Act I
We open on:
EXT. DESERT. NIGHT. CIRCA 730 AD
Actually, it's black; dead black. Starless and bible black. We hold for a moment longer than is necessary; then the Mad Arab speaks.
AL AZRAD (OFF-SCREEN)
Do you hear it?
There's a sudden wave of rich white noise, an overwhelming deluge of static with deep rumblings that rattle the theater's speakers. It peaks and dies away. Stars begin to appear in the blackness, picking out the constellation of Virgo. The camera pulls back to reveal that we're stargazing over the shoulder of AL AZRAD. A hawk-like man, dangerously thin, in his late forties, he stands on the rise of a sand dune somewhere on the borders of the Roba el Khaliyeh, the Empty Quarter of ancient Araby. He wears an ill-fitting robe against the night's chill and stares up into the sky with fear and loathing.
CUT TO: MRS. AL AZRAD, who stands in the door-flap of an inviting little tent. She also wears a robe. We can see lanterns inside, maybe a smoking brazier to warm oneself by. She, too, is in her late forties, and a tad care-worn; caring for the insane can be trying, especially the ones who insist on having visions. She loves him; this much should be obvious.
MRS AL AZRAD
Come in, Hassan. You'll catch your death.
AL AZRAD
(a little annoyed at her incomprehension) Do you hear it?
MRS AL AZRAD
No, I don't. Is it the angel Gibreel?
AL AZRAD
It isn't Gibreel.
MRS AL AZRAD
Shame. You should try listening to Gibreel. Mohammed did, and look how well he ended up.
AL AZRAD
It isn't anyone. It's a humming, almost... a buzzing...
At this point, we should be able to hear a pulsing sound, faint and whispering, like the wind's heartbeat. Although we can't say for certain when it began. Maybe it's been there all along, and were just now noticing it.
MRS AL AZRAD
You can bet Mohammed never dragged his wife out into the Empty Quarter. No, he took her to Mecca. He took her to Jerusalem.
AL AZRAD
Its so big... I can almost...
MRS AL AZRAD
Where do we go? Imrem. "City of Pillars." Right. City of Dust, more like.
The pulse is speeding up.
AL AZRAD
Its so big. (shrieks) So BIG! Oh, Allah, Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful –
MRS AL AZRAD
Hassan. Please. Come in, come to bed. (pause) You're scaring me.
The sound builds to a fevered pitch as Al Azrad, trembling, suddenly thrusts his finger at the sky, pointing to the stars of Virgo.
AL AZRAD
THERE!
The sound dies. CUT TO long shot of the tent, a camel or two tethered behind, Al Azrad on the rise, in the middle of the desert night. It's so small and tiny here, in the middle of nothing, and the enormous sky is full of cold, uncaring stars.
AL AZRAD
(from a great distance) It's coming from there.
CUT TO:
INT. TENT. NIGHT.
Mrs. Al Azrad lies asleep on a cot. Al Azrad sits at a low, portable writing desk, before a blank sheet of parchment. He holds a reed pen in one hand (or whatever one uses in 8th century Arabic calligraphy). He's praying.
AL AZRAD
In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful. You alone I worship, and to You I pray for help... Guide me... guide me to the straight path, the path of those whom You favor, not of those who have incurred Your wrath...
His prayerful attitude melts away as he says this. It is clear he no longer believes what he is saying.
AL AZRAD
And I, who have done nothing but listen, yet I...
The decision is made suddenly. He dips his pen. For a moment, it hovers over the parchment; he toys, perhaps, with the idea of putting it down and walking away. A drop of ink falls and mars the page. He takes a breath and begins to write. Music begins.
AL AZRAD (VO)
I, Abd Al Azrad, say this unto you:
CUT TO:
INT. A HOUSE ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF CONSTANTINOPLE. LATE AFTERNOON, JUNE, 941 AD
We see TEODORUS PHILETAS, an older, respectable Byzantine scholar, and his young ward, PATROCLOS, who is more beautiful than he is bright.
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
That men shall die, and cities fall, and time
Shall swallow up the world, the sun, the sky –
Teodorus, who looks decidedly unwell, reclines on a low couch. Patroclos, concerned, hovers over him. Teodorus is straining to lift a tidy sheaf of manuscript pages covered with tiny, precise Oreek lettering. On the table before him, in a less tidy pile, is the ancient, dust-covered manuscript which we saw Al Azrad begin writing just seconds (and centuries) before. Sharp-eyed viewers should be able to spot the ink blotch on the first page. As Al Azrad's voice pauses, Teodorus gasps, and expires.
PATROCLOS
Teodorus!
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
And still the star that casts no light shall burn.
CUT TO:
INT. A MONASTERY SOMEWHERE ALONG THE CENTRAL RIDGE OF THE APENNINES, BETWEEN PIEDMONT, LIGURIA, AND FRANCE. MID-AFTERNOON, 1228 AD
A number of monks sit, scribing away on manuscripts. A gentle susurration of monkish voices fills the air – reading silently to oneself hasn't been invented. The camera is about eye-level with the seated monks, which means it cuts off the standing ABBOT at about chest level and it tracks the Abbot as he walks along the line of scribing monks, a ring of iron keys jangling ostentatiously from his belt.
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
I'll set forth now, upon this unmarred page,
A record of the things I've seen and done;
Some secrets of this world, that God has damned.
We can hear BROTHER OLAUS muttering under Al Azrad's sonorous voice, reading along with him, as it were, as he transcribes the Dread Book. As the Abbot marches along, it becomes clear that he's getting closer and closer to Olaus, who hoves into view with the last line of poetry. On his work table is a copy of Teodorus's manuscript; he's following a line with one finger as he writes a Latin translation on the parchment stretched before him.
BROTHER OLAUS
Some secrets... of this world... that God... has... damned. (giggles alarmingly) Oh, yes. Iä, Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn!
ABBOT
Brother Olaus, what are you doing?
Brother Olaus jumps a little, and then slowly looks up at the Abbot with a deranged approximation of an innocent smile.
BROTHER OLAUS
Why, nothing... Abbot...
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
To those who'd tamper with the gates of Hell,
CUT TO:
INT. DOCTOR DEE'S STUDY. NIGHT, MARCH, 1587.
JOHN KELLY and DOCTOR DEE sit at a low table, peering into a quartz showstone, lit by uncertain candlelight. A copy of Brother Olaus's Latin translation, with notes and annotations in Dee's spiky handwriting, lie beside the showstone. Kelly peers into the stone, and Dee studies Kelly's face.
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
I say that herein lie those spells that break
The seals, and open up the locks.
Kelly is speaking under Al Azrad's voice; we've cut into the middle of his running monologue.
KELLY
God's mercy on us, Doctor Dee. It is so large... It has a name. God keep us safe from every harm. The name begins, it begins with A... A –
CUT TO:
INT. THE BODLEIAN LIBRARY, OXFORD. MID-MORNING, CIRCA 1875.
