MINISERIES: "PEOPLE ARE STRANGE", Episode 1: "Strange Invitation"

DISCLAIMER ):

"THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL EVENTS OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL. THE STORY IS INSPIRED BY THE ARTISTIC WORKS OF JIM MORRISON AND THE DOORS. 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."

EPISODE 1: "STRANGE INVITATION"

(The sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting soft shadows on the path where Sarah Murray and Tom Townsend walk hand in hand. The air is warm, the golden light of late afternoon brushing against their skin. Tom raises Sarah's hand to his lips, playfully kissing her knuckles. She tries to smile, but it feels thin, fragile, like it might break.

A single leaf falls from a high branch, spiraling slowly to the ground. Sarah's gaze follows it, her mind drifting to places she hasn't allowed herself to visit. The laughter of children playing nearby feels distant, muffled, as though coming from another world. She is here with Tom, but her thoughts are far away, tangled in doubts she cannot shake.)

"Everything okay?" Tom's voice pulls her back to the present. He squeezes her hand gently, his face open and concerned.

Sarah blinks, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just thinking about the wedding. It's coming up so fast."

A grin spreads across Tom's face, easy and warm, as always. "You worry too much. Everything's going to be perfect."

Perfect. Sarah's stomach tightens. She knows that's what everyone expects—her mother, her friends, Tom. She's been told a thousand times how lucky she is to have found someone like Tom. But there's a hollow space inside her where excitement should be, a gnawing sense that something is terribly wrong.

As they walk further, her fingers brush against the delicate fabric of her engagement ring. The setting sun casts a soft, amber glow across the park, but it feels cold. The shadows seem longer than they should be, the light dimmer. Her thoughts spin in circles: What if I'm making a mistake? What if this isn't what I want?

She glances at Tom, who is talking now, his voice animated as he describes their honeymoon plans. But Sarah isn't listening. She watches his face and smiles, but the warmth she felt at the beginning of their relationship is gone. All she feels now is a quiet, creeping dread.

"Sarah?" Tom's voice softens. "You're really quiet."

She swallows hard, forcing herself to speak. "It's just pre-wedding jitters, I guess."

He nods, squeezing her hand again, but the knot in her stomach doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens. The trees sway in the gentle breeze, children's laughter fading as they move further down the path. Sarah looks at the horizon, where the sun begins to sink below the treetops. The day is ending, with it, the illusion that everything is fine.

****

The day of the wedding arrives. The reception hall is bathed in golden light, chandeliers twinkling overhead, casting soft reflections off the polished floors. Fairy lights are strung across the ceiling, adding to the festive glow. Guests mingle, laughter fills the air, and champagne glasses clink together in celebration.

Sarah moves through the crowd like a ghost, her white lace dress trailing behind her. She smiles, but it feels forced; every interaction is a performance. People congratulate her and tell her how beautiful and lucky she looks, but the words barely register. She nods, laughs, and plays her part, but inside, the gnawing unease has grown into something monstrous, something she can't ignore.

She catches snippets of conversation as she walks past groups of guests. Their voices seem quieter, more hushed, like they're whispering behind their glasses of champagne. Sarah's heart races. Are they talking about her? About Tom? Her eyes dart across the room, searching for Tom, but the crowd feels too thick, the air too heavy.

She spots him near the bar, laughing with his groomsmen. His face is happy, but something about his expression sends a chill through her. His smile looks too wide, too sharp, like it doesn't quite belong to him. Sarah's breath catches in her throat. The room feels suddenly too small, the walls closing in around her.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress, and her gaze lands on Steve Lloyd, the best man. He's standing at the DJ booth, whispering something to the DJ. There's a strange glint in his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth that looks almost...mischievous. The DJ hesitates, glancing toward the crowd, but Steve nudges him again, insisting.

The music shifts. The opening notes of "People Are Strange" by The Doors creep through the speakers, slow and eerie. A ripple of unease moves through the room. Conversations falter, and the laughter dies away. The once-live atmosphere grows thick with tension, the music wrapping around the guests like a fog.

Sarah's chest tightens. She glances around, noticing how still everyone has become. Faces that were full of joy moments ago now seem distant, detached. The fairy lights overhead flicker, casting strange, distorted shadows across the room. The haunting melody slithers through the air, twisting the space around her.

Her eyes land on Tom again, but what she sees makes her stomach turn. His smile is still there, but it's wrong—too wide, too dark. Once warm and familiar, his eyes are hollow, like empty sockets staring back at her. Sarah's pulse quickens, panic swelling inside her.

She steps back, her hand trembling as it grips the stem of her champagne glass. The room warps, and the faces around her stretch and blur. The air feels too thick and heavy to breathe. The music grows louder, the eerie melody drilling into her mind, distorting everything around her.

The glass blew from her hand and shattered on the floor. The sharp sound cuts through the stillness, but no one reacts. The guests remain frozen, their faces twisted into strange, unnatural expressions. The walls seem to pulse with the beat of the music, the chandeliers overhead flickering in time.

Across the room, Lynda Barton stands rigid, her eyes fixed on her partner, Daniel Watson. His sharp and cruel laughter echoes through the room. It slices into Lynda, feeding on her insecurities, every echo a reminder of every time she felt less than enough. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her mind spinning.

Without thinking, she grabs a knife from the table, her fingers curling tightly around the handle. Daniel's laughter grows louder and more mocking. Lynda's vision tunnels, her focus narrowing to the sound of his voice. The weight of the knife in her hand feels solid and real. She lunges.

Chaos erupts. Guests scream, bodies collide, and tables are overturned. Blood splatters across the white tablecloths. The chandeliers sway violently, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. The music pounds through the air relentlessly, twisting the scene into a nightmare.

