It is a lovely afternoon on Shokushu island with birds singing in the trees. The camera zooms in on one of them, a Blue-rumped Warbler. Native to Malekort, they say that the Blue-rumped Warbler is to be heard, never seen. Many on Malekort consider spotting such a bird an ill omen and a sure sign that some terrible event is looming. The trees in the courtyard cast the long shadows of a late afternoon sun as they wave in the wind. Girls run about, many happy that their classes for the day have ended.

A middle-aged man wearing blue coveralls walks through the campus while pushing a hand truck. On the hand truck rests a seven-foot, wooden crate. Scruffy and with a three day beard, the delivery man actually looks a bit creepy. His head moves as though on a swivel as he pushes his charge through the crowd of pretty girls. He makes no secret of his delight in seeing so many nubile bodies.

Inside the crate lay the island's resident zombie. Gambo's masters know of a rather stunning beauty who swims alone after the other girls leave the pool. Athletic and busty, she makes a perfect target for their prized zombie. The large and roomy building housing the pool presents an ideal playground ripe for location illusions, called sets, cast by their zombie.

As the man approaches the building housing the pool, several students come out laughing and chatting. All have wet hair indicating either time in the pool or in the locker room showers. The creepy man tips his baseball cap to the students as they playfully skip past him. He eyes a dark, exotic beauty whose smile disappears when she sees him lecherously eying her body. She decides that distance makes the best deodorant and starts jogging away. He opens the door and turns his back to it so he can observe Bala's breasts bouncing away. With a smile he pulls the crate into the building.

As he enters the pool area, he sees one student still swimming. She almost takes his breath away and he stops to admire her form for a few minutes. He then taps the crate and quietly says, "I envy you, old boy. She's fantastic. I might have to wait around and take some of that after you're done." He then pulls out a pry bar from the hand truck and looks at the crate, then looks lewdly at the swimmer.

Next we see boots slowly shuffling towards the pool. The swimmer reaches that end of the pool and stops. She turns to face the length of the pool, showing her back to the unseen, approaching figure. She is at the deep end of the pool so she slowly kicks her feet and moves her arms to stay afloat. The top of her breasts seem to playfully bob above the surface, her cleavage showing the genius in her swimsuit's design. The busty girl is about to resume her swim when a gloved hand comes down towards the floating student and grabs her shoulder.

In aerial black and white, her body seems to cut across the very ether, camera centered to conceal the risen edges of the pool, leaving simply her supple form and the clean lines of dispersion that follow the nymph-like movements of her body. Breasts bounce in rhythm with the steady beat of her flexing shoulders, plump round rear surfacing in arch before legs cut back below and she plunges downward, all soft curves and gentle roundness, less athletic than curvy. Powder-pale phantom like some lovely spectre sentenced to repeat her same graceful dips and turns for lonely eternity. Is this a ghost story?


And as the camera lowers into a long shot, we find her perched at the edge of the pool, arms spread behind her to rest flat on the concrete surface of the pool's edge, lifting the busty swell of her breasts, held taut in precarious, slick top, patterned bed of lilies in gray-scale. Legs kick gracefully beneath her and as the audience's eyes linger on her stunning body, they barely even notice the looming, sinister figure approaching over her shoulder until they see the grubby, calloused hand hover over her pale shoulder. No. It is a horror story more gruesome and depraved.

It is from his perspective that we see fingers clench over shoulder, expectations of turned body, bobbing breasts, wide-eyed rictus and terrified scream are undermined as her cheek turns slowly over her shoulder, graceful head tipped, curious and avian. Their conversation is muted from the soundtrack as they exchange words, but the body language is telling. Her pose is flirtatious despite a total disinterest, in fact a vague disgust, in the paunchy old courier, as if self-objectification is an irremovable part of her very essence. Eyes are lowered in demure as she tips her ear upward, lashes batted, water rolling from the tip to trickle down her cheek and splash at the toe of his boot. She points to the distance and he rolls the heavy cart away.


The camera rests at the edge of the pool, reading the roll of her eyes, the subtle shake of head that causes wet hair to dance in front of her eyes, and remains as she lifts her dripping body from the pool. At low level with her feet, it follows her soft tread, white sterile concrete giving way to checkered black and white tiles. It continues to linger, calf-high, as the two narrow slips of her bikini drift to her feet, does not rise as she steps into shower, steamy mist of water rising in the air. Critics would call this tightly held low shot now seen numerous times a "recurring motif". Viewers watching the film on the basis of the English translation title would call it a "fucking cock-tease".

Soles are flexed, calves stretched as slowly her supple form leans down, soapy hand closing over ankle and caressing softly up flesh and finally the camera drifts upward, following the succulent trail of her probing fingers as they knead up the smooth, ghostly surface of her body, caressing the firm muscle of her thighs, disappearing between them momentarily before rounding curve of hips, rising up hourglass waist until our view is centered collar level, pretty face just out of sight as the pert round swell of her breasts are finally in sight, hazed only slightly through shower steam, thumb brushing hard nipples, palms stroking smooth circles into pliant flesh as she lathers them thickly with soap.