WHIPPLE PHILLIPS, who should look just like H.P. Lovecraft's grandfather (for that is who he is) flips through a mouldy, worm-eaten copy of the Necronomicon as he secretively makes his way through the stacks. We should get a glimpse of the title page before he closes the book and tucks it into his jacket. The cover, oddly enough, reads Qanoon-é-Islam; below that, it reads, or, the Customs of the Mussulmans of India. Written by Jaffur Shureef, printed in 1863. We don't need to be able to make it out clearly, but we should note that this is the first appearance of the actual physical book that will bedevil our heroes.
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
I know,
For I have spent my life to learn them all.
As Phillips tucks it into his jacket, he emerges from the stacks and starts to cross the lobby. His attempt at furtiveness is pathetic – the book is enormous, and can't possibly be hidden by his jacket, and besides, he twitches and mutters to himself. One of the CLERKs notices.
CLERK
Hey!
Phillips breaks into a run, cackling triumphantly.
PHILLIPS
I have it! Satan's black book, the book of the dead! Necronomicon! Iä, Iä!
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
Here, then, is my gift to all mankind.
CUT TO:
INT. PHILLIPS HOME, PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND. EARLY AFTERNOON, CIRCA 1905.
MRS. LOVECRAFT leads HENRY ARMITAGE to the front door. The house is done up in mourning. Armitage carries, cradled in his arms, the worm-eaten copy of the Necronomicon that we just saw Phillips steal.
AL AZRAD (VO CONTINUES)
I offer up the key. Go find your own
Locks. See how far you go.
Mrs. Lovecraft is speaking under Al Azrad's voice; her last sentence or so should be completely intelligible.
MRS LOVECRAFT
This terribly insistent man named Crowley, from London, has been telegraphing nearly every day, demanding I sell to him. But I felt the University made the better offer.
HENRY ARMITAGE
And we thank you, Mrs. Lovecraft, of course. And, ah, offer our condolences.
MRS LOVECRAFT
(calling into the front parlor) Howard! Howard, come say good-bye to our guest.
The young H.P. LOVECRAFT appears, terribly shy. If he says good bye, we can't hear him. His eyes are fixed – by coincidence? – on the book in Armitage's arms. He wears a jacket too large for him, and he flinches a little as his mother lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it.
MRS LOVECRAFT
It's been hardest on Howard, of course. Doesn't he look a fright? Still, his father's jacket helps. Don't you think?
Armitage smiles uncertainly, and hefts the book in a lame attempt at jocularity. It's all a tad creepy, really.
HENRY ARMITAGE
Best get this back to Miskatonic, where it will be safe and sound.
CUT TO:
INT. STORM DRAIN BENEATH MISKATONIC LIBRARY. NIGHT, CIRCA 1999.
A medium shot of JANEY, president of the Miskatonic chapter of Iota Alpha, holding the copy of the Necronomicon that Armitage just promised would be kept safe and sound. The music segues from Surround-Sound to coming from the portable CD player on the crumbling brick shelf behind her; it's still the same piece, in the same place as it was, its just gone from being outside the story to inside the story, as it were. As Janey speaks, the camera pulls back to reveal the rows of sorority sisters and pledges standing to either side. The sisters all wear white robes and hold candles; the pledges are dressed as the late '90s college students they are. For future reference: BECCA is among the pledges; PIA and KIMMI are among the sisters. Neither TRACEY nor SHANTI is present: Shanti, because she's the Rho Chi (or rush counselor) for this year's pledges, so technically she isn't supposed to know about the hazing; Tracey for reasons that will become obvious later.
JANEY
One other thing –
Remember this, the lesson of the star,
She pauses dramatically, waiting. Some of the pledges catch on, but too late; the mumbled chorus of
SOME PLEDGES
The star!
is weak and ragged, badly timed. There is a spattering of giggles. Janey's mouth purses. She begins again.
JANEY
Remember this, the lesson of the star,
PLEDGES
THE STAR!
JANEY
The one that burns, yet casts no light to see:
That is not dead, which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons, even death may die.
This next bit of business overlaps those lines of poetry, obscuring them so that only sharp-eared fans or people on their second viewing can catch that all-important couplet. After the pledges shout out, the camera focuses on two of them, one of whom stage-whispers to the other:
PLEDGE #1
We don't have to be virgins for this to work, do we?
The pledges burst into giggles and are noisily shushed by the elder sisters behind them. CUT TO close-up of Janey.
JANEY
I say this unto you, Abd Al Azrad,
I, myself, who tampered, and am mad.
Janey showily shuts the book, and lets the spooky words sink in.
JANEY
Now, pledges. (pause) We are ready to begin.
CUT TO black. Title card. Silence. Hold for a beat. Fade up the white noise of a bored if attentive classroom, about half full of sophomores and froshlings. Hold on the blackness for a beat before HARLAN McKENNA says:
HARLAN (VO)
Open your eyes.
CUT TO:
INT. PABODIE AUDITORIUM. AFTERNOON.
Start with a tight close-up of Harlan's face. The camera is in motion, pulling away as he speaks. He's standing in front of BECCA, a blond froshling wearing an IA rush T-shirt. They're standing on the floor of the auditorium, before the lectern, in front of the class. Imp that he is, Harlan's holding her temple in the classic Vulcan mind-meld gesture as he peers into her eyes like a second-rate Houdini.
HARLAN
Concentrate. See the person's face in your mind. Hold it there.
BECCA
I –
HARLAN
Concentrate. I'm. I'm getting something. Concentrate. A man – no, a woman. Someone close to you, someone –
BECCA
Yes, I –
HARLAN
Someone you've lost.
BECCA
Yes. Yes. She – my –
HARLAN
Concentrate. It's hard to make out. An older woman. Your grandmother. No.
BECCA
My grandmother's still alive –
HARLAN
Of course. Your – a great – Great-aunt?
BECCA
My mother's aunt –
HARLAN
Yes. She had a nickname.
BECCA
We always called her Weefa.
HARLAN
Great-aunt Weefa. Weefa. Short for – Short for... (he can't think of what the hell it's short for, and covers by getting a little excited) Wait! I'm seeing something – she gave you something –
BECCA
(frowning; did she?) Gave me –
HARLAN
Gave you something, made you – took you somewhere...
BECCA
There was a – she lived near a roller rink, we'd, ah –
HARLAN
She took you to the roller rink. When you visited. Your great-aunt Weefa. Who died. (relaxes visibly, takes his hands from her face) Some time ago. There. (concerned) That didn't hurt any, did it?
BECCA
No.
Becca takes her seat, impressed, as PROFESSOR KAPLAN steps up.
KAPLAN
Let's have a hand for Harlan McKenna, folks. (they clap desultorily as Harlan takes a showy bow) Now, yall are probably wondering what this has to do with astronomy – at least, those of you who aren't wondering whether this will be on the mid-term. (pause for chuckle from students at lame professorial humor) Show of hands – how many of you think what you saw was a demonstration of genuine psychic powers?
A few hands go up; Becca's is one of the first.
KAPLAN
Come on, folks. Wasn't that impressive? The way he read her mind? Picked up all that about her great-aunt? Unless he's psychic. (more hands go up) Or maybe he was tricking us. Maybe Becca's a friend of his, or he heard her talking about her great-aunt in the hall, before class –
BECCA
(hand firmly in the air) He didn't. He was reading my mind. I could feel it, it was spooky.
