MINISERIES:" PEOPLE ARE STRANGE": EPISODE 3: "ECHOES OF THE LIZARD KING"

DISCLAIMER:

"THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL EVENTS OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL. THE DOORS AND JIM MORRISON'S ARTISTIC WORKS ARE THE SOURCES OF INSPIRATION FOR THE STORY. STILL, IT IS IN NO WAY ASSOCIATED WITH, NOR DOES IT IMPLY ENDORSEMENT BY THE BAND OR ITS MEMBERS. NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT IS INTENDED, AND THIS STORY IS PURELY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES. ALL RIGHTS TO 'PEOPLE ARE STRANGE' BELONG TO THE ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT HOLDERS."

Jared stands alone in the dim glow of a street lamp, the empty streets of Paris stretching out into shadowy oblivion. The haunting melody of "People Are Strange" echoes faintly in the background, distorted as if it's coming from everywhere and nowhere.

He looks around, his breath visible in the cold air, and suddenly notices faceless figures watching him from every corner. Their outlines blur in the dim light, but their presence is undeniable. As their footsteps grow louder, the shadowy forms stretch toward him like living nightmares, closing in, suffocating. Just before they reach him, he wakes up with a jolt, drenched in sweat, the eerie music still faintly ringing in his ears.

He gasps, sitting in bed, the room's shadows swirling as his mind struggles to distinguish between dream and reality. For a moment, Jared isn't sure where he is, but the unmistakable scent of stale air and dust tells him he's still in his apartment. Paris. The city he had once found enchanting was now little more than a waking nightmare, a place that felt alive with unseen forces.

****

The airplane hums steadily, and the engine's vibrations constantly remind Jared of how far he has traveled, physically and mentally. The notebook clenched in his hands is dog-eared and worn, filled with chaotic scribbles about Jim Morrison, cryptic symbols, and that cursed demo tape. Paris, the City of Light, is where it all began for Morrison, and now it's where Jared must unravel the mystery that's consumed his life.

He's mentally and physically exhausted from the obsessive search for answers. His hair is disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and his clothes hang loosely on his gaunt frame. He knows it's only a matter of time before his fragile grip on sanity snaps completely, but he can't let it go. The demo tape has a hold on him that he can't explain. He feels it's drawing him in, piece by piece.)

As the plane descends, the glittering lights of Paris stretch out below him, shimmering like a thousand stars. What should fill him with awe only fuels his growing dread. The closer he gets, the heavier the weight of the city's history, of Morrison's spectral presence, seems to press against his chest.

He shifts in his seat, feeling the cold sweat on the back of his neck. His mind wanders, trying to make sense of the fragmented thoughts swirling within him. He has been experiencing nightmares for weeks, with visions of Morrison, eerie figures, and music that seems to be whispering to him from some unknown abyss. Even now, the melody of "People Are Strange" feels like it's looping endlessly in the background, always lurking at the edges of his consciousness.

Jared glances out the window at the distant lights of the city. The sprawling, glittering landscape should be comforting, a reminder of civilization, but tonight it feels distant and unreal. His heartbeat quickens, and he rubs his temples, trying to push away the encroaching paranoia.

That's when he sees it.

A few rows back, a man stares directly at him, eyes locked onto Jared with a chilling intensity. He tries to dismiss it, telling himself it's nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him. He's tired, overwhelmed, and paranoid. But the longer Jared looks, the more the dread grows. The man isn't blinking, his gaze unrelenting, dark, almost hollow.

Jared's breath quickens. No, you're just imagining things. You're not being followed. It's all in your head. But the gnawing sensation in his gut refuses to leave. It tightens, twisting into something unbearable, something primal. His mind races: Could this man be connected to the tape? To Morrison?

The paranoia digs in, insidious and relentless. Jared shifts in his seat, stealing another glance over his shoulder. The man's eyes are still locked on him, his face cold and emotionless. Jared's throat constricts as his heartbeat thuds in his ears. It's just in your head, he tells himself again, but the fear won't let go.