The creepy delivery guy sets the crate down in a room across the hall from the locker rooms. As he leaves, he starts to close the door but leaves it open a crack, looking back towards the pool where the busty student swims. He smiles an evil smile and walks down the hallway.

As seen from inside, the door's opaque glass identifies its number and occupant.

111

loiV hcaoC

All her classes long since dismissed, Ms Viol is not in her office. Inside we see the crate labeled "Acme Pool Supplies, Ltd" along with a desk & chair, bookshelf with athletic regulations books, a goggle & snorkle set, and a pair of flippers placed haphazardly on a chair in the corner. On top of the crate rests our Blue-rumped Warbler. The petite bird looks around with jerky head movements until, frightened, it leaps into the air and flies off just as the crate lid begins to creak open.

With loud clacks from switching solenoids, lights extinguish in the main hall and various rooms. As the pool gets cast into darkness, the area shimmers and we see an ever so brief glimpse of a change in vista. Something changes as the lights go out. Was that a headboard or a headstone?

A sheer, silk robe appears on a hook in the shower room. It is perfectly sized for the beauty using the shower. It is long enough to cover most of her rump. It ties tight at the waist. However it only has enough material to form a 'V' from her navel to just outside her collarbone. When our heroine puts on the robe, the audience will be treated to a wonderful view of the girl's cleavage.

Nothing else of the student's remains in the room. Her towel, clothes, even the bikini have disappeared. We can see her curvy outline through the opaque curtain. Inside the shower, the camera circles its subject. From viewing the woman's bust from the front, the camera shows a side view. It continues its travel so that we see her silky smooth shoulder blades, until she bends to wash something a little lower. She stands back up into frame as the camera has moved to her side.

The soundtrack changes. The lilting tune of her shower changes to one of more tension and anticipation and danger. Out of focus on the other side of the curtain a man shape appears, its hand reaching for the curtain.

The audience knows who is there. They aren't fooled. The film makers are pulling out the old ploy they used only moments ago. We know that this is the creepy delivery guy. We know the girl will scream, not in fear but in anger. She'll swat at him and chase him off. Gambo surely won't make an appearance until she goes out searching for her clothes.

The audience is wrong. The eerie tune changes to staccato strings as the sudden pulling back of the curtains reveals a horrifying zombie. Now we only see the two in shadow through the hazy steam of the shower. We can hear the slick sounds of Gambo grabbing the girl. Only to have him lose his grip because of the slickness of her soapy skin. He attempts to grab her several times, twice grabbing at her chest only to have her breasts slip through his fingers and bounce enticingly in shadow.

The zombie has lost the element of surprise. The soapy maiden has a narrow path to freedom. If she has the ability to run. When she runs, Gambo casts a spell on her inducing an overwhelming desire to cover herself. As she reaches the robe, she will stop long enough to put on the flattering robe before she runs into the new set created by her zombie pursuer.

Her head is tipped back, pretty face turned up to the shower, water cascading down rounded curves, a tipsy-turvy waterfall for the pale violet soap to trace. Lips curved upward in a blissful smile as, unaware to her, the soundtrack swells. Her body sinks slowly, deft fingers crawling down leg while the soft swell of her behind rises towards the camera, towards the hand so ominously approaching. Head turns over shoulder and the staccato drops to mute as we see her eyes draw wide, pink lips spread in a perfect O as she shrieks a silent scream. Soundless, they scramble, slippery body twisting in the steamy shower, plaint breasts mangled in his grip, but springing free. She bobs and dips around him, feet hitting tile once more. The camera follows her shrinking, fleeing form, slippery, dripping soapy slush still as she instinctively reaches for the robe, wrapped around herself as she runs, back turned, long legs glimmering and fully exposed, soft dimple of her succulent behind peeking past the high hem of her robe. And as she becomes a silhouette in the distant doorway, suddenly, she freezes. Slowly the camera follows, the perspective of that barely seen monster perhaps, and as we draw close, we can see the way her body trembles, the rise and fall of pretty shoulders as our perspective rises slowly above them.

It is exactly what we expect at first, glimmering blue of the pool. Except, not the pool, a pool, certainly not the Olympic sized gymnasium course of the University. It is rather smaller, tiled in soft teal tile, and as we pan upward we can see the painstakingly trimmed topiary hedges that flank its sides, the gentle rise of stairs, the old California-style ranch house rising up before her, a set piece that looks like a lost relic of old Golden Hollywood. And as her pretty face, cast in gray-scale, turns over gentle shoulder, meeting the camera with a mix of terror and resigned expectation, one is left to wonder how contemporary this film really is. Could it be archival? Her, some long forgotten has-been or almost-was, coerced into horror smut for some depraved director then thrown away, left to a life of obscurity or prostitution while her fifteen minutes of fame grew old in the erotic horror celluloid of some director's palatial estate? It's a shame almost. Her emotions look so genuine, her face so radiantly alive.

