Colllinsport. As many have begun to feel something slouching it’s way toward the small sea coast town – there are few who are aware of what is coming. One of those, Samantha Brook has paid a price for that knowledge. Now, she hides away – fearful not only of what she knows, but what she might do.
Opening Soundtrack: [www.youtube.com]
It’s a stay-away home for somebody, for Samantha Brook it’s a place to hide. From the police. From others, nameless. How many she does not know. And then there are the ones she can name—and are to horrible to contemplate . . . when she has a moment of clarity and can focus her thoughts. Before the visions drift in. The black sky and the smooth, black waters. A lake. A terrible lake that is fathomless. Less a lake than a black hole – drawing in all light. All life.
What time is it?
Too damn late – that’s for certain.
Outside the small farm house that she had discovered, deserted – abandoned, as if vacated just for her – it’s night.
She lies now on the painful webbing of the bare bed. She has burned the mattress. It smelled of others and she wants to be alone – entirely alone. She has to be – or else she may . . . and—she does not want to think about that. She looks up and stares at the symbol she has painted upon the wall of the loft.
The family’s away—and they didn’t even leave any porridge.
But she makes a bad Goldilocks – as she would have taken an axe to them – porridge or not.
This bed is not just right!
Yes, this hide-away home is like some pop-up cottage in a fairy tale book – only just what has really happened to the three bears?
Whomever has selected this stay-away home –what did they do to them?
Is baby bear buried somewhere in the lawn?
She has all the lights on.
She lies on the bed growing more anxious.
Someone is coming.
Soundtrack: [www.youtube.com]
Outside the clouds now move to reveal the cold-hearted orb of the moon.
An ankle boot steps out of the darkness . . .
The silhouette of a woman appears in the moonlight.
Ever so slowly, she strides toward the stay-away home.
Samantha lifts her head.
She can just barely make out the sound of approaching footsteps.
But how can she hear them really?
No—she feels them.
She rises from the bed fully alert as she reaches for her Navy Colt.
In a gust of wind dry, fallen leaves suddenly scurry before the woman like so many frightened rodents.
The ankle boots crush the stragglers.
The woman’s face seems devoid of all emotion.
She approaches the front door of the old weather-beaten, three maintenance paintings behind schedule, wooden house.
The woman does not slow her stride as she walks toward the locked front door.
Suddenly—the lock turns and the door flies open violently.
A wave of rodent leaves rush in.
Atop the loft, Samantha strides over toward the ladder leading up to this fairy tale farm house’s upper loft.
She sees the door open and then the woman at the threshold. She levels her gun at her, she feels her eye twitching, “Who are you?”
“Wrong question.” The woman replies in a voice that is mesmerizing.
“I disagree,” Sam says holding the gun steady.
Soundtrack: [www.youtube.com]
“And who are you to disagree?”
“You can be anyone.” Samantha says stepping closer to the edge of the loft, moving between two traffic cones that she has placed on either side of the top of the ladder. She doesn’t really understand the obsession with stealing traffic cones wherever she has found them.
Black hair slightly tousled, slender, tall, long-legged, the woman steps though the door and enters the farm house, “”Of that I do agree.”
“Agree to what?” Samantha’s finger tight on the trigger.
The brunette has not as yet looked up to Samantha. Instead she stops now to stand looking down at the carefully constructed symbol drawn upon the scarred, old planks of the floor. Painstakingly, using only canary yellow chalk, it has taken Samantha hours to sketch.
“You are correct – I can BE anyone.” The woman’s haunting, mesmerizing voice carries up to the loft.
And then suddenly, turning away from her appraisal of the arcane symbol, the brunette lifts her right arm and points her forefinger up to Samantha, “Samantha Brook—come down to me.”
Only Samantha’s eyes flash a dangerous shade of yellow as she replies in a tone just as full of authority: “No”
“You will come down . . . to . . me. . . ”
“Make me.”