The ding of the seatbelt sign snaps him back to the present. Passengers around him stir, preparing for landing. Still, Jared feels paralyzed, the weight of those eyes pressing down on him. The plane lands with a jolt, but Jared remains locked in his seat, unable to shake the overwhelming feeling that someone, something, is watching him.

****

Paris greets Jared with its usual charm, but to him, the city feels different now, veiled in a dreamlike haze. The cobblestone streets, the cafes, and the quiet murmur of street musicians all seem slightly off as if the entire city exists on the edge of reality. The echo of "People Are Strange" drifts on the wind, following him through the narrow alleyways like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.

His destination is an old recording studio, long forgotten by most but notorious for being the site of Jim Morrison's final recording sessions, never released sessions. Once the hub of the Paris music scene, Studio M now stood decayed and hidden behind layers of dust and neglect. It was here that Jared believed he would find answers. Answers to why Morrison had descended into madness. Answers to why the demo tape carried such an oppressive, otherworldly power.

Jared trudges through the fog-covered streets toward the city's outskirts, his shoes scuffing against the uneven stones. The studio is old; its facade is cracked and crumbling. Inside, the air is thick with dust and silence, broken only by the occasional distant creak of the old building settling. Jared's steps echo ominously as he reaches the door marked "Gérard."

Gérard, the engineer who had worked with Morrison during those fateful final days, lived in reclusion, far from the limelight. For years, he had spoken to no one about what happened in those recording sessions, always dismissing any attempts to pry into Morrison's mind. But Jared had come too far, sacrificed too much to turn back now.

When the door opens, an elderly man named Gérard appears, his thinning hair wild and his face gaunt and sunken. When he looks at Jared, it's clear he's been thinking about his past a lot.

"I've told you journalists everything I know," Gérard mutters, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. His voice is raspy, as though years of silence have worn it down. The apartment is small and cluttered, the air heavy with the smell of stale smoke and dust.

Jared steps forward cautiously, his voice low but determined. "I think there's more to the story, Gérard. What really happened in those final sessions? Morrison wasn't just recording music, was he?"

Gérard's eyes flicker with something, perhaps a momentary flash of fear, but he quickly looks away, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. His hand trembles as he exhales, his gaze darting toward the corner of the room where an old reel-to-reel tape recorder sits, half-buried beneath layers of dust.

"Jim..." Gérard hesitates, then finally speaks, his voice barely audible. "Jim believed the music could do something. Something more than just entertaining. He was obsessed with the idea that sound could open doors. Spiritual doors. He thought the vibrations and rhythms could connect us to other realms."

Jared listens intently, his pulse quickening. "What do you mean? Was he... trying to summon something?"

Gérard's eyes meet Jared's, filled with a quiet intensity. "No. Not summon. Trap. He believed the song was alive. That it had a spirit. Jim thought he could contain and trap it in the recording in his final days. He was convinced the song had power. Dark power."

Jared feels his breath catch in his throat. Could Morrison have believed that "People Are Strange" was more than a song? Could he have thought the music itself was cursed? That it held something dark, something dangerous?

Gérard stands abruptly, clearly agitated now. "I've said too much. You need to leave. Now."

Before Jared can ask more, Gérard ushers him out of the apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. As Jared steps out into the cold night air, the faint echo of "People Are Strange" once again drifts through the streets, sending a chill down his spine.

****

The camera shifts to a series of flashbacks. Jim Morrison, 1971, sits cross-legged in the center of a dark, candlelit room. His face is pale, his eyes wild with fevered intensity. Around him, candles flicker, casting long shadows against the walls. He mutters under his breath, words lost to time, chants that seem to pull the air around him.