KAPLAN
Think about it, people. If your hand's down right now, it means you think he's a liar. No psychic powers. Which is it? (some hands waver, go down; more shoot up) Well, Harlan?
HARLAN
(deep breath) I'm a liar. I can't read minds. Nobody can.
Hands shoot down. There is some consternation. Becca, especially, seems miffed and bewildered.
HARLAN
It's called cold reading – stage magicians and so-called psychics use it. Sounds impressive, but it's just close observation of the person, the almost unconscious reactions they have to what you say – like when I started to guess that it was her grandmother. She didn't relax, she tensed up. But it's also misdirection – if you think back, about what we really said, I didn't guess all that much. I let her feed me hints and then I'd run with them like I'd read her mind on my own – and even then, I screwed up. (to Becca) What was "Weefa" short for?
BECCA
Geneva.
HARLAN
Geneva. Great-aunt Geneva. See? I couldn't even get that. Some psychic, huh?
KAPLAN
Don't feel too badly if we tricked you, folks. Magic tricks, superstitions – con games – they all play on a, on a perceptual gap, a blindness that every single one of us has, and that's the gap between what we want to believe, and what really is. We all want to believe in magic, or psychic powers – wouldn't it be neat, if we really could read other people's minds? But while that's fine for a card trick, or a Fox TV special, it's deadly to a scientist. If you're at all serious about science – even something like "Moons for Goons" – you've got to know where that gap lies in yourself.
Students start packing up towards the end of that. As Kaplan delivers the Moral, we can see Becca getting to her feet with the others, and making her towards Harlan.
KAPLAN
For next Tuesday, read the essay on critical thinking in Science Confronts the Paranormal, which is on reserve at Armitage. And I want a 500-word essay on whether or not you believed Harlan was psychic – and why. Critical thinking begins at home, people.
HARLAN
(noticing Becca staring at him) Uh, hi.
BECCA
You're not psychic.
HARLAN
No, I'm not. I –
BECCA
And you don't believe in it.
HARLAN
No. No, I don't. I don't believe in magic, or astrology, or UFOs, Tarot cards, angels, leprechauns –
BECCA
Tsi ann kan'pa. Tsi kia kan'pa. Their hand is at your throat but you see them not. Iä, Iä, Cthulhu! Iä!
HARLAN
(blinks) What?
BECCA
(shrugs) Well, you don't believe in it, so it doesn't matter. Right?
Having thereby achieved some small measure of satisfaction, she leaves.
HARLAN
What the hell was that all about?
KAPLAN
Who knows. Hey – you coming to the observatory tonight? It's the last night of the Orionids.
HARLAN
Eh. Seen one meteor, seen 'em all. Anyway – I've got plans.
CUT TO:
INT. ARMITAGE LIBRARY, MAIN FLOOR/ARMITAGE LIBRARY, BACK HALLWAYS. LATE AFTERNOON.
LIZ WEST is standing at the Rare Book Room counter, dealing with GERALD FEINBERG, the Rare Book Room clerk. Gerald is cocking his eyebrow at the request form she's just handed him. She's a bit more nervous than she ought to be, as if, perhaps, she's doing something wrong...
GERALD
Whose class is this for?
Hoo, boy. She's got a story prepared; still, she's flustered.
LIZ
Dannseys? "Roots of Classical Texts"? It's an, uh, an Arabic text, well, not the, ah, Necronomicon, this copy, I mean, it's a Latin translation of a Greek, ah, translation of what was originally an Arabic text, so I want to compare it to see how the, ah, idioms and stuff, ah, carried over –
GERALD
I'm... familiar with the book. We get some... unusual people asking for it. You understand. (motions her to come around the counter) Over here.
He leads her around the counter and through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, rattling off the rules as he leads her down the hall to another door with a card-key lock system on it. Liz at first only gives him half an ear; she's rolling her eyes at herself and muttering
LIZ
"Idioms and stuff." Yeesh.
to herself. But the sheer weight of the regulations starts to impress itself upon her, and she's goggling at him as he swipes his card through the lock and throws the door open, and we get a glimpse of shelves of old, musty books.
GERALD
You understand you won't be seeing the actual book. You may peruse a photostatted copy. You'll have to leave your bag and coat with me. You may take one pad of paper and one pen with you. You get thirty minutes; any time above and beyond that will require a new authorization form. I'm also required to inform you that because you've asked for this book, your name will be entered into a file that's kept by Campus Security. Strictly a formality, I assure you. And entrance into this room is considered implied consent for a search of your person upon leaving the premises. Should it be judged necessary.
LIZ
All this for a book?
GERALD
(smiles) It's really quite a rare book.
CUT TO:
INT. CURWEN HOUSE, FIRST FLOOR LOUNGE/CURWEN HOUSE, STAIRWELL. EARLY EVENING.
JAMSHID SANJABI is headed for the stairwell, pushing through a crowd of students headed the other way, towards the caf, for dinner. She's chatting on a cell phone, and maybe we can see her PowerBook tucked into her cute stuffed-animal backpack. In typical Jamshid fashion, she isn't paying any attention to where she's going.
JAMSHID
Christ, Amy, it's just for one night. I promise. (sighs) Look, I'll let you dupe my tapes of Utena. I've got the "Black Rose Saga"... (beat) I know it hasn't been released in the States –
She's reached the stairwell, and is about to turn around and grab the door, when it flies open, smacking her, making her drop the phone and nearly lose her backpack. A couple of Iota Alpha pledges in Iota Alpha rush T-shirts (Becca, perhaps, is one of them) gaggle past, under JANEY's watchful eye.
JAMSHID
(trying to catch the phone and the backpack and stay on her feet, which proves impossible) Hey! You want to watch where the fuck you're going?
PLEDGE
You should try not walking and talking at the same time.
ANOTHER PLEDGE
Yeah! Hang up!
JAMSHID
Yeah, well – (blinks, spotting Janey) Janey! Reduced to babysitting pledges yourself?
JANEY
Girls. Jamshid Sanjabi is an ex-sister. As such, we don't speak with her. She isn't even worth bumping into. (withering look) Keep in mind what awaits you if you ever leave the fold.
And with that, they leave, noses quite firmly in the air.
JAMSHID
(scooping up the phone, speechless, torn between possible insults) You – f – I – (deep breath) Blow me! (into phone) Amy? (but Amy, of course, has been disconnected) Shit. (punches redial button, yanks open door, starts heading up the stairs) Amy? Jamshid. Do we have a deal or don't we?
CUT TO:
INT. CURWEN HOUSE, ERIC'S ROOM. EARLY EVENING.
ERIC BRANKOWICZ isn't exactly lip-synching, or pretending to perform the Sondheim song blaring from his stereo – but he is actively listening to it, getting caught up in it, enjoying the music in the private, self-indulgent way that is terribly embarrassing if it's interrupted by, say, Jamshid kicking open the door as she flips her phone shut.
JAMSHID
Hey! Eric!