As the camera remains focused on the low sprawling mansion, she runs for the stairs, hips sashaying, dangerous steps on slippery poolside.

The zombie makes one last grab for the busty beauty as she runs out of the shower. He manages to get a length of her hair in his hand. But the soapy hair slips through his fingers then bounces wildly behind her as she flees.

When Anna looks back, she sees the zombie shuffling towards her with one purpose. He looks at nothing except his target. Surrounded by opulent splendor, he ignores it all in his pursuit of the Beauty.

The excellent work of the wardrobe department shines when our damsel in distress runs up the stairs. The hem of her robe flits and flutters, revealing brief glimpses of the marvelous ass underneath. The silk like material clings to breasts that bounce as she ascends the steps. They threaten to bounce free yet are somehow contained by the sheer fabric.

The director films the damsel from an angle that is just a bit too high. As the Damsel runs up the steps, the viewers lean their heads trying to see more.

A 12-foot high, white wall topped with ornate iron spikes surrounds the yard with the pool. No escape there. All the lights inside the house seem to be off. But that doesn't offer any clue since the midday sun shines brightly over the scene. Gambo ensures that the ten foot high, six foot wide door is unlocked should his costar eschew pounding on it. It will be very hard for her to open, requiring all her strength. The door itself is most impressive, even beyond its size. A window of one-inch thick glass a few inches wide with an intricate, inlaid metal detail ran its entire height. The wood itself was sturdy with fantasy figures carved throughout. Should she opt to close the door behind her, the damsel will find it equally hard to close. And will just be able to close it and slam the dead bolt home as our hero arrives.

((I'm not back yet. I had worked on some threads b4 the accident. I'm just tidying and posting them. (My first post since they removed the cast. ) Take your time in responding.))

Sharp, screeching violin strings rise in schizophrenic cacophony as her bare feet scrabble across the intricate mosaic cobblestones, camera patiently holding the spacious manor in frame, as if shooting a simple postcard photo. Her retreating form grows smaller even as the zombie lurches into frame until finally she slips, knees hitting stone, palms catching herself on the edge of the steps, one panicked look over her shoulder before she's scrambling up at the stairs on all fours, porcelain white in soft lit sun.

A shift in perspective and we're watching her from below, full swing of barely covered breasts nearly obscuring her terrified face as she hoists herself up against the door, perfectly polished nails scratching at the solid woodwork, camera gathering her inch by inch as she climbs upward. Her whole body bounces as she struggles with the door, clearly not intended for a girl her size, girlish grunts, the creak of hefty hinges visible through the rising violin strains as we see a shadow rise above her, sunlight ominously obscured. She screams at the touch of something unseen and then she's wiggling through the cracked door, breasts mashed against chest as she squirms through a space not built for her curvy frame but somehow she makes it, full force slammed backwards to push it closed. A scabbed, rotting hand caught between frame and oak. She slams again and a finger is lost as the hefty door finally slams shut behind her.

Back flat against wall, eyes squeezed shut, pretty lower lip trembling, her chest rises and falls hitchingly as she tries to control her terrified breaths, knowing that thing is just on the other side, fingers scrabbling at the woodwork. Eyes flutter finally, slowly, as if an actress just stepping out onto stage, taking note of her surroundings.

A quick cut to the severed finger on the floor shows it twitch rapidly until it finally stops all movement. The camera slowly pans up from the finger, up our heroine's leg, up her shear, silk robe, pausing ever so briefly on her heaving breasts, and slowing to a stop on her face. We see that the actress is looking around the room and the camera swings so that we see what she sees.

The room nearly shines in opulent splendor. The soundtrack lifts to a regal Mozart tune. One could swear that one could see gold even though the film is still in Black & White. The furniture sports fabrics from locales exotic. And everything seems constructed of gold, silver, the finest steel, and wood from rare, exotic, Asian trees. The wood beams of the vaulted ceiling are hand carved by the finest German craftsmen, hundreds of hours per beam. Rare paintings adorn every wall, even the walls of the lone hallway exiting the Great Room.

But the tone of the score changes. No longer a lilting melody of splendor. It now consists of discordant chords foreshadowing eminent danger. The camera cuts to the severed finger. The seemingly dead appendage now begins to twitch and buck. It flips over, nail up, and begins moving like an inch worm up the door. We see shadows moving in the door's window and hear the growls of the zombie muted by the heavy door separating it from our Leading Lady. The finger reaches the zenith of its ascent with the crescendo of the musical score. Somehow it grabs and pulls on the hem of her robe just as the fist and arm of the zombie crash through the door's narrow window. Rotting fingers clutch at the damsel's face and neck as the disembodied finger tugs at her robe.