Screenwriting : Idol - Screenplay feedback by Shayla Booth

Can I have feedback for this scene? I have tried to describe characters, settings, it's my second screenplay and I want it to be good before I pitch. This is the logline: 'When Grace moves to a small town, the locals become dangerously obsessed with her, and she must uncover why she's the target of their fixation in order to escape before their obsession turns deadly.'

For context this is a prologue to the story:

EXT. MILLER HOUSE - NIGHT

A two-story colonial sits at the end of a tree-lined street in what should be a picture-perfect small town. White picket fence. Manicured lawn. American flag hanging limp in the suffocating stillness.

But tonight, it's under siege.

DOZENS OF TOWNSPEOPLE swarm the property like insects drawn to rotting meat. They press against windows, their breath fogging the glass in rhythmic patterns in, out, in, out, perfectly synchronized. They rattle doorknobs with mechanical precision. They climb onto the wraparound porch, moving on all fours, stepping over flower pots and trampling Claire's prized begonias into pulp.

Their faces are illuminated by the warm glow from inside the house. Some are CRYING. Tears streaming down their faces while they SMILE. Others have eyes rolled back, showing only whites. A WOMAN in blood-spattered pyjamas claws at a window screen. She doesn't stop. Her exposed nail beds leave dark smears on the glass. She's LAUGHING.

The crowd moves as one organism, pulsing, breathing, reaching. When one person inhales, they all inhale. The sound is deafening.

INT. MILLER HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

The coffee table is overturned, family photos scattered across the floor, their glass frames cracked, the images beneath staring up accusingly. Furniture has been shoved haphazardly against doors, the antique credenza, the leather armchair David's father left him, even the piano bench. Everything.

Windows rattle in their frames like teeth chattering. The whole house GROANS like something alive and dying.

DAVID MILLER (40s, high school history teacher, wire-rim glasses cracked and hanging off one ear, button-down shirt soaked with sweat and something darker) drags a heavy oak bookshelf across the hardwood floor. His hands are bleeding. The bookshelf leaves a dark smear behind it.

Books tumble off the shelves- Gibbon's Decline and Fall, Team of Rivals, a battered copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. They land with wet, heavy thuds.

DAVID

(voice cracking, almost gone from shouting)

Kitchen! Claire—check the kitchen door!

CLAIRE MILLER (40s, ER nurse, still in her blood-stained scrubs from the hospital, dark hair matted to her skull, a deep gash bleeding freely from her temple down her neck) sprints past him. Her sneakers leave red footprints on the hardwood. She's running on something beyond adrenaline now. Beyond fear. Pure survival instinct.

CLAIRE

It's locked! Deadbolt! Chain! They're at the back door!

Her voice breaks into a sob.

A CRASH. Multiple HANDS smash through the living room window simultaneously, sending a explosion of glass across the Persian rug. The hands grope blindly, fingers splayed, searching, caressing the air.

One hand belongs to MRS. CHEN—Sarah's piano teacher. Her fingers are broken, bent at impossible angles. She's still wearing her wedding ring. The skin around it has split.

David grabs the aluminium baseball bat—Ethan's, from Little League and swings hard. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. Bones break. The hands don't withdraw. They keep reaching, even as fingers dangle uselessly.

SARAH MILLER (16, their daughter, long dark hair tangled and stuck to her face with sweat, eyes wild and red-rimmed, wearing an oversized hoodie torn at the shoulder) stands frozen halfway up the staircase. She clutches her younger brother against her side so tightly he can barely breathe.

SARAH

(voice breaking, barely audible)

Dad—dad, what did we do? What did we DO?

From outside, a CHANT begins. Low at first, almost melodic, a lullaby sung by a hundred voices. Then building, building, building—

TOWNSPEOPLE (O.S.)

(overlapping, frantic, ecstatic)

Sarah-David-Claire-Ethan... The Millers-The Millers-The Millers... The family-our family-THE FAMILY...

The voices fracture into glossolalia, speaking in tongues, animal sounds mixed with names.

David's face goes corpse-white. He looks at Claire. Her eyes are hollow. They both understand now.

This is about all of them. The entire family. Together. As one.

CLAIRE

(whispered, horrified)

They want to keep us.

Sarah can't move. She's transfixed by the windows where faces press against the glass like specimens pinned to boards. Faces she knows. Faces she trusted.

At one window: MR. HAYES, who runs the hardware store, his face pressed so hard against the glass that blood vessels burst in his eyes. He's mouthing something over and over. His teeth scrape the glass.

At another: PRINCIPAL MORRISON, mascara running down her face in black rivers, hands splayed against the pane. At the side window: JESSICA WONG, Sarah's best friend since third grade, still in her soccer uniform. She's sobbing hysterically, her face contorted.