Leaping like a scalded cat, Eric grabs the stereo's remote and slides the volume way down, then immediately assumes the I-meant-to-do-that attitude of said cat once it's gotten over having been scalded.
JAMSHID
So. (purses her lips judiciously) I'm guessing he dumped you.
ERIC
(beat) Is it really that obvious?
JAMSHID
Heart, shirtsleeve, yeah, you could say that. Come to the caf with me and tell me all about it. We're meeting Liz and Harlan in an hour and I must eat something first.
ERIC
I don't think I'm up for going anywhere tonight.
JAMSHID
You can't back out now! We've been planning this for – well, days, but –
ERIC
I don't even know what it is you've got planned for tonight.
JAMSHID
Patience, grasshopper. All will be revealed.
ERIC
Is it going to be fun, at least?
JAMSHID
Fun? Fun? "Fun" is... bourgeois. It's something fat white straight people try to squeeze into a weekend of miniature golf with the kids. (shrugs) Your choice. You can sit here, stewing in your maudlinocity, till you can't stew any more and you throw yourself out the window and out of all our miseries...
ERIC
Maudlinocity?
JAMSHID
Come on.
ERIC
(picking up the remote and shutting off the stereo) Okay, but only if you promise it has absolutely nothing to do with you driving anywhere at all...
JAMSHID
You still hold that against me, don't you?
CUT TO:
INT. ROSE OF DUNWICH. NIGHT.
A boisterous college-town pub. Liz walks in through the door, pushing past a throng of frat boys in Kappa Theta Upsilon shirts. We can hear BimSkalaBim's cover of Pink Floyd's "Brain Damage." The place is crowded; it's the Thursday before homecoming. And hey, there's Jamshid, over by the bar, accosting the bartender.
JAMSHID
Chris! Zood bosh and bring me three more! (spotting Liz) Liz, dahlink! (plants ladies-who-lunch air kisses on each cheek) How are we? Do we want some beer?
LIZ
You buying?
JAMSHID
Silly me, Chris – I meant four.
LIZ
Harlan's here?
JAMSHID
(pointing) Corner. Him and Eric are at it again.
LIZ
(rolling her eyes) Oh, Christ.
Liz starts to head over towards the corner, but Jamshid grabs her arm.
JAMSHID
Whoa, girl. Wanna help me carry?
CUT TO corner table. Harlan and Eric are engaged in the sort of rough-and-tumble argument that pops up between good friends who each secretly pity the unfathomable ignorance of the other. Three mostly empty glasses litter the table, along with an ashtray, in which Eric's half-smoked clove cigarette smolders.
HARLAN
Not in the laboratory, it hasn't.
ERIC
Your standards of proof are unreasonably high. You don't want to admit –
HARLAN
If you mean trying to remove all room for doubt, wishful thinking, cheating, if that's unreasonable...
ERIC
You can't just say it doesn't exist.
HARLAN
I haven't seen any evidence to support it.
ERIC
That's so fucking arrogant.
HARLAN
It's science. Every time somebody, ah, tests psychic powers, or faith healing, or astrology, every time somebody tests this stuff rigorously, it flops. Every time. And then it's "The vibes weren't right." Or "The holistic ganzfeld was fluctuating." Or best of all, "You have to believe in it." Jesus. That's like – (he shoves an empty glass between them) That's like telling me this glass is full of beer. (beat) I don't see the beer. "That's because it's invisible." I can't touch it, I can't taste it. "Well, you've got to believe in it, first." Why! What the hell good does it do me?
ERIC
You have no appreciation of the ineffable.
HARLAN
The what?
ERIC
The numinous. The inexplicable. The mysterious. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
HARLAN
Yeah, well, I don't want ineffable. I want beer.
With exquisite timing, Liz sets a full glass of dark, frothy beer before him.
LIZ
Ask and ye shall receive.
HARLAN
(eyes beaming with sudden sincerity) I love you.
Liz and Harlan share a quick, comfortable kiss. Jamshid sets a full glass in front of Eric, staring with obvious hostility at a table off thataway.
JAMSHID
There they are.
ERIC
Who?
He follows her gaze to a couple of booths full of Iota Alpha sisters – Janey, Pia, Kimmi, Shanti, even Tracey, plus others, enjoying a last-minute beer and laughing raucously before heading off to their evening of illegal hazing. Janey looks over at Jamshid and sardonically raises her bottle in a mock toast. Meanwhile, back at our table:
HARLAN
(as Liz is sitting down) Well? Did you get it?
LIZ
(giving him a Look) Try again. "Liz, darling! Light of my life, delight of my heart! How was your trying day?"
HARLAN
(rattles it off) Liz, darling, light of my life, delight of my loins, heart, whatever – did you get it?
Rolling her eyes a little, Liz produces a Levenger Circa™ pad covered with notes in her hurried scrawl. Harlan crows with delight and drops out of the conversation to peruse it.
LIZ
(to Eric) So. Where's Kevin?
Eric's face falls almost immediately. Jamshid shakes her head at Liz, less surreptitiously than perhaps she thinks.
LIZ
Oh, Christ, Eric. I'm sorry. (beat) He dumped you, huh?
ERIC
Is it beyond the realm of possibility that I could have dumped him?
Jamshid favors him with one of those Looks. Liz seems to be struggling to say something flattering, yet honest – and failing.
ERIC
I withdraw the question.
LIZ
(with no little sympathy) I'm sorry, Eric. (grins suddenly) He's probably sleeping with half the football team.
ERIC
If only our football team were so enlightened.
HARLAN
Ha! (all turn to look at him, still peering at the notes) This is great, Liz. "Per Adonal," ah, "Sabaoth, Metraton Ou Agla Methon... verbum py- python-" umm, "pythonicum..?" Did you have to use a pen? I mean, your handwriting –
LIZ
Is fine! (she's defensive about her handwriting, which is sloppy) I was in a hurry, okay?
HARLAN
You couldn't just have xeroxed it?
LIZ
Wouldn't let me. You'll be glad to learn our university zealously protects its rare books with fearsome security measures. They practically ran a credit check on me before letting me in.
HARLAN
I'm so pleased the forgery worked.
LIZ
Yes, Harlan, the forgery worked. And if Professor Dannseys ever finds out, there go my grad school recommendations.
ERIC
(suddenly wary) Forgery?
LIZ
Not forgery, per se – Harlan just, well, he, uh, I guess faked my Classics professor's signature on a request form, so –
JAMSHID
Wssht!
The Iota Alpha girls are filing past the table, on their way to get prepped for the ceremony. Liz frowns at the interruption; Jamshid signals for her to keep quiet. The sisters pay them no heed. Liz and Eric are puzzled; Jamshid is anxious; Harlan just watches everything with a little grin.
ERIC
What's up with the – wait a minute. Iota Alpha. They kicked you out, right?
LIZ
Oh, merde.
JAMSHID
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.
HARLAN
Within reason, of course. Perhaps we should –
ERIC
Wait just a goddamn minute. Are you telling me I gave up a night of cheap wine and Morrissey to screw with some sorority chicks' heads? What are we going to do, crash their game of "Light as a feather, stiff as a board?"
