SHIVERS Page #5

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Tudor approaches the dining room with his hand over his nose

and mouth.

Annabelle's corpse is still smoking where it lies on the

dining-room table. Hobbes's body is twisted into the fetal

position at the foot of the table, one hand still clutching

the scalpel stuck in its neck, the floor beneath it bright

with blood.

Tudor winces as though stuck with a pin. Blinking rapidly,

he edges around the room until his angle of vision is such

that he can see the head of the corpse on the table. It is

definitely Annabelle, eyes still staring, surgical clip still

attached to her lips, purple bruises on her neck.

Tudor turns, his body contracting around the pit of his

stomach. After a moment he manages to straighten up and

stagger from the apartment, having at least enough presence

of mind to take his attaché case, which he left by the door,

and to close the door behind him.

INT. ANNABELLE'S APARTMENT -- AFTERNOON

Dr. Roger St. Luc, tall, thin, dark, not bad-looking, stands

over the table staring at the corpse of Annabelle. As he

watches, two ambulance men throw a sheet over her and begin

to lift her down on to a stretcher on the floor. The voice

of the superintendent of the building drifts over to him

from the other end of the apartment.

SUPER (V.O.)

Like I said to the police officer,

he paid the rent, Dr. Hobbes did.

And he came around and chatted a lot

with everyone here, the staff, I

mean. Nice guy. Not a high and mighty

type. But it was her name on the

residency list and the buzzer board:

Annabelle... what was it again?...

Annabelle Horsefield. She never

complained about anything, not to

me, anyway.

The super, a small, unshaven, harassed little man with a lot

of energy, is talking to a large beefy detective who writes

everything down in a notebook.

DETECTIVE:

(pointing to

Annabelle's corpse,

which is just being

carried out the door)

And that was her. Annabelle Horse...

field.

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