Alden's Neck, Act I of III

During the #coronavirus pandemic, I am regularly posting stories and selections from my published collections and novels. Read for free! Reading is the best at this time!

This is the ninth free offering: Act I of Alden's Neck, a treatment for a horror movie, published in  "Since the Sky Blew Off: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, V. I," 2013 by Crossroad Press.

ALDEN’S NECK

A story of timeless love, betrayal, and guilt

A treatment for a horror movie

Azazel, fallen angel.

ACT I

OPEN with an exterior shot of a rambling old summer house –– wraparound porches, widow’s walk, etc. –– near the ocean in Ipswich, Massachusetts. A spectacular dawn is breaking. We note the plaque on the house: “The Aldens’’

Cryon: Ipswich, Massachusetts, July 7, 2007

The camera takes us inside the house, which is tastefully furnished. Old money. We see the kitchen, with pictures of a happy family of three on counters and refrigerator: Arthur Alden, 29, a researcher at defense contractor Raytheon, a tall and sandy–haired man; his wife Heather, 26, an advertising executive, a beautiful, hot blond; and their only child, Pearl, seven, a dark–haired girl. The Aldens live in Boston, and vacation here.

Heather is awake at this early hour. She strolls through the living room, past a wide–screen TV that is turned off, into Pearl’s bedroom. Pearl is sleeping. Heather goes back into the master bedroom, where Arthur is also asleep. Heather has seduction in mind. She wakes her husband with kisses and touches, and as dawn streams through their window, the scene culminates with erotic love–making.

CUT TO: The living room, where the TV flickers on by itself. We see a grainy image of bespectacled man of about 65, apparently dressed in colonial garb. The image is gone as fast as it appeared, and the scene DISSOLVES to:

The Aldens beach–combing all by themselves on a deserted beach on (fictitious) Alden’s Neck, about a half–mile walk through woods from the summer house. Alden’s Neck is named for Arthur’s family, descendants of a Mayflower passenger. They have owned property in the area since the 1600s, when Ipswich was settled.

Cryon: Alden’s Neck, Ipswich, Massachusetts, late that afternoon.

Heather finds a beautiful heart-shaped stone, which she gives to her husband with a comment about how they will be in love forever. Arthur makes a corny joke – his trademark – about being careful what you wish for. Heather rolls her eyes, as usual. She loves this guy desperately, but his sense of humor is a tad lame.

The family leaves the beach, and starts down the path back through thick woods to the summer house. On the way, they pass a distinctive–looking ancient oak tree. Almost every time they see it, Arthur makes another of his dumb jokes: This thing is so old, looks like they probably hung witches here during the witch trials. Heather rolls her eyes and replies: As I keep reminding you, dear, those were in Salem, not Ipswich.

At this exact moment, Arthur collapses to the ground, writhing, his hands frantically clutching at his neck.

Is it another of his jokes?

No – a bloody froth fills his mouth.

Heather and Pearl scream, and Heather tries to revive him – but she is no nurse, and her efforts fail. Is he suffering a heart attack? A stroke? An epileptic fit? Poisoning?

Arthur’s eyeballs now bleed, and blood seeps from his pores. He seems to be liquefying, decomposing before their eyes. Horrifying. Gross. Stephen King.

Panic city now – and all alone, a half mile from civilization. Heather dials 911 on her iPhone and begs for help immediately. Finally, Arthur, or what is left of him, is dead. Grabbing Pearl by the arm, Heather runs frantically. We hear the sounds of sirens approaching in the distance.

Heather and Pearl break free of the woods – and fire trucks, cruisers, and ambulances roar up. Heather tells her story, and leaving Pearl in the custody of a woman cop, leads the rescuers down the path to Arthur. The path is too narrow for vehicles.

But they do not find Arthur, only the unmistakable old oak tree.

No signs of struggle, no blood, no evidence of any kind that he was ever there; just the tree, in the gathering darkness.