LIZ
Sounds about right. Harlan had me dig up some florid old histrionics from the Necronomicon.
ERIC
(perking up at that) The what?
HARLAN
Maybe we'd better begin at the beginning –
ERIC
(to Liz, incredulous) How'd you get a copy of the Necronomicon?
LIZ
(annoyed) It's in the library, Eric.
ERIC
Yes, but –
HARLAN
Do you guys want to know what we're about to do tonight, or what? (the chaos subsides) Now. Tonight, as you may or may not know, is the last Thursday before Homecoming – the semi-official inauguration of Hell's Weekend. Which helps explain why this place is so rowdy on a school night.
JAMSHID
It's always rowdy. You should get out more.
HARLAN
(mock glare) As we've just seen, members of this illustrious academy's various Greek societies are fortifying themselves with alcohol as they prepare for those dastardly rites with which they haze their incoming pledges.
LIZ
(to Eric) Give me a cigarette.
Eric does so. Harlan frowns.
HARLAN
Liz –
LIZ
You get to pontificate, I get to smoke.
HARLAN
I wasn't aware of that particular bargain.
ERIC
(as he's lighting her cigarette) I'm still lost as to the connection.
JAMSHID
You must understand that my former sisters consider themselves something of an elite sorority – a downright mystical sisterhood. Nothing but the best for my girls. So – or so Dame Rumor would have us believe – sometime in the 1950s, one of us stole a book of blackest magic from Miskatonic's library.
ERIC
The Necronomicon! (frowns, to Liz) But you –
JAMSHID
Excuse me! (sighs) I'm still giving you exposition, here. Ahem. Ever since – and this was done to me, and to all the pledges before, and every pledge after – we tell them that we're going to swear fealty to Iota Alpha's pet demon – a lovely little monster summoned on a night of dark magic in the depths of the sewers from the pages of that dread tome, the Black Book, the Book of the Dead – the evil Necronomicon.
HARLAN
None of this jejune nonsense with the Walk of Shame, or synchronized binge drinking.
JAMSHID
Actually, the drinking was the best part...
HARLAN
This year, however – tonight – we will be disrupting the ceremony.
JAMSHID
(peeved at Harlan for stealing her thunder) Do you mind?
ERIC
How, exactly? Can I see that?
JAMSHID
(as Harlan hands the pad to Eric) The girls put on a good show: robes, candles, chanting from the book like Carmina Burana on speed – I was colored impressed. But. It's just a spook-show, to scare a bunch of froshling girls silly. Nothing really happens. But. I was stewing, in my room, late at night –
LIZ
Good time for stewing.
JAMSHID
(with a Look tossed her way) As I was saying, I got to thinking – what if something did? Wouldn't it be cool if, tonight, the magic really worked, and they really summoned a demon?
ERIC
(he's confused) You – want to summon a demon? With this?
HARLAN
(rolling his eyes as much as humanly possible) No. Special effects by Jamshid; incantations courtesy the Classics department – thank you, love – coordination and performance by yours truly. When combined with the suggestive state those girls will be in, due to sleep-deprivation and large quantities of alcohol consumed too quickly – they'll be scared shitless.
ERIC
So what do you need me for?
JAMSHID
Grunt work. There's some heavy equipment to carry.
HARLAN
C'mon, Eric. This is going to be huge. A major blow against the Greeks – people will be laughing at those self-important snots for months. You want in on this.
ERIC
(holding up pad) Using this. (to Liz) This is copied from the Necronomicon.
LIZ
Yes.
ERIC
This book, it's – I don't think it's smart for us to just leap into a ceremony from it, without – (drops pad on table) You don't believe in this, Harlan. You don't have any idea what you're getting into.
JAMSHID
Are you scared of a book?
HARLAN
It isn't a ceremony. They just stole some old words and names from the book to spook their pledges. We're doing the same thing to spook them. Poetic justice.
ERIC
(still looking dubious) It's got a reputation, this book. Things happen, around it. I'm surprised our library has a copy, it's not a... good book –
HARLAN
(picking up the pad, flipping through it) If you mean the prose stylings, amen to that. Ah, "Mankind does not know or understand the evil that awaits it, from every side, from every open Gate, from every broken barrier, from every mindless acolyte at the alters of madness." Our friend Abdul Whodewho who wrote this thing was a wee tad on the purple side. (to Liz) You misspelled "altars."
LIZ
It's Abd Al Azrad, and no, I didn't.
There's a moment of tension which has as much to do with the fact that she's smoking one of Eric's cigarettes as it does over whether or not Harlan misread her handwriting.
HARLAN
So. Up for a potentially legendary prank against the snootiest sorority on campus, going down in approximately three hours?
LIZ
(shrugs) Sure. Who needs to study?
JAMSHID
Eric? Come on.
HARLAN
Yeah. We need your expertise to help us pretend to be this, uh (checks pad) Shrubniggurat, or –
LIZ
Shupnikkurat.
HARLAN
What?
LIZ
(pointing the word out to him) Shupnikkurat.
HARLAN
Those are K's? (Liz glares) Anyway. It'll be a blast. I mean, if you must, you could always invite Kevin along –
It's clear that Harlan's just oblivious, and nothing mean was intended by that crack. Still the reaction is immediate. Eric throws up a hand, shaking his head; Jamshid stifles a burst of rude laughter; Liz smacks Harlan on the shoulder.
HARLAN
Ow! (to Liz, rubbing his shoulder, genuinely puzzled) What?
CUT TO:
EXT. STORM DRAIN MAINTENANCE TUNNEL ENTRANCE. NIGHT.
Camera follows Liz and Eric as they manhandle the fog machine from Liz's Beetle, in the parking lot. As we go by, we maybe catch the car next to hers in our point of view. This car is driven by a neo-pagan, who wished to advertise this fact through a multitude of buxnper stickers: "My other car is a broom, "Do what thou wilt," the ever-popular Darwin fish, and, most importantly, "The Goddess is alive, and magic is afoot." We don't linger; we follow our heroes down the slope to the drain tunnel entrance, where Harlan and Jamshid are arguing with the padlock – Jamshid's picking it, Harlan's holding the light for her. They've all changed to whatever black clothing they might have.
LIZ
This is all so – I don't know. Monumentally petty.
ERIC
(he's getting into this) Isn't the best revenge usually a bit petty?
LIZ
I thought it was best served cold.
HARLAN
It's quite cold enough, thank you.
JAMSHID
(irritated) You want to hold that light steady?
HARLAN
Sorry.
ERIC
J, how did you free this fog machine from Amy's clutches, anyway?
JAMSHID
Let's just say it involved an unnatural act, and I'll spare you the details. Wait – wait – there.
The padlock pops open, and between them, with as much comic business as we'd like, they get the metal grate open. There's a Moment, as they stand there, equipment (fog machine; PowerBook; projector; mike; amps) scattered around.
HARLAN
Maybe we should check to see if the coast is clear..?
Another moment. Jamshid, exasperated, snatches the flashlight –
JAMSHID
Here.
