Wes Craven’s Page #10

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THIRD MAN:

Help you?

HEATHER:

Porter. Chase Porter.

He peers at her, a bloody rubber glove poised mid-air.

THIRD MAN:

That a new one?

One of the men eating lunch points.

LUNCH EATER:

Over there, third from the sink.

Heather goes over, CAMERA MOVING WITH HER HAND-HELD. The

lunch-eater follows with her, wiping his hands on his apron,

checking the toe tag. A thing very much like a pale blue

credit card.

LUNCH EATER (cont'd)

You say Chase?

Heather just nods, her heart in her throat. The man's voice

is surprisingly compassionate.

LUNCH EATER (cont'd)

Sorry.

He lifts the sheet carefully, just offering a peak at the

face. Heather forces herself to look.

It's Chase, and something about the sweet sleep-like quality

to his face hits Heather harder than the bloodless pallor, or

the slightly broken-egg misshaping of his head.

The man lowers the sheet and fetches a clipboard hanging at

the foot of the stainless steel table.

LUNCH EATER (cont'd)

Just sign at the bottom, that's all we

need.

But Heather is just staring at the sheet, head ever so

slightly tilted, as if there's one thing she saw under there

she's not yet quite through with.

HEATHER:

Let me see once more.

LUNCH EATER:

I'm sorry.

HEATHER:

Lift the sheet again.

He looks, sees she's serious, and lifts it.

HEATHER (cont'd)

More.

He lifts it a little more. Still it's only down to Chase's

chin. But it's enough, and in a deadly still voice Heather

asks...

HEATHER (cont'd)

What's that?

She's pointing to a flap of whitish skin beneath Chase's

chin.

LUNCH EATER:

Uh, well, this was a bad wreck, ma'am.

I mean, his head's gonna be okay for the

funeral and all, but...

Heather reaches out suddenly and pulls the sheet back much

farther. For one horrendous instant we glimpse a torso sewn

back together with rough mortician's stitches along four

deep, savage slashes.

The lunch eater pulls the sheet back over Chase as Heather

spins and vomits.

LUNCH EATER (cont'd)

Oh, now, there. You okay, lady?

He offers her a piece of white muslin to wipe her mouth. She

does so with shaking hands, then asks with a shaken,

terrified whisper.

HEATHER:

What did that?

The man blinks a moment.

LUNCH EATER:

Ma'am, it was head-on. I heard the truck

was torn up something awful. You can

imagine how he'd, well, not be exactly in

top shape.

Heather, still crouched, looks back at the gurney looming

above her.

HEATHER:

It looks like...he was clawed.

LUNCH EATER:

Yeah, well, that's why we don't lift the

sheet past the face, ma'am. Sometimes

what you don't see is what gets you

through the night.

EXT. CEMETERY - DAY

Surrounded by her friends, Heather buries her husband. There

are several recognizable faces here in addition to Bob and

Sara, especially to Elm Street fans - Robert Englund, JOHNNY

DEPP, WES CRAVEN, JOHN SAXON among others. There is no media

or fans - the funeral has been kept from the press.

Heather stands apart from the rest, holding Dylan's hand. On

his other side is Julie, touching his shoulder. Only a

slight twitching of the boy's hand betrays emotion as he

solemnly watches the casket lowered. As it disappears

beneath the brink, a sudden WIND moves through the trees.

A moment later a SHARP JOLT ROLLS THROUGH THE PLACE.

Instantly there are cries of EARTHQUAKE! and the SHOCK

CONTINUES - THE GROUND HEAVING - and the men winching the

coffin fall backwards. Several grave stones and monuments

tumble. The coffin itself tilts wickedly, then falls end-

first into the pit, hitting with a sickening crack. Heather

lurches forward instinctively. Loses balance. Falls and

hits hard, head against the framework over the grave.

Mass confusion for the rest of the people, ducking, stumbling

over gravestones, generally grabbing for something solid.

Then that eerie still again. Just DOGS and CAR ALARMS.

Heather shakes herself, twists round looking for Dylan. Sees

he's not with Julie. Hisses desperately at the girl.

HEATHER:

Julie. Where's Dylan?!

Julie looks around, dazed. Everyone nearby looks for the

child. And for god knows what reason, Heather checks the

grave and reacts in horror.

HER POV:

In the merest fraction of a second we see the coffin has

split open. The lid ajar. And incredibly, the leering face

of someone who looks a lot like FREDDY KRUEGER - darker, even

harder, but definitely in that mode, ducks back deeper into

the dark of the coffin after a split second of eye-contact

with Heather. And he's dragging Dylan after him!

Without hesitation Heather jumps into the pit. Amid gasps of

astonishment from the dazed onlookers, even as Dylan

disappears into the coffin with a terrible yank!

IN THE PIT WITH HEATER

wrenching back the coffin lid, seeing Dylan about to vanish

down the dark slot at the foot of the coffin. Just like the

danger area beneath the blankets!

INSIDE THE COFFIN

Heather diving under the winding sheets and grabbing Dylan's

hand. Hauling back. For the briefest instant she glimpses

the long arm of Freddy's red and green-striped sweater. The

wicked glove and blades. All snaking down out of sight into

darkness. As his mocking laughter echoes over her, Heather

hauls up with all her might. Pulling the child back and over

the bloody remains of her husband. Dylan screaming in

fright! And at the sight of Chase's face, his dead eyes

staring in horror into her own. Heather passes out!

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