Heather is certain of the spot – someone must have stolen the body, maybe a bear took it, it was more than just dying, she saw it, he decomposed in front of her very eyes, can anybody tell me what the hell is happening? She continues hysterically as the rescue people, skeptical but kind, try to comfort her. Of course, we believe you; of course, your husband was here. Apparently he’s all right – he must have just decided to take a little walk, that’s all. Not to be insensitive, but we have to ask: has there been some sort of domestic dispute? No! They lead Heather back to the vehicles, where the police captain, a tall, handsome, dark–haired man of about Heather’s age, runs a computer check of ``Arthur Alden.’’ No one fitting Arthur’s description and d.o.b. pops up. No one…

ROLL CREDITS

The police advise Heather to let them bring her to a hospital just as a precaution, but she refuses. The captain drives her and her daughter to the summer place. Pearl is in a state of shock, speechless and eyes glazed. The sun has dropped beneath the horizon; a moonless, pitch–black night is coming.

Heather settles Pearl into bed, then tries to gather her wits.

But it is clear that whatever happened on Alden’s Neck is only part of something much bigger and more terrifying. She proceeds hypnotically through the summer place – and finds no trace of Arthur. Only her clothes in the master bedroom closet. Only her name on the check book and the mail. Only photos of her with Pearl – no Arthur – on counters and the refrigerator door. She dials Arthur’s cell phone – and the recorded message says the number is not in service. Arthur’s parents are dead, but he did have a sister. Heather calls her – and the woman who answers says she never had a brother, and has never heard of Heather Alden, please don’t call again, whoever you are (you crazy lady). Just for the record, how did you get my number? The ”sister’’ says it’s unlisted.

Has Heather lost her mind? Has Arthur’s work at Massachusetts–based Raytheon somehow landed him in sci–fi trouble? He never spoke much about his work, which was in advanced weapons technology, lasers, something like that. Was he the unknown subject of an experiment? What is going on??? She turns on the TV, hoping to get her mind off things, but she can’t bring in a channel, the screen is nothing but static.

Heather finally falls into troubled sleep.

And the first nightmare unfolds:

INT. A SINGLE–FAMILY HOUSE IN IPSWICH –– NIGHT

We see that it is the summer of 1917 (July 7, 1917, to be precise) – perhaps from a newspaper with World War I headlines, a picture of an early airplane, whatever. The sign on the door reads: “The Aldens.”

The camera travels through the house, revealing a young girl – Pearl – butchered in her bed, blood strewn on floor, walls, ceiling, everywhere. On we go, to reveal a young man – Arthur – similarly butchered in the hall outside the master bedroom. Into the bedroom, where Heather, still alive, is being held captive by a man wearing a black executioner’s hood (which obviously hides his identity). He is holding a gold–handled dagger that looks to be from the 1600s. Heather begs for her life, screaming: “Please! I thought you dead! Lost at sea! Had I known…” But the man shows no mercy – nor says a word. He savagely hacks Heather to death…

Heather wakes up sweating and shaking.

The next morning, Pearl tells of her own nightmare: She saw Daddy in a distant, dark place, and he kept repeating: “Help me honey, I’m stuck! Help me honey, I’m stuck!” Pearl otherwise has begin to retreat into herself. Now Heather has another worry.

The two Aldens drive back to their house in Boston, where – no surprise to Heather by now – they find no traces of Arthur. Heather calls Raytheon – but knows what she will hear, and she hears it: no record of an Arthur Alden ever having been employed at the company. OK, he worked in highly classified research. But how to explain the fact that when Heather gets to her ad–agency job, no one there recalls she was married, or remembers an Arthur Alden? There are no pictures of him on her desk, only Pearl. Apparently, her colleagues know here as a single mother.

As the days pass, Heather becomes increasingly paranoid, withdrawing from her friends, not daring to ask any of them anything more about Arthur. She thinks of hiring a private detective, but doesn’t – what would she say? She sees a shrink, and he (gently) recommends she go to McLean Hospital for a while… clearly, she has become sadly delusional, perhaps late onset of schizophrenia… the good news, Mrs. Alden, is thanks to modern medicine, there is help, you can get better. Pearl, meanwhile, continues retreating into herself. Heather takes a leave from her job, and mother and daughter hole up in their house. They barely have the energy to get out of their pajamas. Summer nears its end.