– and jumps into the hole.
HARLAN
Well. (beat) All righty then. Say, Eric, you do know how to run a fog machine..?
ERIC
Remember last year's Halloween showing of Brain Stoker's Dracula?
HARLAN
Of course. Your asthma. How could I forget. Okay, you're with me – just point it away from you, this time? We'll also need to carry the sound system. Liz, if you could help Jamshid with the projector?
LIZ
Why are we splitting up?
HARLAN
There's two different tunnels, on either side of the chamber. Got to give them props for ambience – it's a great room. Old stone, dripping water...
ERIC
Aren't we worried about sisters?
HARLAN
They go in through the library basement – and besides, they're all set up, by now. We're sneaking in through the back door, as it were. (Liz is shaking her head) Something wrong?
LIZ
I just keep thinking of the Fotomat caper.
HARLAN
The Fotomat caper would have worked perfectly if Kevin hadn't panicked.
ERIC
And who decided at the last minute not to wait for Security to change shifts, smarty pants?
HARLAN
Okay. So we've all learned a little something since then. But I still don't see why you persist in defending him –
LIZ
Harlan.
HARLAN
Right. Nothing's going to go wrong. Trust me.
JAMSHID
(popping her head out of the tunnel) Coast is clear. Let's get a move on.
They start to manhandle equipment into the tunnel. Harlan starts upright as he's helping lower the fog machine.
HARLAN
Listen!
Barely, drifting up from the stoney depths of the sewers, we can hear chanting voice echoing along a hundred yards or more of sewer tunnel.
HARLAN
You hear that?
As our heroes listen, the chorus comes to the lilting, hanging end of a phrase, high voices trailing off in the far-away, dank catacombs, and a great breath is taken, as we CUT TO:
INT. STORM DRAIN BENEATH ARMITAGE LIBRARY. NIGHT.
And the full force of the chorus hits us, WHAM! as the sisters ululate madly, as the camera hovers on high above them. Janey stands before them, holding the Book; the sisters hold candles; many have xeroxed copies of the page from the Book with the ceremony on it. The pledges are kneeling, backs to the open space between the two rows of sisters, where more rows of candles have been set up in a crude Lesser Pentagram. KIMMI is walking behind each of the pledges, ceremoniously blindfolding each in turn. We watch as the sisters sing, she blindfolds a pledge, moves on to the next then the camera swoops up to one of the side maintenance tunnels, Squeezed in there, doubled over, are Harlan and Eric; Eric fiddles with the fog machine, while Harlan watches him; he's holding the pad, the microphone, and a penlight. Eric seems a bit puzzled by the fog machine, but he gives a tentative thumb's up; when he does, Harlan lifts the penlight and shines it briefly into the similar maintenance tunnel opposite. The camera, looking over there, finds Jamshid, crouching over the dimly glowing PowerBook, which is hooked up to the projector which Liz has lust finished setting up. Liz lifts a penlight and shines a quick signal back. All is in readiness. The sisters are still chanting the Lovecraftian glossolalia; Janey's chanting the Eliphas Levi bits; when she hits that
JANEY
Veni, veni, veni!
Harlan taps Eric on the shoulder, and Eric kicks on the fog machine, which is Jamshid's cue to launch the Adobe Director program on her PowerBook. The display is fed through the projector, and glows slowly into life on the shifting, blowing, growing "screen" of billowing fog: white lights coalescing into two coldly glowing eyes. Cheesy, yes, but it's dark. Harlan's reading into the mike.
HARLAN
DIES MIES JESCHET BOENE DOESEF DOUVEMA ENITEMAUS.
His voice is modulated and augmented, of course, something big, echoey, cold, suggestive of the void. Janey stops, looking suddenly nervous; the sisters are starting to murmur; the pledges are getting agitated. Kimmi stops with the blindfolds, looks up at the glowing eye and fog, her hood falling back; there's a sudden contrast between High Occult and Sorority Chick.
KIMMI
What the fuck?
HARLAN
DIES MIES JESCHET BOENE DOESEF DOUVEMA ENITEMAUS!
CUT TO close-up of Janey, staring down at the Book with a physical, visceral horror and revulsion. The space containing the Book is warping, a little; she can feel it as the singularity called up by Harlan's summoning starts to twist the fabric of space and, well, the fabric of her. She looks as if she feels horribly nauseated, which she does. CUT TO close-up of Harlan as he's about to read more from the pad, grinning like a goon.
HARLAN
IÄ! IÄ!
The next word quite literally sticks in his throat. He, too, looks like he's about to dry-heave all of a sudden. He pounds himself in the chest, as if trying to shake loose heartburn, and says the words, dammit.
HARLAN
SHUPNIKKURAT! SHUPNIKKURAT, FHTAGN!
Janey just manages to drop the Book before it's too late. It hangs in space a moment, as if stuck – which it is, on the nascent threshold of the slowly forming Door. It – and her hand – stretch momentarily, subliminally, like taffy, then snap back; the Book hits the floor, Janey yanks back her hands. Moment passed. She starts screaming. The pledges and sisters are all feeling cold and sick as well; blindfolds are ripped off, candles kicked over, robes flutter, everybOdy's shrieking and running without being quite sure why or from what, even as Harlan repeats himself once more, triumphantly.
HARLAN
DIES MIES JESCHET BOENE DOESEF DOUVEMA ENITEMAUS!
Eric switches off the fog machine as the last screams echo down the tunnel. He's at once appalled and amused; laughter, concern, and a certain quizzical squint mingle on his face.
ERIC
God damn.
HARLAN
Was it something I said?
JAMSHID
(something vaguely reminiscent of James Brown, perhaps, or Robert Plant)
Jamshid hops down. Liz sits on the edge of the tunnel, in no hurry to follow. The camera finds Harlan, who looks as if he's about to dry-heave again, swallowing to keep something down. It looks more puzzling than frightening, at the moment. He follows Eric down into the main gallery.
ERIC
(to Harlan) You okay? (Harlan waves him off) Something happened.
HARLAN
Indeed.
ERIC
No, I mean something happened. Didn't you feel it? Don't tell me you didn't feel anything.
HARLAN
Would you care to describe this phenomenon?
ERIC
It was, it was a ripple – a shiver, something cold, it –
HARLAN
Was ineffable, perhaps? Something, oh, numinous, say?
Eric shoots him a Look.
HARLAN
It was something you ate, Eric.
LIZ
(playing peacemaker from her perch) How long do we plan on kicking around our triumph, exactly?
HARLAN
(beaming up at her) It was a triumph, wasn't it?
LIZ
Yeah. Great. But the most prudent course of action by far is to get our stuff out of here, ASAFP...
HARLAN
(impulsively; this is an old joke between them) Hey. Marry me.
LIZ
(already getting up to deal with the stuff) I'm kind of busy right now. Ask me again, in a couple of weeks?
Eric is shaking his head – something happened, dammit – but he moves to help Liz. Jamshid, meanwhile, has been kicking around in the background, muttering to herself as she looks for a souvenir; this lull in the conversation happens just as she bursts out with:
JAMSHID
Fuck. This is like being on a panty raid and getting no panties.