The woman stands motionless, her hand elevated, her finger still pointing at Samantha as the walls of the room suddenly begin to shudder as if they are about to move . . .
And then they do.
It is as if the house is breathing.
Samantha collapses and falls to her knees, clutching her head, “No no no no nonononononononononononnonono”
“I am of little inclination to be disobeyed.” The woman tells her, “You will come down—to me.”
The voice has gone cold and stern – it seems to echo throughout the small house as if it were much larger.
Samantha inches forward slightly and then stops, “Why . . . why should I?”
The smile is more than wicked—it is vicious, “Because I asked. And, so far nicely.”
And then, abruptly the woman lowers her arm and strides leisurely over the wooden kitchen table below a window, which looks out into the farmyard. She pulls back a chair, the legs scratching across the rough hewn planks of the wooden floor. The neglected table top is covered in dust. “I love what you have done with the place.”
Samantha inches down the ladder slowly – her Navy Colt still in hand.
“See—that wasn’t so hard . . . ” The woman says as she glances out the window.
Cautiously, Samantha keeps a distance from this – this woman – as she now is able to see that her visitor’s eyes are all white – cataracts? Is she blind?
And so, she takes a step back, keeping near the circle, for the protection it may afford, as her own eye has gone all amber.
And then, she jumps as the woman’s fingers snap – and suddenly a vase full of fresh YELLOW roses appears at the back of the room.
“I know who you are . . . “Samantha tells her visitor.
The smile returns, as the woman with what appears to be eyes that are blind, “So tell me Samantha Brook. Who do you say I am?”
“Part of me—“ She growls softly.
“Perhaps—“ The woman replies, “Perhaps you are a part of me.”
Samantha is uncertain – there is nothing jaundiced about her.
“This place . . . it does bring back memories.” She cuts a glance across the room to Samantha, “Do you know that centuries ago the family that lived here met in the woods to call upon one of my names.”
“Yes.”
“They burned them for that.”
“Yes.”
“For tonight, you may call me Sigourney Altamont.” The woman says, “A bit musical don’t you think – you can almost hear the flutes, can’t you. You can hear them Samantha – they will play for you every night. Now come and sit beside me – there are things I wish to impart.”
Samantha does not move, she growls, “What sorts of things?”
“Mysteries – within mysteries “ The vicious smile is back, “”Now about the scroll, do you still have it?”
For a moment Samantha looks as if she is perplexed – trying to remember.
“I do so go to a lot of trouble to make sure you steal it – and you don’t . . . . remember?”
“I . . . I do . . . “ Samantha steps a little closer.
“I know. Things are a jumble in that mind of yours – and what a pretty mind I have to waste.”
“Y-You?”
“Now are you ready?” The white eyes, unseeing look at her.
“N—No – I don’t . . . want –“
“It is all so inconsequential.” The woman says, “What you want.”
And the walls of the house once again seem to sift, seem to contract, the boards pulling now against the nails securing them – and outside the windows the night goes completely BLACK!
Black as if the night had been swallowed into a black hole.
Samantha grips a stool tightly, trying to remain standing.
“It is all a game Samantha – a game I started a long, long time ago.” The woman far too casually begins to relate, “And you have been chosen to join.” She points at her, “Do you don’t you – want to join – the dance? Yes, things are about to change Samantha Brook.” And Samantha sees the look of satisfaction on the woman’s face, “I do so love playing with this little town here on the edge of nowhere.”
Above them the oaken planks of the roof seem to be trying to pull away from the structure of the farm house.
Samantha looks up – the woman, this Sigourney Altamont, she beginning to rend the house apart – board by board, nail by nail.
“Now— you must try your best to remember what I am about to say, can you do that, what do you . . . think” and upon the word think the woman laughs.
Samantha aware that the world outside the windows of her hide-away home no longer exists – that she is somewhere between worlds . . . she still has the courage to aim the Navy Colt at the too cute by half brunette, “Here’s something to think about while your laughing. You think you can keep me from being angry enough to kill another one of your avatars?