In the background, the haunting melody of "People Are Strange" plays faintly, distorted and eerie. Morrison's obsession with the song has taken a darker turn. The camera lingers on his face, gaunt, haunted, his eyes half-closed, as if he's somewhere else, reaching into realms beyond. His fascination with mysticism, death, and the spirit world is palpable, his every breath heavy with the weight of something far more profound than music.

He picks up the microphone, his hands trembling and sings again. The emotion in his voice cracks as though he's pouring every ounce of his soul into the music. Between takes, he pauses, staring into the microphone as if it holds a dark, terrible secret. Gérard watches from the booth, his face pale, his hands shaking as he records the music that seems to pulse with a life of its own.

In startling clarity, Morrison looks up at Gérard, his voice weak and trembling. "It's not just music," he whispers. It's a door I've opened, and now I can't close it."

He stares blankly into the void, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think I've trapped myself inside."

The flashback fades as Morrison's figure walks alone through the fog-laden streets of Paris, humming "People Are Strange" under his breath. His figure dissolves into the mist, leaving nothing but the haunting echoes of the song behind him.

****

Back in the present, Jared's sense of reality begins to unravel. The paranoia, once just a faint buzz at the back of his mind, has become a deafening roar. Everywhere he goes, he feels the eyes of strangers on him, on the metro, streets, and cafes. Their long stares are disturbing, and shadows cover their faces. Every time he turns to confront them, there's nothing.

Just shadows. But the sensation remains, gnawing at Jared, eroding his sanity piece by piece.

At night, the city transforms into a maze of shadows and whispers. Once vibrant and full of life, Paris now feels hollow, like a stage set for some unseen play. The whispers of "People Are Strange" follow him wherever he goes, taunting him, mocking him, echoing in the darkest corners of his mind.

One evening, as Jared walks through the narrow, fog-shrouded streets, he sees a figure standing beneath a flickering streetlamp. The man is tall, broad, shouldered, dressed in 70s attire, tight pants, a leather jacket, and wild waves of hair cascading over his shoulders. Jared's breath catches in his throat. The silhouette is unmistakable; it's Jim Morrison.

His pulse quickens, his heart pounding in his chest as he takes a tentative step forward. The closer he gets, the more his mind races. Could it really be Morrison? Has he crossed some invisible line between reality and whatever lies beyond?

But as Jared approaches, the figure begins to dissolve into the mist, like an invisible wind blowing smoke away. One moment, the shadow is there, solid and real, and the next, it vanished into the night.

Jared stumbles to a halt, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Was it real? His mind loops in on itself, trying to find answers, but nothing makes sense anymore. He's losing his grip, slipping further into something dark and unknown.

****

His breakthrough comes from a cryptic note slipped under his hotel room door. It is written in the same ominous French as before: Cherche au cimetière. (Look in the cemetery.)

With a growing sense of dread, Jared follows the message to Père Lachaise Cemetery, Jim Morrison's resting place. The cemetery, bathed in an eerie fog, feels like a place out of time, where the veil between the living and the dead is thin.

Hours pass as Jared searches the tombs and monuments, his heart pounding. Finally, near Morrison's grave, he finds a small, hidden compartment tucked away in the stone. Inside is a weathered cassette tape. It's unmarked, save for an ancient, arcane symbol etched into its surface, a symbol that seems to pulse with dark energy.

As Jared picks it up, a cold, unnatural chill runs through his body. The air around him grows dense, the temperature plummeting despite the warm summer night. It feels as though the very tape itself is alive.

The camera zooms in on Jared's face, his eyes wide with fear and fascination. His hand trembles as he clutches the tape tighter. A cold sweat drips down his forehead as the truth dawns on him.

What he holds isn't just a recording. It's a vessel, a prison, and something terrible waits inside.

As Jared stands frozen in the cemetery, the faint, haunting strains of "People Are Strange" echo softly from nowhere, filling the air with dread.

(The episode fades to black as Jared stares at the tape, his fate now inextricably bound to whatever dark force lurks within it.)

End of Episode 3.