Book of Blood

---

The dead have highways...

Running through the wastelands

behind our lives..

Bearing an endless traffic

of departing souls.

They can be herd through the broken

places of our world.

Through the cracks made by acts 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.

Hey, darling.

Are you okay?

Oh my god!

Im looking at him.

You sure you want to do this?

You want it in one... piece.

Your skin is leaving.

I'll be in touch.

Keep the change.

Ooh there, hang on a minute, it's okay.

Local hero in charge

How old are you Pussycat?

- I wouldn't tell.

- And neither will I!

Can't stop.

I've go to keep going.

Sure you do

Drink?

All the more for me.

- Where you headed friend?

- Away, away

As far away as I can go.

I think I can help with that.

I need to sleep.

I need to sleep.

Cumfy?

Where are we?

End of the line friend.

End of the line!

You see this collector calls me.

Probably sitting in some

stuffy room some where.

All kinds of disgusting

artifacts on the shelves like...

Pickled tongues,

plaster casts of rock stars d*cks,

reptile fetuses in

formaldehyde jars.

But just like every collector...

This ones dying for the next thing!

And guess what the next,

thing is!

Your skin!

Weird hey?

But hey!, who am I to judge.

This one pays well.

And I might get a bonus,

if I can keep it all in one...

"Boat".

Please.

Please what?

Pass the salt?

Still...

I got to wonder!

Being a student of human nature and all.

How a beauty...

Like you!

Finds himself tied to a table

about to be flayed by a sociopath.

Jesus Christ son.

You are a book of blood.

Read it to me.

Why should I?

Well now...

Because...

Here's the deal.

We can do this nice

and slow and painful

or I can make it relatively quick.

Up to you.

- Quick

- Up to you.

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.

Janie, Janie open the door.

Open the door now.

Here! Call the police.

Janie open the door!

Janie!

Open the door!

- Janie, Janie...

- Let me in. Please... stay back!

Captain!

Oh my God!

Paranormal.

Defined by Webster something

not scientifically... explainable.

We live in the realm of the paranormal.

If we'd only look...

If we'd only listen.

Remember...

The absence of proof does not

necessarilly prove the negative.

But it's a good start.

I'd take a seat anywhere Mr...

McNeal.

Simon McNeal.

I've just um... transferred

from Strath Clyde..

Okay. Welcome...

Simon McNeal.

You're welcome... Simon McNeal.

Why is it these places always look so...

Ordinary?

The owner moved out in a hurry

after his daughter was murdered.

Place has been on the market ever since.

It was built in the early 19 hundreds.

Then that guy. J.D Tollington...

bought the place during the depression.

Snake oil man...

Huh.

Claimed he could talk to the dead.

People came from all over

Europe to see him.

He used to entertain the rich

and famous right up stairs here...

Very spooky goings on apparently.

Story goes during one

session he was interrupted...

by some invisible hand

clasped over his mouth.

So cold it left an impression

on his skin like a mustache.

The proof is in his autopsy.

Suddenly he was thrown

against the wall so hard,

shards of his broken bones

pierced his lungs.

He choked on his own blood.

- You're making this up?

- It all happened right up here.

What ever did it to Tullington

scribbled a message on the closet doors.

In blood!

Dont mock us!

The same message they found

the night Janie got killed!

After you.

Nothing wrong with this picture.

According to her parents, Janie

was seriously into sex and death.

Used to bring her friends

up here for sances

Voodoo and blow jobs.

They grow up so fast these days.

Probably just a passing truck.

Steven!

Not my son!

How do you know any of this

stuff in your books is true?

How do you know

any of it is really true?

Well. If we close our minds to

the possibilities...

We'd never make any progress, would we?

But truth is relative.

I mean if you can see it...

and you can touch it,

then, how can we be sure?

Professor?

So... we are just supposed

to take all this in faith?

In this business we have

to start from a place of faith.

For a visiting professor, you're not

very curious about the local cuisine?

Want some?

- It helps with my insomnia.

- Your not getting laid enough!

I'm still available?

What do you think?

That house.

Perfect another book, right?

I suppose.

Excuse me... I was just struck

by a blinding burst of enthusiasm.

Half my fans think they're

reading fiction for Christs sake.

You mean it's not?

Reg. Ive been studying the

paranormal for almost ten years.

And I have never found anything

verifiable, anything indisputable.

Just a series of speculation

and presumption.

Every scientific breakthrough in

the history is based on nothing...

Speculation and presumption.

Ask Galileo, Newton, Darwin.

Wouldn't it be great...

If all that high tech equipment of

yours could finally prove something.

Can't prove anything

sitting in its box.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes