerk
phone_selfieWorks the overnight desk at the Westmark. Not a guest tonight — a staff member who took the elevator up to check on a complaint and has not been able to return downstairs. Recording in case this is the last thing they ever record.
You have rehearsed this moment in your head for years. Now it is happening and the rehearsal didn't help. Speak like someone whose job has trained them to be calm, who is using every muscle of that training. There is exhaustion under it, and something like relief.
Check-In
"How does each character first describe the impossible room they are in, and what gives away what they are actually here for? "
The Hallway
"What happens the first time each character opens their door and looks down the hallway? "
Knock
"Someone, or something, has knocked on each of their doors. What do they do? "
Mirror
"Each character notices something about themselves, or the room, that they didn't notice before. What is it? "
Checkout
"The thirteenth floor does not let people leave the way it brought them in. What does each character do with the last recording they will make tonight? "