But not Heather’s nightmares. The most recent:

INT. A BAPTIST CHURCH IN BOSTON –– NIGHT

We see that it is the summer of 1817 (July 7, 1817, to be precise) – perhaps from a newspaper. Candles flicker; the shadows are deep. A family of three is alone – seemingly – at the front of the church. Their heads are bowed in prayer; we do not get a good look at their faces. All is peaceful… until the moment is shattered by a man in an executioner’s hood who savagely attacks them with the same dagger from Heather’s first nightmare. The blood and life drain out of them as the man escapes into the night.

A week passes.

One night in early September, Heather’s cell phone rings; a Boston–area number she doesn’t recognize comes up. Hesitantly, she answers. A man asks if this is Heather Alden. Who’s calling? she says. He identifies himself as Henry Howland, rare books dealer on Boston’s Beacon Hill. He says he has been trying to reach her husband, Arthur. Says he ordered a book some while back, and it has only recently arrived. Arthur left two numbers – his, no longer answered, and his wife’s, I assume that’s you? Heather, scrambling, says that Arthur is away on business, and as long as she’s known him, he’s never been into rare books. He’s a physicist, for heaven’s sake. But she will come for the book. This guy sounds like a kook, but what does she have to lose at this point?

The next morning, Heather goes to the store, a quaint old shop reminiscent of Ollivander’s magical wand shop in the Harry Potter series. Howland is about 65, tall, bespectacled, kindly. Heather has never seen him, but we recognize him as the man who appeared on the Aldens’ living–room TV in the opening minutes.

The older man and the young woman sit by a fireplace, where a blaze takes the chill off the unseasonably cold day. Heather scans the many old volumes, her eye settling on one particularly old leather–bound volume, The Book of Azazel. She has never heard of it, but it looks straight out of the Middle Ages.

But it’s not the book Arthur supposedly ordered. That’s a 1600s edition of the King James Bible – bound in black Moroccan leather, gilt lettering, mint condition, worth an astonishing $23,000. Heather cannot contain her disbelief – Arthur never would have ordered such a book. Is this some sort of swindle? No, Mrs. Alden, Howland says; your husband already paid. Look – here is his signature on the charge, along with his name, address, and two phone numbers, his and yours, which he wrote, yours as a backup since he said he often neglects to answer his own phone.

But why would he want this bible?

Howland relates the June afternoon that he placed his order: he seemed extremely interested in the Salem Witch trials of 1692, when Cotton Mather and the colonial ministers and elders used the King James Bible. Arthur seemed very familiar with certain Bible passages… almost as if he were a minister. Heather says he rarely even goes to church, he’s a scientist, not a man of the cloth.

Heather doesn’t know what to make of this –– but there’s no doubt it’s Arthur’s handwriting. It’s also his handwriting on a note he absent–mindedly left behind. Howland shows her the note, which consists of six dates, no elaboration or other text: July 7, 1700; July 7, 1777; July 7, 1817; July 7, 1877; July 7, 1917; and July 7, 1977.

Do they mean anything to you, Mrs. Alden?

No, nothing, beyond so many sevens…

Is there something you wish to tell me, Mrs. Alden?

What a curious question.

No, Heather says.

Then is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Alden?

Another odd question.

No, thank you, she says.

Howland gives her the bible and the list.

Well if you need anything in the future, Howland says, cryptically – creepily – you know where to find me.

When Heather gets home, Pearl, who was left with a babysitter, is totally unresponsive. Catatonic. Heather calls an ambulance, and Pearl is taken to Boston Children’s Hospital, where she is admitted to the psychiatric ward. Heather sleeps by her side the first night.

And has another nightmare:

EXT. A DESERTED DUNE ON IPSWICH BEACH – DAY

We see that this is the summer of 1977 (July 7, 1977, to be precise).