That particular simile stops them dead in their tracks.
HARLAN
You've been on a panty raid?
JAMSHID
Uh, I was extrapolating? Trying to find a common ground?
HARLAN
I've never been on a panty raid before.
ERIC
I don't think they do those anymore.
LIZ
Don't look at me.
JAMSHID
I wanted a trophy! Something I could beat them over their heads with! And they left me nothing but garbage. This is just like them, to thwart me in my moment of glory.
HARLAN
(peering down at the wreckage) How about a candle?
JAMSHID
I could've gotten one of those anywhere. (suddenly spots Pia's CD player) Cool! A trophy!
Harlan rolls his eyes. We follow Jamshid as she hops up, grabs the CD player – and spots something.
JAMSHID
Hey, cool.
She picks it up. It's the Book, open to a nasty looking demonic chart.
JAMSHID
(chipper) Guys? Lookie what I found!
CUT TO:
INT. HARLAN'S HOUSE, LIVING ROOM. NIGHT.
The black bags of equipment are scattered about. Harlan sits in a battered old easy chair; Liz and Eric sit on the old couch, looking at the Book; Jamshid is kneeling by one of the bags of equipment, near the couch, looking at the Book along with them. Steaming cups of tea are here and there.
JAMSHID
I don't know. I think we should just leave it here, with the rest of the stuff. My place is the first place they're going to look.
ERIC
We can't just... leave it here. We've got to tell somebody about this. The library.
HARLAN
(tired and feeling ill) It isn't the real book, Eric.
ERIC
How do you know?
HARLAN
Think about it. The real Necronomicon is a rare book worth tens of thousands of dollars that the library keeps under lock and key. How did Iota Alpha end up with it?
ERIC
I don't know, but –
HARLAN
Have you even looked at the damn thing?
ERIC
That's all I've been doing, since I got here. And I'm telling you, it looks like the real thing...
But Harlan's pulled himself to his feet and stalks over, testily, grabbing the cover of the book and slamming it shut in Eric's lap.
HARLAN
Read the title. (Eric looks down at it; he hasn't looked at the cover yet) Read it, damn it.
ERIC
(sighs, reading the letters embossed into the battered old leather board) Uh, Qanoon-é-Islam, or, the Customs of Mussulmans of India. Written by Jaffur Shureef.
HARLAN
Right. Not Necronomicon. Not The Book of the Dead. Not Abd Al Azrad.
He's about to turn away, but Eric throws open the Book and flips to a particularly lurid, daemonic page, holding it up.
ERIC
Does this look like Customs of the Mussulmans to you?
HARLAN
(sighs) They bought an old book at an antique store or something and ripped out the pages and put their own in.
ERIC
(suspiciously peering at it) They did a damn good job wih the binding.
HARLAN
Probably. Looks like they even stained the pages with weak coffee, to get that old parchment look.
LIZ
(hesitantly skeptical) The Latin isn't schoolboy stuff. It's a fair approximation of Medieval Church Latin – and the illumination...
HARLAN
So they did their homework. This is supposed to be a good university. (puts his hands on the Book) Give it to me. I'll stash it upstairs, in my room. We'll figure out what to do with it in the morning, Okay?
Eric, reluctantly, lets go of the Book; Harlan takes it, and turns to leave.
HARLAN
I'll see you guys tomorrow.
LIZ
You okay?
HARLAN
Yeah.
He leaves.
JAMSHID
Well.
ERIC
Indeed. How do you feel? Vindicated?
JAMSHID
Hardly. But – the night is young. (stands up, stretching, like a cat) Either of you up for dancing? I know this party...
ERIC
It's almost one o'clock in the morning and you're still hoping to get lucky.
JAMSHID
Luck is not a factor. (at the last minute, snatches up her trophy, Pia's CD player) Ha! Kisses.
She leaves.
ERIC
You believe me, don't you?
LIZ
What do you mean?
ERIC
Something happened tonight, Lizzie.
LIZ
How many times do I have to tell you never to call me that?
ERIC
Liz... I'm telling you, when he spoke those words, I felt a chill – and then finding that book – you saw it. Don't tell me it doesn't give you the creeps.
LIZ
We pulled a prank tonight, and maybe we've gotten in a little over our heads, but it's nothing we can't handle. Okay? (beat) Look, Eric – I'm sorry about Kevin, but –
ERIC
It's not about that. (beat) Hey. Walk you back to the dorm?
LIZ
(shakes her head) I think I'll stay here, tonight.
ERIC
What, with Mister Grumpy?
LIZ
Get thee hence, boy. Go home. Sleep.
And off he goes, on a somewhat happier note than he might have, otherwise.
CUT TO:
INT. HARLAN'S HOUSE, HARLAN'S ROOM. NIGHT.
Harlan's standing in the middle of his room, holding the Book, looking at it. He's kicked off his shoes, pulled off his shirt, but somewhere in the whole getting-ready-for-bed routine he got distracted, and... Some quiet, fiendishly complicated music is playing on his cheap tape player, but he's tuned it out. He's just looking at the Book. Slowly, he lifts the cover board, flips through some of the pages, looking at it. Frowning. Let the tension build a little before Liz knocks on the door, opening it slowly.
LIZ
Harlan?
HARLAN
(shaking himself out of his reverie, slapping the Book shut) It's open. (he looks about for a place to put it)
LIZ
For somebody who's "okay," you seem a little...
HARLAN
(he reaches up, stuffing the Book onto a shelf in his closet) I am feeling a little nauseous.
LIZ
(reflexively) Nauseated.
HARLAN
Nauseated, sorry.
LIZ
Mind if I crash?
HARLAN
I might be coming down with something...
LIZ
Maybe it's your conscience. Terrorizing all those hapless sorority sisters, being so patronizing to Eric... Or maybe it was something you ate – those dining hail chicken pucks are going to be the death of you. (beat) Did you enloy it?
HARLAN
The chicken?
LIZ
The prank!
HARLAN
(frowns) I don't know. I enjoyed how much Jamshid enjoyed it. But – it was all a bit, anticlimactic...
During this, Liz has dropped her bag, shed her coat; she's moved close to Harlan, and they're hugging, and she squeezes him close to her now, and there's something faintly lascivious in the way she does so.
HARLAN
Hey. I really am feeling ill, you know.
LIZ
(pouts, a little) Strictly cuddles.
HARLAN
Okay. Cuddles I can manage.
She lifts her face for a kiss, and he bends down to oblige, but he smells the cigarette she smoke earlier and pulls up short.
LIZ
Well, let me just, let me brush my teeth –
HARLAN
(mostly mock-disapproval) Cigarette breath.
LIZ
It was just the one. Geeze.
She heads for the door. Harlan grins, slumps a little as she leaves. The music's still playing. He rubs his neck, and finally looks up where he pointedly hasn't been looking, for a while – up on the shelf in his closet, where he just stuck the Book. He looks away, seems a tad agitated – stupid Book, but maybe I really ought to take a closer look at it, can you believe Eric – takes a step towards the closet, and ends up kicking Liz's bag. Something heavy falls out of it. Frowning, he bends down to pick it up.
