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Preface or What This Is About
Before you is a screenplay for a film that has not yet been made. Will it ever be made? Given the current pace of progress in Artificial Intelligence technology, this possibility cannot be ruled out. This is a screenplay for the Hellraiser franchise, which by 1988 included two successful films that rightfully became cult classics and had a serious influence on subsequent science fiction and horror—from films like "Dark City" and "Event Horizon" to the "Matrix" franchise. The story, made possible by the genius of English actors, producers, makeup specialists from IMAGE ENTERTAINMENT, composer Christopher Young, and indeed the entire team without exception, goes far beyond horror. It is the tragedy of one family, which the authors managed to convey with extreme authenticity.
*The screenplay is written as if only the first two installments of the world horror classic based on Clive Barker—the film "Hellraiser"—were ever made. Here, we assume that several very weak imitations later made by Hollywood under this franchise simply did not exist. The action takes place somewhere on the East Coast of the USA in the mid-90s.*
HELLRAISER Part 3 "The Geometry of the Heart"
A Non-Canonical Sequel
SCENE 1. EXT. CLEARING STREET IN FRONT OF CHANNARD'S HOUSE – MORNING
Before the credits. Two people have come out and are now standing in front of Dr. Channard's house; in front of it, a sign reads: FOR SALE. One of them is a woman aged 40-45, dressed in a good business suit, albeit slightly tasteless, with short, well-styled black hair. The other is her contemporary or slightly older, a man, though fit, unshaven, dressed in jeans and a diamond-patterned sweater.
SPALLETTI
Tell me, did this house meet your expectations?
BROWN
On the whole—yes, I saw what I expected. I'm really a bit concerned about why this house has been on the market… for how long? Eight years? Especially since $250,000 for such an estate is a very good price. Yes, it's a bit away from the town, but the neighborhood and the neighbors are quite upscale—why isn't anyone buying it?
SPALLETTI
Mr. Brown, it happens. Some don't like this remoteness from the town, some would like to remodel the layout… I would suggest you consider it your personal luck, actually we aren't particularly eager to sell it, so we aren't pushing the advertising.
BROWN
Yes, I stumbled upon it almost by accident…
SPALLETTI
And how do you like it?
The house is very interesting. I'm inclined to make a deal, though there are still details.
SPALLETTI
I agree. Perhaps some coffee? There's a decent cafeteria a 10-minute drive from here, what do you say?
BROWN
A wonderful idea!
SCENE 2. INT. CAFETERIA – MORNING
The same. A cafeteria, a spot by the window. Mid-90s passenger cars occasionally drive by, trucks park and leave. It's morning, so there are few visitors.
BROWN
Miss Spalletti, I am very grateful to you for this showing. I want to share my impressions.
BROWN looked carefully at his interlocutor.
BROWN
I calmly walked through the house: the interior paint on the walls is completely fresh, a spacious study, the attic has been made into a cozy room, it would probably be nice to sleep there, and the view of the stars through the attic windows… And when raindrops patter and stream down the slanted glass—you can watch that endlessly, right?
SPALLETTI
Mr. BROWN, you are a dreamer! Then this is definitely your purchase—seclusion and daydreams. Are you planning to work nearby?
BROWN
Yes, possibly right in the house. So, Miss Spalletti, the renovation is superb. – Here his voice—changed slightly—and I know very well why. Because no matter how much the workers paint over the walls, it's not mold that shows through. Blood still shows through them, and it, they say, doesn't turn brown, it stays scarlet. Did you expect to find an out-of-town simpleton to pawn off this house that the whole area avoids? Like, he'll find out somehow later! However, I made inquiries. This isn't even a crime scene, it's some kind of slaughterhouse for cattle! A crazy psychiatrist lived there, who dragged all his patients right into the house and arranged a damned holocaust! How many corpses were hauled out of there? The FBI was involved, even made sure nothing got into the newspapers, the case was so far out of the ordinary.
BROWN
(catches his breath and finishes his coffee, gesturing to the waiter at the counter that nothing more is needed.)
Fortunately, I'm not the timid type. For $150,000 I'll take your branch of Unit 731 and we'll part pleased with each other!
SPALLETTI
Mr. Brown—SPALLETTI's expression changed—Steven, I see you are a perceptive man and came well-prepared for the deal.
BROWN
You must live with wolves…
SPALLETTI
How well observed… To live with wolves. But allow me to say a few words as well. You also have something to regularly paint over. We don't make deals with just anyone either. It's standard real estate practice, you know—client scoring. Showings take a lot of time and you need to understand your partner's solvency.
BROWN
You doubt my solvency?
SPALLETTI
Not at all. You sold your share in the machine-building enterprise three weeks ago. In that life, you are a respectable factory owner. But what about the other one? Let's talk about the "Invocation" sect. Many of us have friends in the police. They say one such wealthy eccentric, the spitting image of you, after his wife's death, went a bit off his head, started drinking, and then went and created a sect, sort of like Neoplatonists, for… – here SPALLETTI opened her notebook for a second – the comprehension of paths to the World of Ideas. Well, and they either meditated or did something else, not for children's ears, but they say local young people started frequenting it, drugs were handed out, sheep were slaughtered. When the police raided the place, they say what they found there… Of course, it was all hushed up, though with great difficulty… But for some reason, I think you don't need any extra attention. I'd be happy to be mistaken, Steven. – The last phrase was said with emphasized calm.
SPALLETTI catches her breath and puts the notebook into her designer handbag, slightly larger than her.
SPALLETTI
Therefore, you and I must discuss the real price, reflecting the true value of this property for you. $500,000 in cash. And my word not to inform the police about what kind of new neighbor they've got. This is not a negotiation, the offer is final, or we each keep what we have.
In the ensuing pause, the conversations of other patrons and the hum of truck diesels at the gas station are audible. Something fell in the kitchen with a clatter and swearing in Spanish was heard.
BROWN
How can I count on you not starting to blackmail me?
SPALLETTI
You can't. But I won't start. My trade is not blackmail, but real estate sales, well, or in your case, even a bit more. Keeping one's mouth shut is one of the important skills that comprises it. Your word, Steven.
BROWN
Deal.
SCENE 3. INT. CHANNARD'S STUDY – NIGHT
A room that was once Dr. Channard's study, but it's unrecognizable. Although the pictures and anatomical diagrams are quite similar, and they again adorn the walls. But besides them, there are also blueprints, many blueprints and sketches. A milling machine stands in the middle of the room, on which BROWN is trying to mill parts that together are clearly meant to form something, but he isn't very successful. Assembling them together, he gets something resembling the famous cube, but it doesn't work as it should and doesn't rotate; Steven Brown clearly cannot grasp the overall concept.
– Let's try it this way – BROWN mutters – At least we'll manage to turn it and can figure out where to adjust the tolerances.
He is now wearing an apron; on the table, a well-started bottle of whiskey, also calipers, a square, a thickness gauge, sketches, and blueprints. He is assembling something like a puzzle right on the milling table with parts just milled on it. The result is something similar to the known cube—the Configuration; now the lines on its faces are made with a milling cutter, but the parts clearly still need size adjustments; it turns stiffly and gets stuck mid-transformation.
BROWN trims one of the parts with a graver and accidentally cuts his finger deeply. Blood drips onto the machine. He doesn't pay much attention to the cut, wraps the wound with a rag that happened to be at hand, and assembles the parts into a single puzzle, also smearing it with blood. BROWN tries to turn the assembled cube, and it jams.
Then something unusual begins. In the cube, in a half-shifted state, gaps flash like lightning from within; similar gaps flash in the machine. BROWN jumps up, and then chains with hooks fly out of the cube. They sink into him and pull him towards the machine; BROWN's blood splatters around: on the table with blueprints, the walls, and the milling machine. Frequent scarlet drops stand out beautifully against the amber background of the alcohol. BROWN, in shock, tries to break free, and then a hand without skin, emerging right from the machine, pulls BROWN somewhere inside the mechanism. The screen goes black.
The opening credits of the film begin. Christopher Young's music from the first films plays.
SCENE 4. INT. MORGUE – EVENING
A cold hall flooded with fluorescent light. Stainless steel racks, drains in the floor. In the center—two autopsy tables. On one—a body covered with a sheet. On the other—the body of an elderly man, opened with a standard Y-shaped incision.
Dr. ALAN RICHMOND (60), silver-haired, wearing glasses with thin frames, with the hands of a virtuoso, is finishing the extraction of an organ. His movements are precise, economical, almost elegant.
Next to him, assisting in a mask and gown, is Dr. KIRSTY COTTON (27). She watches with genuine admiration.
KIRSTY
I just can't get used to it. Your technique… it's on the level of a thoracic surgery center. Look—not a single superfluous movement, not a drop of blood. You could teach this as an art form.
ALAN
(without looking up from his work, muffled voice because of the mask)
– Art requires an audience, Kirsty. And here the audience is ungrateful. And unpunctual.
He places the organ on the scales. Records the reading in the logbook.
KIRSTY
I'm serious. Most do this crudely. As if chopping wood. But you… you suture after the autopsy with a surgical knot. Who even does that?
ALAN
(a slight smirk in his eyes)
Someone who respects the integrity of the human body. Even if it has already lost it. Routine, KIRSTY. Just routine. When you do it for thirty years, you start finding ways to cope with the monotony by striving for perfection. Mine—perfect sutures and a perfectly clean table.
He gestures for an instrument. KIRSTY hands him exactly the one needed, without a word.
ALAN
(continuing)
Well, your turn. Finish Mr. Johnson's autopsy. Describe the condition of the myocardium. And please, don't leave the stomach on the scales. The lab assistants grumble that rats carry off the choicest pieces!
KIRSTY laughs sincerely, nods, taking her place at the table. Alan steps away to the sink, removes his bloody gloves.
ALAN
I'm taking a break. Four in the morning—just the right time for coffee. Will you join me? My thermos doesn't smell of formaldehyde like the vending machines in the hall.
KIRSTY
With pleasure, Dr. Richmond. I'll finish with the myocardium and be right there.
SCENE 5. INT. BREAK ROOM – EVENING – A FEW MINUTES LATER
A cramped room with a worn-out sofa, a table, a microwave, and a bulletin board. Smells of old coffee and antiseptic.
ALAN pours two cups of black coffee from his thermos. KIRSTY removes her cap, shaking out her dark hair.
ALAN
You are doing excellently, KIRSTY. Very… detailed, such practice usually only comes with years.
KIRSTY
(with a slight smile)
Thank you. I have someone to look up to, though I'm not sure your level is even attainable for a mere mortal.
ALAN
I understand what you're hinting at. How did I end up here? Expecting a banal story about a medical error and subsequent stress? No, it's simpler, but allow me to ask about you first. Why are you here? Columbia University in New York, Summa Cum Laude, member of Alpha Omega Alpha… You surely had offers. Mass General in Boston called for cardiothoracic surgery? Or Johns Hopkins in Baltimore for neurosurgery? Such resumes don't come to the Fairfax County morgue just like that.
KIRSTY looks at her coffee. Is silent.
Doc, I don't know how to say it.
ALAN
(quietly, almost tenderly)
Alright. As for me, I was a surgeon. Cardiothoracic. Twenty years. Every day—a battle for life. And then—either a hero, or at fault. And always, always—a conversation with the family. Tears, hope, despair, gratitude, accusations… I got too tired of people at some point. Of their noise. Of their empty hopes.
He takes a sip of coffee.
ALAN
And here… it's quiet. Calm. Here, no one demands the impossible. No one cries. My patients are the most honest. They don't complain and are never late. I can focus on pure science, on the beauty of anatomy, without being distracted by the drama. Misanthropy? Perhaps. But it's calmer this way.
He looks at KIRSTY over his cup.
ALAN
So what is your answer, Dr. Cotton? What has a young woman with a diploma worthy of the best clinics on the East Coast forgotten in our quiet kingdom? What are you looking for here?
KIRSTY raises her eyes to him. In their depths, sadness and grief for what was lost mingle with a deep conviction about something impossible.
KIRSTY
You seek peace from the living, Dr. Richmond. And I.... I'm looking for an answer, I suppose. It's just that I'm afraid to ask the question. Or perhaps I'm looking for something I lost a very long time ago, in some terrible dream. Believe me, Doc, this is an utterly sincere answer…
KIRSTY stood up, thanking him.
ALAN
(watches intently as she leaves)
Such a young and such a tormented soul. You are not looking for something, but for someone. But when did you manage to lose him?
SCENE 6. INT. MORGUE – RECEPTION AREA – NIGHT
Rain drums against the sealed windows. The bright light of fluorescent lamps reflects off the wet asphalt outside. The elevator doors hiss open, and a pair of orderlies wheels in a gurney with a body wrapped in black polyethylene.
At the desk, filling out paperwork, stands KIRSTY. She looks tired but composed. Next to her, sipping coffee from a mug that reads "WORLD'S OKEST PATHOLOGIST," is an elderly coroner named LOWRY.
LOWRY
(to the orderlies)
Into the cooler, third from the left. Name unknown, the cops wrote John Doe in the report, no documents, a dockworker. Hypothermia, by initial estimates.
The orderlies nod and wheel the body further. Lowry hands KIRSTY a folder.
LOWRY
(to KIRSTY)
Here you go, Doc. All the joy. Found in a cardboard box by the grain terminals. Frost and slush, I think he just fell asleep and didn't wake up. Banality.
KIRSTY takes the folder, but her gaze lingers on the body. A corner of a report with a photograph protrudes from under the polyethylene. Not the one attached to the case—a Polaroid taken at the scene.
KIRSTY
Wait.
(takes the Polaroid)
Lowry, what is this?
The photo shows a section of the corpse's back. Not frostbitten skin, but a complex, lace-like pattern of swollen, purplish-gray lines.
LOWRY
(frowning)
Ah, that. Hell if I know. Old scars, probably. Or the bums were smoking something under the awning, burning patterns. Didn't look closely. Not the point.
KIRSTY
(her voice becomes quieter and firmer)
Undress him and move him to the first autopsy room. Now.
LOWRY
Doc, but he's just a simple…
KIRSTY
(interrupting, but without aggression, with cold confidence)
Now, Lowry. Please.
Her tone brooks no argument. LOWRY shrugs and signals the orderlies to turn the body around.
SCENE 7. INT. AUTOPSY ROOM – NIGHT
…
KIRSTY
(shakes her head, her gloved fingers carefully tracing over different sections of the pattern)
Look at the histology of the edges. All lesions are antemortem. But these…
(she points to several pale, well-healed lines)
…are several weeks old. Complete epithelialization. And these…
(her finger moves to redder, swollen areas)
…formed within the last few days. Granulation tissue is visible. And these…
(KIRSTY BEGINS TO HAVE FLASHBACKS. She sees the puzzle cube, opening a gateway to another world, the patterns on its faces)
(she pauses on several areas where the skin looks charred and almost raw)
…are very fresh. An hour, two at most before death. He was tormented for a long time, methodically, with breaks for healing. And they finished just before throwing him out to die in the cold. What did they want…
(FLASHBACKS CONTINUE. She sees other similar cubes with analogous patterns) (coming to her senses):
– Doc, I'm afraid this isn't just a homeless man.
She turns sharply to the intercom phone on the wall, dials the lab number.
KIRSTY
(into the receiver)
Joan, reception. Add an urgent extended screening to the John Doe samples from the morgue. I need catecholamine levels: adrenaline, noradrenaline, dopamine. And cortisol. Yes, Joan, I know it's four in the morning. Top priority. I'll be at the terminal.
(hangs up)
She returns to the table, picks up a scalpel. Her movements are not hurried; they are ritually slow.
KIRSTY
While we wait, let's look at what's immediately apparent. No signs of struggle. No abrasions on the wrists, no damage under the nails.
ALAN
(steps closer, peers)
Shock? He could have been in a state of shock, paralyzed by fear.
KIRSTY
(shakes her head, pointing with the scalpel at the deceased's face)
Facial musculature is relaxed. No signs of panic here.
They immerse themselves in silent, methodical work. ALAN assists.
THIRTY MINUTES PASS. During this time:
CLOSE UP: Raindrops streaming down the dark window distort the city lights into bizarre, rune-like patterns.
KIRSTY freezes for a second, her gaze distant. She looks at a bizarre scar on the corpse's shoulder, but doesn't see it. [HERE IS A PLACE FOR A SHORT FLASHBACK – HER UNCLE FRANK COMPLETELY SKINNLESS: "Come to Daddy!"…]
ALAN notices her absent gaze.
ALAN
KIRSTY? Are you with us?
KIRSTY
(starts)
Yes. Just… déjà vu.
At that moment, a printer above the table beeps quietly, spitting out a fresh sheet with results. KIRSTY abruptly cuts off her sentence, jumps up, and snatches the printout. Her eyes quickly scan the columns of numbers.
KIRSTY
(her voice becomes quieter, but steely)
Here. Look. Norepinephrine levels are through the roof. And dopamine… This isn't just stress. It's a chemical storm. The body burned out not only from the cold. He was in a state of extreme excitation.
ALAN
(takes the printout from her, studies it, whistles through his teeth)
Incredible. Look at the muscle fibers. Micro-spasms. Characteristic of peak neurophysiological states. Peak and… recurring.
He raises his eyes to KIRSTY. In his eyes—no longer just professional interest, but deep alarm.
ALAN
Are you saying this man voluntarily allowed… this… to be done to him? And experienced…
KIRSTY
(completes in an even voice, then she returns to the body and picks up an instrument again)
Orgasm. Yes, Dr. Richmond. Multiple. This isn't torture. This is—a ritual. Until his heart couldn't take it…, and he wasn't a victim of that ritual, more like a willing participant.
At that moment, the forceps in her hand hit something hard under the costal margin. Not bone. Something else.
She exchanges a quick glance with Alan. Both forget to breathe.
With careful, again slowed movements, KIRSTY extracts the object.
A small leather-bound booklet, soaked in blood and something caustic, making the air sting the nose with the smell of ozone and copper.
SCENE 8. INT. MORGUE – CORRIDOR – DAY
KIRSTY walks down the corridor, leafing through the file of documents on the "John Doe" corpse. Suddenly, from around the corner, she overhears a conversation between ALAN and LOWRY at the counter. She drops a pen, and while bending down to pick it up, realizes it's better to linger for a moment and not interrupt.
LOWRY
(warily)
Doc?
ALAN
(without looking up from the papers)
.Yes, yes Lowry, what did you want?
LOWRY
(sighs, adjusts his glasses)
Doc, I don't know if I should tell you this. Doc, I'm not going to the police, they'll laugh at me, 'cause I only have one piece of evidence—my eyes. And I'm not even sure about those… But I can't keep silent either. You decide what to do, alright?
KIRSTY slowly lowers the file and listens carefully.
ALAN
Lowry? What do you mean?
LOWRY
You're all looking for that homeless guy.
(Here Lowry paused, as if gathering courage)
But he's no homeless guy. Did you see his hands? Not a callus, not even an abrasion. (ALAN NODS) Manicured nails. I recognized his handiwork right away.
My friend, Sam, lives in the old industrial district, on Granite Street. Well, in his building, in the basement… there's some kind of gathering place now. Sort of a club, or a sect. "The Temple of Geometry" or something like that. So, it happened that I was walking him home once, heh-heh. We'd stayed out late, and he was tired…
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