a_new_friend.mp4

[Archivists note: Transcript describing a_new_friend.mp4. Author unknown.]

The footage is shot on a Canon EOS Rebel T3i, 1080p at 23.976 fps, camera audio. Metadata confirms it was exported from an Adobe Premiere timeline, and 33 seconds from both the beginning and the ending have been trimmed.

a_new_friend.mp4 opens with a stationary, tripod-mounted shot of a foyer interior. A lower middle class suburban home (likely a townhouse). Dark lighting, faint moonlight spilling in from camera left, high levels of ISO grain. 

The home's front door sits roughly center frame, the main subject of the shot. A typical steel panel door, pale green in color. To the door's right sits a narrow window, draped over by a thin white blanket haphazardly nailed into the wall above. To the window's right is a black IKEA Bondskäret hat and coat stand, a clear plastic rain poncho hanging from one of its hooks.

To the door's left, an oval-shaped full-length mirror is mounted to the drywall. In the mirror's reflection we can see the camera itself, resting on its tripod in a corner. The camera is plugged into a wall outlet with an AC adapter cable. Behind the camera, also visible in the mirror's reflection, is a carpeted staircase leading up to a hallway that recedes into shadow.

We hold on this image for 12 seconds, when three soft knocks reverberate at the front door. More silence, precisely 7 seconds of it. Another three knocks, slightly louder than before. Somewhere behind the camera, we can hear a door click open. More silence, and then:

Another round of three knocks at the front door (nearly the exact same volume as the previous knocks, within 0.001 of a decibel).

In the mirror's reflection, at the top of the stairs, someone emerges from the dark hallway and slows to a stop with one foot on the highest step. This person's true name and identity is currently unknown. We will refer to her as JANE for the remainder of transcript. 

As Jane lingers at the top of the stairs, her face is concealed by shadow and ISO grain. All seems quiet, only the ever-present hum of roomtone, but audio analysis confirms Jane is counting to herself, her shaky voice barely above a whisper, "5… 4… 3… 2…"

Before Jane can say "1" three more knocks BANG at the front door, 57% louder than the previous round. Jane hurries down the stairs. As she descends into the faint moonlight we can see she appears to be in her late 30s, early 40s. Slight of build, and approximately 5'4" in height. She wears black sweat pants with holes in the knees, and a baggy SFU (Simon Fraser University) hoodie. Her black hair is matted and stringy. There are dark circles under her eyes. Looks like she hasn't slept or showered in days.

Jane begins to pace the length of the foyer back and forth, hands clawing into her hair, muttering to herself, "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." Without the context of what is to come, one might reasonably conclude she is experiencing a drug-induced paranoid episode.

Three more knocks at the front door, this time barely audible. Jane stops pacing and turns to face the door. Silence, only that humming roomtone. Jane stands rigid, her back to the camera, but her wide-eyed face visible in the full-length mirror. Her left eye twitches. She takes a cautious step toward the door, halting when a small voice leaks out from the other side. The voice sounds child-like, or, more accurately, it sounds like an adult pretending to be a child. "I'm afraid," it says, completely flat and emotionless. "I don't know where I am. And I can't find my parents."

Jane opens and shuts her eyes three times, a compulsive-looking movement. She starts pacing again, chewing on her nails. She rolls a sleeve up to her elbow, revealing scribbled blue-ink writing all over her left forearm. Much of the writing is smeared and barely legible. She stops pacing, brings her arm up to her eyes, and starts to read, "I, I'm sorry to hear you can't find your parents… h-have you tried talking to the–" she narrows her eyes, "talking to the w-white haired girl beneath the library?"

Another long silence. After 7 seconds, Jane's brow furrows. She looks back to her arm, and begins to reread the scribbles, "I'm sorry to hear you can't–"

The voice outside interrupts her, still child-like and emotionless, "The white haired girl beneath the library doesn't want to speak with me."

Jane bites her lip and clenches her eyes shut, seeming to hold back a rage filled scream. She opens her eyes wide, blinks thrice, takes a deep breath and slaps herself hard across the face. She starts pacing again, looking back to the scribblings on her arm, "W-where did you last see your parents?" 

"Above."

"Above what?"

"You."

Jane slows to another standstill, jaw slackening as a grim wash of dread clouds her face. She peers up toward the ceiling. A soft thump reverberates from above, followed by a low scraping sound. The sound of something heavy being dragged over coarse flooring. Another thump. Another scrape. 

Thump, scrape. Thump, scrape.

Jane hurtles out of the foyer, bumping the tripod in the process. The image teeters, then collapses to the floor, lens first. The glass fractures, leaving us with a splintered and dark closeup of laminate flooring. The auto focus shifts back and forth between the cracked glass and the floor below. Jane's panicked footsteps retreat deeper into the home. The autofocus settles on the laminate flooring and holds there, a hazy cast of bluish moonlight shining off the repetitive woodgrain patterns. 

From above, that thump, scrape rhythm continues, gradually picking up speed until it slows to a stop, presumably at the top of the stairs. After a brief pause, it begins to descend, only a thumping sound now, no scrape. Heavy plodding footsteps that reverberate through the floor and jostle the camera with each impact. The sound stops at the base of the stairs. Silence. Then a wet, clicking sound, like a misaligned jaw opening. A low buzzing drone rises, like a swarm of flies.

Somewhere off to camera left, a phone begins to RING, shrill and insistent (audio analysis suggests the phone is likely a rotary dial Meijer Bell, Model 4, or 5). As the phone keeps ringing, the buzzing drone goes quiet. The footsteps continue. A looming shadow sweeps across the moonlit floor until it slips away camera left. The footsteps go on for twelve paces, then slow to another stop. 

RIIIII–

The final ring is cut short by a mechanical CLICK, the sound of the phone being raised from its base. 

A short pause, and then, a perfect imitation of Jane's voice says, "Speaking."

The footage cuts to black.