The smiles widens, “You are so fascinating you know.” And the woman lifts and waves her hands, “And even if you were able to kill me – how would find your way back home?”
Outside the window over the kitchen table, at which the woman sits, it looks as if the house is in deep space.
Samantha’s eyes flash normal for a moment, “Just as soon as I get you out of my head.”
“You really think this is merely an illusion?” Her strange visitor asks.
A plank of the ceiling pulls away and drifts off upward – to be followed by one of the orange traffic cones, which rises from the loft and floats out through the opening in the roof.
“I can assure you, this is no illusion. And what is in your head is not me – it is him. You brought him up out of the lake – and YOU . . . and I, will put him back again.”
Shaking her head to clear it, watching as the traffic cone has floated beyond her ability to see, “So, we’re playing the pronoun game.”
And she makes a “ding” sound.
The woman turns to her now, her teeth vulpine, her features sharp-edged, her eyes narrowing, “DO YOU HAVE THE SCROLL HIDDEN AWAY”
The voice echoes inside the small house.
“Depends.”
The visitor sits for a moment looking at her – there is something, for a brief moment, a shadow that seems to cross her face, her countenance exposing an inner thought, and Samantha is well aware that for a moment, an instant, the woman at her kitchen table had contemplated doing to her body what she was doing to the house – pulling it apart at the seams.
“The time is growing near when you will need it—and you best listen and beware, as there are those who are coming for it. Your days of hiding are about to come to an end. And so, this is where I need you to clear your mind—and listen . . . and remember.”
Samantha nods, “Go on! Just – get on with it!” And then lifts a hand to her temple, pressing her palm upon it.
“You will go to Nikki and Esther and you will tell them:
Crimson is stronger than jaundice.
That which Nikki let go she will have to find again.
Those that appear as enemies have been conspiring for years.
Her mother is not her mother.
Blood seeks Blood.
It all begins when she who returns will never walk again.”
Samantha scrunches her face listening to this insane gibberish.
That which is mine shall be mine forever.”
Samantha places a hand to her temple.
“Now do you think you can remember that Samantha Brook?”
Samantha frowns and nods and suddenly outside the windows the shadows of the moonlit farmyard returns.
The woman slides the chair back. “I am sorry – but your time of hiding has come to an end.”
“I will be the—“
Sigourney Altamont takes a step over to Samantha and places a warm hand on her shoulder. She leans in to whisper, her breath hot on Samantha’s ear. “I will give you your mind back when I am finished with it.”
She then steps away toward the door of the old farm house, but as she approaches the threshold she stops and looks down at the symbols within the circle Samantha has so tireless drawn.
Samantha shifts her weight to her left foot and stares at it protectively.
Then Sigourney points down at it , “There – that symbol, isn’t quite right.”
Suddenly a piece of chalk appears and begins to scratch the floor correcting the formula.
Watching as all her work is being compromised, Samantha grips her Colt and hisses at the chalk.
The chalk having moved and writ, disappears, and Sigourney Altamont steps on the threshold, “Oh—I almost forgot.” She turns and she holds up her hand, “How many fingers, Sam?”
She looks at her puzzled.
“How many fingers?”
“5 . . . “
And suddenly Samantha sees a series a flashbacks.
She is in London.
She is running down a street in the rain.
She is carrying a 9mm.
She is in a dark mahogany office.
Vanessa Coats is saying something to her.
Catriona Kaye is smiling.
She is running down a darken alley . . . a gun goes off.
Samantha falls to the floor once more, her hands clinging her head.
“Make it stop!”
“Good night, Samantha Brook.”
And Sigourney Altamont steps out the door into the night and fades away.
“Good riddance! ” She calls after the fading image of the woman even as her hand awkwardly removes the iPhone from her coat pocket. Samantha Brook smiles — they call her crazy. As a fox! This time–she has it all recorded!
Cue Music End of Scene