Remember to shower.

Jake Harlan wakes each day to the same buzzing phone: 'Remember to shower.' Months after his roommate's suicide, the messages escalate from reminders to threats, manifesting as black mold blooming across his skin and apartment. As Jake spirals deeper into squalor, the spirit of his late friend reveals a horrific truth: every neglected shower summons another soul trapped in eternal decay. Forced to retrace their shared past, Jake uncovers a chain of suicides linked to a mysterious building-wide neglect epidemic. With his body literally rotting, he must choose between confronting buried guilt or joining the growing legion of the unwashed damned. A visceral descent into how small acts of self-care hold back oblivion, the film blends body horror with raw emotional intimacy.

INT. CRAMPED STUDIO APARTMENT - NIGHT

A single bare bulb swings. JAKE HARLAN, 32, unshaven, sits in boxers at a glowing monitor. Empty takeout containers carpet the floor. His phone BUZZES.

TEXT (ON SCREEN): Remember to shower.

Jake ignores it. Another buzz.

TEXT: It's been four days.

He scratches at a patch of dark mold blooming on his forearm. Water drips from the ceiling into a bucket. The phone rings. He answers.

JAKE
Marcus? This isn't funny anymore.

A wet, gurgling chuckle echoes from the speaker, then the line goes dead. Jake stands, steps toward the bathroom, but stops as black water seeps under the door. The phone buzzes once more.

TEXT: Too late.

In an era of rising mental health awareness and post-pandemic hygiene obsession, the film taps collective anxiety over self-neglect as quiet rebellion, turning everyday rituals into life-or-death stakes amid loneliness epidemics.