Police and fire vehicles and the medical examiner’s van are parked at the edge of the sand. Yellow tape defines a crime scene. Even these experienced investigators are sickened by the scene: a young girl and a man and a woman, apparently her parents, have been hacked to death. We do not see their faces – only various body parts, being scooped (if that’s the word) into three body bags. One cop tries to break the tension by saying: Wouldn’t wanna be the undertaker, gonna be closed caskets, that’s for sure. We do see a distinctive dagger inside an evidence bag – its age and style have the investigators scratching their heads. It looks valuable – not your basic hatchet or meat cleaver ordinarily used in these sorts of brutal homicides. Maybe stolen? Sign of a Satanic cult?

The morning after her latest nightmare, with Pearl drugged and still totally out of it, Heather goes to the Boston Public Library, which keeps archives of Massachusetts newspapers dating back to the first, the New England Courant, which began publication in 1721. She has Arthur’s list. She can find nothing unusual on or about July 7, 1777, or on or about July 7, 1877 – but there is a brief, incomplete account of a family of three that died on July 7, 1817 in a Boston church, and another family of three murdered in a house in Ipswich on July 7, 1917. But there are no photos, and the names are Jones and Smith, not Alden. It could be, probably is, pure coincidence.

However, a front–page Boston Globe story the day after July 7, 1977, describes a family of three found brutally murdered on a beach in Ipswich: Karen and Robert and their young daughter, Sally. Their last name: Kraft. They were apparently picnicking at the beach; their address, as listed in the paper, is in Back Bay, Boston. No photos.

But there is a photo in next day’s follow–up story, which says that no suspect in the senseless killing has been identified. These “Krafts” are identical to the Aldens in 2007 – the photo could have been lifted from the summer–house refrigerator door.

Heather stills her heart and continues reading.

But with no leads and no motive, the story soon went cold, and after a few days she finds no further mention whatsoever. But it occurs to her that she – Heather – was born almost exactly nine months later, in April, 1978. How weird is that?

The Boston Public Library is just a few blocks from the Back Bay address listed for the Krafts, and Heather walks over: it’s a brick townhouse on Arlington Street. She stands outside, pondering – does she feel any strange connection? No. Her reverie is broken when a man well into his eighties opens the door and asks if he can help. A sweet old man. Heather mumbles something about a relative having once lived there. Must have been a long, long time ago, the man says – I was born here, and except for a stint in the Army, I’ve lived here ever since. So you were here in 1977, Heather says. Oh, yes, I remember that year well: my wife, God rest her soul, died that summer. Heather blurts out: Is your name Kraft? No, my name is Winthrop, George W. Winthrop, and whom do I have the pleasure of meeting? The man goes on to say that his wife had a heart attack… would be 89 if she were alive now… she was the most beautiful person… come in, I insist, let me show you photos. (It’s a red herring.) Heather goes into a wondrously furnished townhouse. Old money. The man takes her to the study, lined with books and other stuff... the man’s a pack rat. He shows photos. Heather finds old Boston phone books, including one from 1977, and leafs through it. The Winthrops are indeed listed at this address. And there is no Karen or Robert Kraft anywhere in Boston in 1977.

Heather returns to Children’s Hospital, and spends another night by her daughter’s bed.

Her dreams are once more tortured and terrifying, and one of them awakens her at about 4 a.m., the hour of the wolf. The ward is quiet, dark, foreboding.

Heather leaves her daughter’s room, and starts down the hall. A tall man suddenly materializes. The scene is shadowy, details difficult to discern, but he seems dressed in the style of a late 1600s tradesman (breeches, banyan, shirt, vest) – an old–fashioned look, but not in the high style of wig and waistcoat. He grabs and kisses Heather, in a momentarily erotic scene. Who is he? We don’t see his face at first. Heather seems to have a fleeting sense of knowing him, or having known him. Is he passionate –– or hostile? His intentions are initially baffling, and then Heather struggles, finally breaking free. The night staff hears the commotion and comes running down the hall. Lights on. An alarm sounded. We catch a glimpse of the man’s face as he disappears into the ether:

It’s the handsome young police captain from the opening scene.