Wes Craven’s Page #13

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By the time Saxon gets to them, Heather's finding out that

though she's dazed and bruised, amazingly, Dylan is not only

okay, but serenely unconcerned with his close call. He

simply looks up at her and says solemnly.

DYLAN:

God wouldn't take me.

EXT. HEATHER'S HOUSE - DAY

Peaceful, sun-drenched. Never know anything was going wrong.

Heather, limping noticeably, fetches her mail.

INT. DEN - DAY

Heather wipes the sweat off her face with her T-shirt and

shuffles through the pile. There's a newspaper with

headlines of the earthquake, the usual load of junk mail -

and then something that stops her cold.

CLOSER:

as she singles out one letter in particular. Grimy, no

address, smeared with soot. She opens it with shaking

fingers. We see a sheet of filthy paper holding a single cut-

out "E" pasted on its center.

HEATHER:

stuffs the letter in a drawer,and as she does we glimpse

dozens of other filthy ENVELOPES.

Heather crosses to the phone and dials.

VOICE #2 (FILTER)

Hello?

HEATHER:

Robert?

INTERCUTTING WITH:

INT. ROBERT ENGLUND'S HOUSE/STUDIO - DAY

TIGHT ON ENGLUND, intense, quick, stalking back from the

cordless phone's base through the living room of a large,

Mediterranean mansion. He talks as he walks, soon ending

back where he evidently was when the call came, in a sun-room

off the larger room, which features a large easel. Clearly

an avid amateur painter, he's surrounded here by jars of

brushes, rags and palettes. The large canvas he's working on

is seen only from behind.

ROBERT ENGLUND:

Heather? You doing okay?

HEATHER:

Holding my own. You know that guy who

was calling me all the time? He's

started again. He's been putting stuff

in my mail.

ROBERT ENGLUND:

Must've read about the funeral. Sick

mother. That's the last thing you need

right now, I'm sure.

HEATHER:

(almost embarrassed)

It's actually been giving me Freddy

nightmares.

Line noise for a second, then...

ROBERT ENGLUND:

Freddy as in me?

Heather shakes her head.

HEATHER:

It isn't you. He's scarier. He's...

(searching for words)

Robert puts down his brush, takes the portable phone to the

window and looks out as if he could see her.

ROBERT ENGLUND:

Darker. More...evil?

HEATHER:

Yeah...how'd you know?

ROBERT ENGLUND:

Call it a guess...

He starts painting again, as if he saw something in the

canvas he had to capture instantly or it would vanish. His

face twists and flinches with the effort; we get the feeling

this is no mere hobby at all. But we still don't see the

picture.

HEATHER:

Anyway, what I was calling about

was...have you seen any of the script, by

any chance?

ROBERT ENGLUND:

Wes won't show it until it's finished.

That's what he told me, at least. I

asked him at the funeral.

HEATHER:

When do you think it'll be done?

ROBERT ENGLUND:

The way he's writing is so weird, who

knows? I asked him how far he'd gotten

at the funeral, and what was it he

said...? Oh yeah, as far as Dylan trying

to reach God. Weird, huh, that he'd have

your kid in it?

Heather can't find her breath for a moment. Fighting a

perception of fear so stifling it's like a pillow pressed to

her face. She barely manages.

HEATHER:

Robert? Have you been having any

nightmares?

Just the line noise.

ON ROBERT:

painting, the phone held away from his head as if it contains

something he doesn't want to acknowledge.

HEATHER (cont'd)

Robert, I think we should talk. And not

over the phone. Could I come over?

He shakes his head.

ROBERT ENGLUND:

Uh, actually today's not good. There's

something I've got to finish. How's

tomorrow?

BACK NOW WITH HEATHER

pale, turning to look at Dylan's door.

HEATHER:

Tomorrow, then. First thing in the

morning. Meanwhile take care, Robert,

okay?

She hangs up.

ROBERT:

hangs up, too, just staring at the painting. As if it held

his salvation or his doom.

INT. CHASE AND HEATHER'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Heather, deep in sleep, tossing as if her bed were floating

on a stormy sea. In fact, this time very, very subtly,

another EARTHQUAKE has begun rocking the house. Lamps sway,

the whole bed rises and falls, as we

MOVE IN ON HEATHER

INT. DEN - NIGHT

CAMERA AT CARPET LEVEL as two little FEET pad INTO FRAME.

MOVE WITH THEM, TILTING UP the cowboy PJ's TO DYLAN'S FACE.

Ghostlike in the moonlight. Eyes vacant, moving through the

living room as in a dream.

INT. CHASE AND HEATHER'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Heather gasps out something in her sleep, the tone deeply

distressed. PAN OFF HER, ACROSS THE SHEET FLUNG OVER HER, TO

THE FOOT OF THE BED. There's movement there. The sheet

rising at four salients. Pressed up from beneath. Then the

glint of steel pokes through with a subtle rip-rip-rip, the

claws of finely-honed steel rise into moonlight. Moving.

PAST HEATHER'S FACE TO THE CLAWS cleanly parting the sheet as

they pull their way closer to her. The only sound a soft

RRRIIIIIPPPPP.

THEY STOP IN CU and with practiced SNICK cut the tatters

between them, leaving only a single hole. Then the lethal

steel hand rises fully into sight.

Then there's a CRASH from downstairs, as if a silverware

drawer were dumped on a tile floor.

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