Book of Blood (2009)
Wyburd: Where are you headed, friend?
Simon McNeal: Away.
Simon McNeal: As far away as I can go.
Wyburd: [leaning close] I think I can help with that.
Mary Florescu: The dead have highways, running through the wasteland behind our lives, bearing an endless traffic of departed souls. They can be heard in the broken places of our world, through cracks made out of cruelty, violence, and depravity. They have sign posts, these highways, and crossroads and intersections. And it is at these intersections where the dead mingle, and sometimes spill over into our world.
Wyburd: [after ripping Simon's shirt open] Jesus Christ, son. You are a book of blood. Read it to me.
Simon McNeal: Why should I?
Wyburd: Well now...
[Wyburd picks up a knife and approaches Simon]
Wyburd: ...because here's the deal - we can do this nice and slow and painful, or I can make it relatively quick. Up to you.
Simon McNeal: The dead have highways. Highways that lead to intersections, and intersections that spill into our world. And if you find yourself at one of those intersections, you should stop and you should listen, because the dead have stories to tell.
Reg Fuller: [looking at haunted house] Why is it these places always look so...
Mary Florescu: Ordinary?
Mary Florescu: [entering Janie's room] According to the parents, Janie was seriously into sex and death. Used to bring her friends up here for seances.
Reg Fuller: Voodoo and blowjobs. They grow up so fast these days.
Simon McNeal: She had made them a promise, a promise I would have to keep. And their stories kept coming, day after day, night after night. She kept me locked in the estate she bought with all the money she made from her books, reading my skin.
Wyburd: [to Simon] You know what? You tell a good story, friend. But sad to say, I'm not moved. I don't feel anything.
Mary Florescu: [lecturing to class] Paranormal. Defined by Webster as something not scientifically explainable. We live in the realm of the paranormal, if we only look, if we only listen. Remember, the absence of proof does not necessarily prove the negative.
Mary Florescu: [walking around house] The owners moved out in a hurry after their daughter was murdered. Place has been on the market ever since. It was built in the early 1900s, then that guy J.D. Tollington bought the place during the Depression.
Reg Fuller: [looking at an old newspaper clipping of Tollington] Snake old man, huh?
Mary Florescu: Claimed he could talk to the dead. People came from all over Europe to see him. He used to entertain the rich and the famous right upstairs here. Very spooky goings on apparently. Story goes during one session he was interrupted by some invisible hand clapsed over his mouth; so cold it left an impression on his skin like a moustache. The proof's in his autopsy. Suddenly, he was thrown against the wall so hard shards of his broken bones pierced his lungs and he choked on his own blood.
Reg Fuller: Are you making this up?
Mary Florescu: It all happened right up here. Whatever did it to Tollington scribbled a message on the closet doors. In blood. "Don't mock us".
Reg Fuller: What do you think? That house. It's perfect for another book, right?
Mary Florescu: I suppose.
Reg Fuller: [sarcastically] Excuse me. I'm struck by a blinding bus of enthusiasm.
Mary Florescu: Half my fans think they're reading fiction for Christ's sake.
Reg Fuller: You mean it's not?
Mary Florescu: [referring to Simon] His brother was killed in a car accident. Flipped his pick-up into a ditch, went through the windscreen head-first, snapped his neck. Simon saw it happen.
Reg Fuller: What do you mean he saw it?
Mary Florescu: He walked into the kitchen one night, told his parents point-blank "Stevie's dead. Truck crashed." A moment later the police called. When his parents got to the scene, it was exactly as he described it. There's something about him, Reg.
Reg Fuller: Yeah, it's called being great looking.
Mary Florescu: He knew I was going to have that flat the other night.
Reg Fuller: I suppose a coincidence is too obvious an explanation?
Mary Florescu: Simon, there's a house near here. Tollington Place. Something... terrible happened there. Something unexplained. A young girl was murdered.
Simon McNeal: Right. You're writing another book?
Mary Florescu: I'd like for you to work with me.
Simon McNeal: I don't know about that. A lot of people have said my family exploited my brother's death. I mean, our parents made money off it.
Mary Florescu: Something awful happened to that poor girl. Don't you think her story deserves to be told? You have a gift, Simon. Don't waste it. Help me find out what happened in that house.
Reg Fuller: Listen.
Mary Florescu: I don't hear anything.
Reg Fuller: That's right. I haven't seen one fly, one spider, one ant even, anywhere. Have you?
[Mary shakes her head]
Reg Fuller: It's like the place is being shunned.
Reg Fuller: [referring to Simon] What's he bringing to the party?
Mary Florescu: If there's even the slightest chance he can help us to open this house up, I'm going to encourage it.
Reg Fuller: Yeah. Just be careful the house isn't the only thing he opens up.
Reg Fuller: I think we should get out of here.
Mary Florescu: You've got to be kidding!
Reg Fuller: [holding up camera] We have got enough here.
Mary Florescu: Reg, we've never seen anything like this before.
Reg Fuller: That's what I mean. This is... I don't know what this is.
Mary Florescu: I think it's him. He's the one making this happen. He's our lightning rod.
Reg Fuller: Okay, but I think we should leave before we get fucking electrocuted!
Mary Florescu: I was ten. There was a park across the street from our house. It had a fountain where we used to play. But it was old; water never worked, until one night. The sound woke me up. It was spraying everywhere. The air was drenched, but not with... water. With blood. I didn't know what was happening, but it happened almost every night.
Simon McNeal: And you didn't say anything?
Mary Florescu: I was too afraid. In the morning, the fountain was always completely dry, like it never happened. I was afraid they'd all think I was crazy. A few weeks later, the city came and tore out the fountain to make way for a parking lot. When they ripped up the ground, they found... a ten year old girl buried underneath. She'd been... tortured. Her DNA linked her to a man five doors down. But by the time they found him, he'd done the same thing to six more girls. If I only said something...
Simon McNeal: There is something going on in this house, alright? The first time upstairs, yeah, I faked it. But the second time, that was real. That was something way beyond a few pieces of charcoal. Something way beyond what a guy in a lab coat will ever tell you.
Mary Florescu: I thought you were smarter than this, Simon. I thought, for a moment, you were for real.
Simon McNeal: I'm not a fraud.
Reg Fuller: Get the fuck out of here.
Simon McNeal: You! You don't understand, and you never will. Mary, I'm supposed to be here. This house - it wants me. It's chosen me. Me!
Mary Florescu: It's always about you, isn't it? Always you.
Simon McNeal: Yes! It's about me! I told you I had a gift, and it was taken away. But I've got it back now. I've got it back, and I'm not going to let it get taken away again. So I'm going to prove it to you. I'm going to prove it once and for all.
[takes off jacket and walks upstairs]
Mary Florescu: You can stop now, Simon.
[Simon takes off his shirt to reveal his bruised body]
Mary Florescu: Oh, please.
Simon McNeal: When I'm through, you're gonna beg to have my story, and it's going to be bigger than any book you've ever written. Do you know why? Because it's all true.
Mary Florescu: You really don't understand, do you? They've been waiting... for someone to listen. For someone to hear their stories.
[Mary holds Simon and addresses the dead]
Mary Florescu: I promise we will listen. And I will tell your stories to the world!
Simon McNeal: She said I would be their book, and she would be their translator, copying down their stories; stories they wrote on me. I couldn't take it anymore, so I ran. I ran and I ran, but still... they kept writing. They keep writing!
Mary Florescu: The stories go on. They bleed and bleed. The dead have highways, only the living are lost. But there are sign posts and bridges where the dead will stop to tell you their stories, because the telling will relieve them of the tale, and it would be best to listen.