Ghostland

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1

Freaking awesome horror writer.

The best. By far.

Patrick had a vague feeling.

Something was about to happen.

How could he tell his parents,

that the malevolent things

Were all around?

How could he tell his parents,

that the malevolent things

Were all around?

In the ether and in each

speck of dust.

Patrick had always seen these things.

And always had it seemed that

he alone knew about them.

And so ...

On the evening of the seventh

day,

He could feel their imminent arrival.

Something in the breeze of twilight whispered:

"It's going to happen tonight."

The following day, when his mother

opened the door,

There was absolutely nothing there.

The trail of Patrick Willian Wards' urine

led to an empty closet.

Bathed in the darkness

of his last night.

The end.

Wow.

Gosh.

Here we go.

That's one of his best.

Mother, you say that every single time.

-Yeah.

But this time I mean it.

Really?

I was fascinated, captivated ...

scared.

It was like ...

Lovecraft.

I know. Too much like him, huh?

- No.

I haven't completely found my voice yet.

Yeah, that's what it is!

Vera!

"Mother, my sister is a freak.

Something new, please.

- No!

Beth, honestly,

I can't wrap my mind around how you

spend days,

writing this piece of crap that

ends with piss on a carpet.

You would not understand.

What the hell are your stories

supposed to mean?

They're supposed to

be scary!

What's scary is having you for a sister,

but good luck finding a boyfriend.

Temps mort, Vera!

(Calm down, Vera)

I don't speak french!

Keep writing, Beth.

What if I'm not good? enough?

You are good enough, Beth.

You're only saying that because you're my mom.

What's that?

What the f***?

Bravo Vera, a c'est vraiment la grande classe!

(Come on, Vera, have manners.)

Without French, mom!

Quite a vintage car you've got there!

Mom and I love old things.

You're just passing through?

- No.

I mean... we're moving here.

Into Aunt Clarice's house.

Auntie Clarice? She lives around here?

I'm not sure exactly.

I mean, she's dead.

She was my mother's cousin's sister-in-law or something.

Oh Clarice Jourdain! That coocking little french lady,

who had that place ... Oh Damn it!

For Christ's sake!

Almost got my nail polish in here for at least a week!

What's the story for it, Miss Jourdain.

My name is Keller.

Whatcha doing?

What is that?

A story you wouldn't like.

How did you know?

There is nobody here?

Oh God, it stinks.

She'll be right back.

Oh my God, I look hideous.

Okay, what's the story about?

Some guy's been breaking

into people's homes.

Murdering the parents and

sparing the daughters.

One is about your age.

Uhm. and..?

He stays in the house with her.

Along with the parent's dead bodies.

You made that up.

- Girls!

Let's go?

Jesus Christ.

It's Rob Zombie's house.

She's gonna like it.

It's not bad.

It's like an extension of her brain.

You've got to be kidding me.

The bedrooms are upstairs.

It smells like old ladies in here!

It smells what molds here.

Yeah, that's what I said.

Look all these dolls!

Clarice never let me

play with them.

What was Aunt Clarice's deal?

Is it working?

No!

Bingo!

Aren't you going to get up

this antique writer bullshit?

Just use a laptop!

Aren't you going to get up

this antique writer bullshit?

Just use a laptop!

Never.

God, it's like a flea market

in here.

You think she bought all this

for herself?

Yeah, old ladies love that

kind of crap.

A Chinese puzzle-box.

What?

It is more than a mirror.

It's actually a box, I've read about these.

There's gotta be a secret

button somewhere.

Jesus!

So, you like it?

No!

Vera, careful with that.

Who would wanna buy one of these?

Honey?

Baby?

Beth?

Beth!

I'm okay.

Oh sweetie.

Of course you're okay.

That's why you looked so pale.

What's wrong with her?

Nothing.

She's like you, now.

Great.

You you do have a great sense of timing.

Vera!

Is she alright?

Oh, so now you ask.

You could have stayed in

and helped her out.

Why bother?

And you rushed to her rescue anyways.

I don't get why she

would write these stories

if she fall apart at

the first sight of blood.

She's afraid of flying.

She's afraid of boys.

She is afraid of her own freaking shadow!

The other day when I was packing

I found something

you'll never believe.

I'm not into games, Vera.

An interview.

With her, Mom.

Several pages, all typed up

like it was a magazine.

She made the all thing up!

Like, in it, she is a famous writer

and this journal is asking

all these questions about her books.

She needs a reality check, Mom.

It's nice to know that you do love

your sister up for all.

I know you're angry about leaving

your boyfriend behind.

Whatever, Mom.

And quit wearing makeup!

F*** you!

Piece of sh*t.

I know you love her more!

Beth. Beth. Beth.

F***ing Beth.

Oh sh*t.

Mom!

Where did your antique lamp go?

I'm upstairs.

Who is your favorite writer?

I know.

Your antique lamp! Where does it go?

In your room.

You hear me?

Yes!

Hey! Go easy on the door.

Enjoying my bed, are you?

This is yours.

And this is yours too.

That ton of sh*t is not staying in my room.

Take it!

Will it kill you to be a little

nicer to your sister?

It might.

That's what I thought.

Not mine.

It's an old house.

God mom! It's my room!

Go help Lovecraft junior.

Jesus!

Lower!

Jane?

What?

Hello?

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