CUT TO Liz's POV as she comes back from the bathroom, having stripped off her jeans and sweater, ready for bed, face scrubbed, hair down. Harlan turns around, holding her gun, a tasteful little 9 mil still in its black pocket. holster. He holds the thing with great distaste, with two or three fingers, as if holding it properly might make it go off.
HARLAN
You had this on you the whole time?
LIZ
Doesn't do me much good sitting at home.
HARLAN
There are rules against this sort of thing. You know I don't feel comfortable –
LIZ
Tough.
A momentary impasse. Harlan's expressed his displeasure; Liz isn't yielding.
LIZ
Look, just, put it down. Okay?
Still frowning, a little, Harlan kneels to do so, awkwardly. Liz steps in, kneels, takes the gun from him, gently. She checks it over quickly but professionally and stows it back in her bag.
HARLAN
Um. Sorry.
LIZ
Don't. I'm not even going to tag you for going through my stuff.
HARLAN
I just kicked it, it fell out –
LIZ
Whatever. Doesn't matter. Just leave it.
HARLAN
I don't know. I just don't know. The cigarettes, the gun...
LIZ
What?
HARLAN
(can't help but start grinning) Sounds like a classic case of penis envy, to me.
LIZ
(almost without blinking) That's what the strap-on's for, dear.
HARLAN
(blinks) Ha. Funny. (beat) That, ah, was supposed to be funny, right?
LIZ
I like you like this. Confused.
The ice that had formed between them is broken again. They laugh a little, kiss. Kiss a little more.
LIZ
(coming up for air) I thought you were feeling ill.
HARLAN
(shrugs) I could always give it the old college try. (they sink onto the futon, kissing, groping, unbuttoning) You, ah, were joking. Right?
FADE TO:
INT. STORM DRAIN BENEATH ARMITAGE LIBRARY. NIGHT.
KIMMI and PIA are creeping back into the tunnel, having doffed their robes. They both have flashlights and plastic garbage bags.
KIMMI
Stupid fucking book. Janey's such a cooze.
PIA
Kimmi!
KIMMI
What, you'd prefer I call her a cunt? A twat?
PIA
Geeze, Kimmi.
Kimmi has started cleaning up candles, discarded xeroxes, dropped blindfolds. Pia heads up to where her CD player was and where, no coincidentally, the Door awaits. It's been nice working with you, Pia.
PIA
It isn't here!
KIMMI
The book?
PIA
That too. But my CD player's gone! (a beat, as she works herself up to it) God, God damn it!
KIMMI
Go on. Say it...
Pia frowns. She doesn't want to.
KIMMI
You'll feel ever so much better.
PIA
Fuck!
KIMMI
There. See?
Pia's looking around, abashed, as if someone might have heard her. She catches sight of the bubble, which is now barely visible, pulsing slowly. How odd. Kimmi, who's turned back to picking stuff up, doesn't notice.
KIMMI
It was probably those fuckheads from Kappa Theta. We'll get 'em. And we'll get your CD player back. (struck by a sudden thought) Shit. They've probably got the damn book, too.
Pia has been edging closer and closer to the bubble, running her hand over its barely visible surface. There's something there! How odd. She can rest her hand on top of it, actually... What's holding it up? Nothing! How weird.
KIMMI
(turning to face her) Look. Let's just go back to the house and tell the High Cooze we – What are you doing?
The Door picks that particular moment to unfold and expand a little more. Pia's hand is caught in the interstices and is now trapped. There is a visibLe distortion to her hand and wrist, as if we're viewing it through a pane of old glass that's rolling a little, and rotating, and, yes, pulsing. Slowly. Her hand is now glued to that point in space. She shrieks, more from surprise than pain.
KIMMI
What –
PIA
Oh, Kimmi, I can't move. I can't move my hand.
KIMMI
What the fuck –
Kimmi takes a couple of steps towards her, as Pia tugs at her unmoving hand.
PIA
Its so – It's so cold, I –
With a flicker, a pulse, maybe even a flash of light, the Door unfolds a little more. Gulp! Pia screams and drops her flashlight as Kimmi freaks.
KIMMI
Oh my God what was that –
PIA
It's – It's swallowing me! It's – Kimmi!
But Kimmi's running away. And who, really, could blame her?
PIA
Kimmi! KIMMI!
Pia tries tugging her arm free. No dice. The camera pulls back, leaving her there, all alone.
PIA
Help? Anybody? (beat) Oh, oh – oh, phooey...
FADE TO:
INT. JAMSHID'S APARTMENT. NIGHT.
A close shot of Jamshid's reflection in her famous mirror as she lifts a red lipstick and prepares to artfully smear her lips with it. She's stripped to her skivvies and ready for love. Or at least sex. Reflected in the mirror we can see, behind her, her bed, and on the bed her SWIGGEE for the evening. Cool music is playing (the management humbly suggests Kenickie's "Classy").
JAMSHID
I've got a friend who doesn't wear lipstick. Says it's just a way to wear your sex on your face. (quoting Liz) "Women paint their mouths red, you see, to remind men of that... other pair of lips..."
She pouts at herself, finishes her lips, then turns to face Swiggee, striking some pose as she does so. Maybe she grabs an obviously fake toy raygun from the dresser and does some silly sci-fi starlet thing.
JAMSHID
Well? What do you think?
SWIGGEE
I think you should kiss me with those lips.
Jamshid grins, and we see something, perhaps, of those myths of vagina dentata.
JAMSHID
Hey – I was the demon Shupnikkurat for about ten minutes tonight. No telling what I'll turn into with you.
She holds that a moment, a potent image of camp sexuality and menace; then she giggles, and leaps off-screen, onto the bed – we can see her land, in the mirror, where she begins lasciviously to kiss and be kissed by Swiggee. CUT TO:
INT. CURWEN HOUSE, ERIC'S ROOM. NIGHT.
It's dark. Eric comes in, a little restless. Jingles the keys in his hand, drops them on his desk. Twiddles his iMac's mouse. Picks up the black egg of volcanic obsidian from his desk and absently rolls it in his hand as he walks over to the window. Shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up. Lights a cigarette, then leaves it smoldering in the ashtray as he walks back to the window again, holding the black egg to his lips, sighing heavily. Finally, he walks over to the stereo, turns it on. Jacks in headphones. Picks up the remote and lies down on his bed, closing his eyes, using the remote blindly to press play and skip to the appropriate song. The tinny sounds of Sondheim leak from the headphones. Pull back a bit, FADING TO:
EXT. CURWEN HOUSE, MISKATONIC CANPUS, AERIAL SHOT. NIGHT.
Still pulling back, suggesting we've pulled through Eric's wall and out into the October night. We can see his light shining dimly on the third floor of the dorm; a few other lights are on. Streetlights shine. There's one of those security call boxes with the blue lights on it. Maybe a couple walking home at two in the morning, or some whacko playing fetch with a dog in the quad, using a glow-in-the-dark frisbee. Let the music, still tinny, build to a natural climax, then FADE TO:
