ENTER: VERNON FRANK, sleeping. His chest rises and falls evenly as he slumbers. He is sleeping in an otherwise normal room, its walls painted a neutral color. The darkness outside presses against the windows, an imperceptible pressure against the glass. A phone rings and keeps ringing, its insistent jangle bouncing off the walls.

CLOSE ON: VERNON's face as it twitches. His head has been shaved neatly, the hair cut close to his scalp. There is no visible stubble on his face. His eyes open, revealing a pair of colorless, pale orbs. He fumbles for his bedside lamp, and as it switches on, we see that his hand is faintly blue-tinged. He squints at the electronic clock on his bedside table and rubs his eyes, slipping a pair of spectacles onto the bridge of his nose.

VERNON: Fuck.

He struggles out of bed and answers the phone.

VERNON: Vernon Frank.
CALLER: Dr Frank, it's the Blooms.

VERNON considers this. The only Blooms in Dunwich worthy of being dubbed "the Blooms" are Albert and Evelyn Bloom. And their daughter, who hasn't been seen in public in years. They are dead. The wealthy in Dunwich tend to drop like flies. People in Dunwich, generally speaking, tend to drop like flies.

VERNON: Alright. I'll be on my way.

He glances out the window, then at his clock.

CUT TO: VERNON, driving through the desolate streets of residential Dunwich. Even here, in the most secure part of the city, few are willing to brave the Darkness. VERNON fiddles with his radio one-handed, then removes a freeze-dried strawberry from a small bag beside him. He pops it into his mouth, chews, swallows, and runs his tongue over his lips.

RADIO: Oh, the weather outside is frightful... but the fire is so delightful...

VERNON pats himself down. He is wearing a shirt, a blazer, and a pair of pants. Very formal. He has dozens of the same sets in his wardrobe.

RADIO: And since we've no place to go... let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

On a whim, VERNON unwinds his window by a hair and sticks one finger out into the darkness. Snowflakes spiral from his fingertip, twirling in the wake of his car.

CUT TO: An imposing building on the edge of central Dunwich. Wrought in stone - FRANK FUNERAL SERVICES. VERNON parks underground, in a decently-lit carpark, and takes the lift up. A brunette woman meets him on the second floor. Her nametag identifies her as NORA LAZARD.

NORA: Police were called to the Bloom mansion three hours ago. Now, they're dumping them on us.
VERNON: You don't agree.
NORA: Wouldn't have been called if there wasn't any foul play.
VERNON: They seem to have verified that there wasn't. Hence them dumping them on us.

They arrive in a corridor overlooking the loading/unloading bay. A Dunwich Police vehicle disburses a pair of corpses into the attendants' hands. A portly POLICEMAN emerges from the vehicle, then looks up, meeting their gazes.

CUT TO: VERNON and NORA with the POLICEMAN. They shake hands, the blue tint to VERNON's skin going unremarked by the others. He has lived like this for a long time.

POLICEMAN: Chief wants this buried. Give you a warning, though; it's not pretty.
VERNON: You've told me this dozens of times, Harv. What makes you think this'll be the first time I get rattled?
POLICEMAN: Humour me, Vernon. See you around.
VERNON: See you around.

He gets back into the car and drives away. VERNON watches him go, hands clasped behind his back.

VERNON: Good ol' Bullock. Crooked as they come.

He turns.

VERNON: Let's assess the damage. Decomposition waits for no man.

CUT TO: An examination table. Embalmers fuss over the mangled corpses of ALBERT and EVELYN BLOOM, piecing ALBERT's shattered torso and EVELYN's shattered head together, making them presentable for burial. NORA oversees, peeking over their shoulders, and returns to VERNON, standing above the fray.

VERNON: It's a good thing we were able to preserve her face.
NORA: There's almost nothing left of her head apart from her face.
VERNON: I try to look on the bright side.
NORA: Someone shot them.
VERNON: Yes. I know.

He holds up his phone, then pauses, brushing off a hint of frost that has accumulated on the edges of its screen. His Google Chrome is frozen on the Dunwich Herald. "BLOOM POWER COUPLE FOUND DEAD IN MURDER-SUICIDE."

NORA: He shot her in the back of her head, then shot himself in the torso.
VERNON: Must have had some awfully long arms.
NORA: A shotgun did this. Or something as powerful as one.
VERNON: I've seen some really, really weird guns.

CUT TO: VERNON in a dimly-lit room, hefting a whirring contraption in his hand. Cold blue light peeks out between his fingers as he raises the contraption. A stream of ice explodes from the contraption, covering the opposing wall in frost. VERNON smiles. He is wearing a pair of red-tinted goggles.

CUT TO: NORA, unimpressed.

NORA: You think the girl did it? Nicole?
VERNON: I don't know. I've never seen her. She may have felt trapped. The police aren't offering any details as of yet.
NORA: Might be in custody.
VERNON: Might be. Could you ask around for her email?
NORA: My sister is friends with her on Facebook. They went to high school together.

She raises her phone. A much slimmer NICOLE BLOOM smiles nervously out from her profile picture. There is a green circle beside her name. She is online.

NORA: She hasn't accepted my friend request yet.
VERNON: Chill out.

NORA rolls her eyes.

CUT TO: VERNON standing in the shadow of Arkham Asylum. The flame from a cigarette catches his eye, and he turns to see REV. DANIEL HOPKINS. The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up, and his white collar gleams in the gloom.

DANIEL: I'd offer you a cigarette, but...
VERNON: I don't smoke.
DANIEL: I was going to make another joke about hot and cold.
VERNON: You know last April Fool's they ambushed me with a flamethrower?
DANIEL: I may or may not have heard about it in the confessional booth.
VERNON: I'm not mad, but I did like that tie.
DANIEL: They got you another one.
VERNON: It had snowmen on it. I'm not wearing that to work. Or anywhere.

They stare at the gates as a smattering of people begin to leak through them. Arkham Asylum is located atop a hill. It has its own church... and its own cemetery. Some things should be kept from the general population even in death.

DANIEL: What brings you here, my son?
VERNON: I'm seven years older than you.
DANIEL: Indulge my curiosity.
VERNON: I'm here to consult. Same as usual.
DANIEL: Put some incurably insane folks on ice?
VERNON: People are showing up burnt to death in their homes. They think they've found a pattern.
DANIEL: Spontaneous human combustion.
VERNON: Quite.

DANIEL lights another cigarette. VERNON checks his watch and nods at DANIEL.

VERNON: That's my cue. Be seeing you.
DANIEL: Peace be with you.

VERNON makes a face.

CLOSE ON: Gloves. Thick, clunky. A dense outer covering of rubber lined with god-knows-what. Stiffening as VERNON's hands fill them.
CLOSE ON: Boots. Thick, clunky. Steel-tipped. A few experimental stomps as they thud dully against the floor.
CLOSE ON: The rhythmic hiss of a metallic contraption settling over VERNON's shoulders as he shrugs, adjusting, then slips a pair of goggles over his face. We are looking at the back of his bald head. When he turns, we see that his goggles are crimson.

CUT TO: VERNON, suited up. He's in a van, sitting beside the driver. Behind, we see the top of ALEXANDER LIONHEARDT's head, as well as a few other Dead Men. The van's powerful beams cut through the gloom, but everyone can feel the Darkness outside, pressing in. Always, always pressing in.

RADIO: ... wake will be held at Frank Funeral Services on Sunday.
DRIVER: Terrible business, what happened to the Blooms.
DEAD MAN #1: You think the daughter killed them?
DEAD MAN #2: Nah, the cops would've said if so.
DRIVER: You ever talk to the daughter, Dr Frank?
VERNON: I left that to my assistant. She seems to have touched base.

CUT TO: A modest home. White picket fences. What few residents are out and about take one look at the van and scatter. VERNON's suit hisses as he dismounts. The contraption from earlier is in his hand, its tip glinting with energy. One of the Dead Men - the leader - advances on the house. The rest follow. As they approach, the smell of burning flesh and the sound of low moans become apparent. VERNON's heartbeat slows. His lips pull back unconsciously. His gun whines.

VERNON (V/O): Sleigh bells ring, are you listening.

He is sounding the words out rather than singing them. They echo off the inside of his head. In the real world, the Dead Man at the front runs a hand over the door and kicks it down as the material seems to crumple. They rush in.

VERNON (V/O): In the lane, snow is glistening.

The house is empty. No burning families to be seen. The Dead Men pause, still on high-alert, and sweep through the structure. VERNON picks a corridor and walks down it. Darkness clings to his steps, thick and cloying. The sounds from behind him fade, replaced by crackling flames, hissing and popping.

VERNON (V/O): A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight.

VERNON raises his walkie-talkie and speaks into it indistinctly. There is a burst of static. When it disappears, VERNON's goggles snap up to reveal a monstrous figure looming up before him in the darkness, impossibly tall, far outstripping the narrow dimensions of the corridor. Flames lick up and down its many arms, and its warped, waxy flesh bubbles and bulges, revealing screaming faces trapped in its folds.

VERNON (V/O): Walking in a winter wonderland.

CLOSE ON: The monster's reflection in VERNON's red goggles. The crimson seems to swallow its form. Zooming out, VERNON raises his gun and fires.