At the buffet table, Phil Carston stumbles back, his legs giving way beneath him as the floor ripples like water. His vision blurs and the room around him distorts. Faces stretch into grotesque masks, their eyes wide and hollow, their mouths gaping open in silent screams. He crashes to the floor, glass clattering around him.

Sarah stands frozen in the center of it all, her mind unraveling as the chaos swirls around her. The guests, her friends and family, have become something monstrous, their faces twisted with fear and rage. She tries to move, to scream, but her body won't obey. The music pulses louder, the melody worming its way into her thoughts, driving her deeper into the madness.

****

Hours later, the police flood into the wrecked reception hall, their faces stricken with shock. Glas and blood cover the floor. Tables lie overturned, chairs splintered. Bodies are scattered across the room, some groaning in pain, others motionless. The air is thick with sweat, fear, and something metallic.

One of the officers, a tall man with graying hair, steps forward cautiously, his hand resting on his holstered gun. His eyes scan the room, landing on Sarah, who stands in the center, her white dress streaked with blood. She doesn't move. Her hands hang limply at her sides, her face blank, her eyes vacant.

"Ma'am, put your hands up," he says gently, but Sarah doesn't respond. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. She's trapped in the nightmare, her mind lost somewhere far away.

Two officers move in, guiding her arms up to place handcuffs around her wrists. She doesn't resist. Her body is limp, and her movements are slow and uncoordinated. They lead her toward the exit, stepping carefully over the broken glass debris. As they pass through the doors, Sarah finally speaks, her voice a soft, broken whisper. "They weren't human."

The officers exchange uneasy glances but say nothing.

****

Later that night, Jared Melvin stands outside the wrecked reception hall, his notebook in hand. The glow from the police lights flashes red and blue across the scene, casting long shadows over the wreckage. He watches officers move in and out of the building, their faces grim, their conversations hushed.

Jared's been a journalist long enough to know when something's off, and this scene feels wrong. His pen hovers over the page, but he's unsure what to write. A wedding turned into a bloodbath wasn't the typical story he covered, and an eerie feeling hung over the entire scene that unsettled him in a way he hadn't experienced before.

Just then, Jared catches sight of two detectives standing near the entrance. Their voices are low, almost drowned out by the murmur of other officers. Jared edges closer, pretending to jot down notes, keeping his distance but straining to hear. The older detective, Detective Johnson, shakes his head, his face lined with disbelief.

"This is the third time I've seen something like this," Johnson says, his voice low but tense. "It's always the same damn song. 'People Are Strange.'"

The younger detective, Petrell, looks at him, frowning. "A song? What do you mean?"

"I've been on this job for thirty years. Saw it at a birthday party in the '90s. Same thing, a song comes on, and people just lose it. They turn violent like they're not themselves anymore." He shakes his head again, lowering his voice. "We never figured it out, but it's happened before. It's not just coincidence."

Jared's heart races as he listens. A song triggering violence? That's not something you hear every day. He quickly jots down the conversation in his notebook, his mind already spinning with questions. What could possibly connect a song to such chaos? He needs to dig deeper and figure out what the detectives know.

As Johnson and Petrell walk toward the scene, Jared steps away, his mind buzzing with the information he's just overheard. His instincts are firing; this wasn't just some freak accident.

There's a pattern, something lurking beneath the surface of this story. He can feel it.

Jared retreats to his car, his fingers typing frantically into his phone, pulling up old archives, articles, and anything he can find about similar incidents. His search uncovers fragmented reports buried in old newspapers and police files. Birthday parties, small gatherings, and music festivals all end in sudden, inexplicable violence. And in every case, the same song: "People Are Strange."

The more Jared digs, the more unsettling the pattern becomes. These incidents are scattered across decades, but no one has made the connection. These outbreaks have been hidden in plain sight, slipping through the cracks of public attention. His breath quickens as he pieces it together, scribbling notes furiously on his pad, pinning articles to the corkboard in his mind.

He remembers Detective Johnson's look and the grim certainty in his voice. This wasn't just a freak event at a wedding. It was part of something bigger, something darker. Jared's fingers tremble as he types out a name circled red on his screen: "People Are Strange."

****

Later that night, Jared sits hunched over his desk in his small, cluttered apartment. The soft glow of his laptop screen reflects off his face, casting long shadows over the papers and notebooks scattered across the room. The more he searches, the more disturbing the connections become. His screen flashes with headlines from past tragedies:

"Birthday Party Ends in Chaos - Multiple Injuries." "Housewarming Turns Violent - Several Hospitalized." "Music Festival Disaster Linked to Unexplained Panic."

The haunting detail is at the center each time: "People Are Strange" by The Doors playing in the background.

Jared leans back in his chair, staring at the web of notes, articles, and headlines he's compiled. There's a pattern, but it's elusive, slipping just out of his grasp. How are the song, the outbreaks, and the violence connected? Is there something in the music itself? A frequency? A subliminal message? Or is it something deeper, something darker, that defies explanation?

His heart pounds in his chest as he scrolls through the list of incidents, his mind racing. He's onto something big, something no one else has noticed. But with every new discovery, his unease grows. There's something sinister here, something far beyond a simple news story.

Jared glances at the clock; it's past midnight. The faint hum of city noise seeps through his apartment window, but the air feels still and heavy inside. His fingers tap nervously on the edge of his desk as he types a few more notes, his eyes darting from the screen to the stack of newspapers beside him. He can feel it, the pull of the mystery deepening, dragging him further into the darkness.

With a deep breath, he picks up his phone and scrolls to Detective Johnson's number, which he acquired earlier at the scene. His thumb hovers over the call button. The urge to reach out, to ask more questions, is overwhelming, but something holds him back. What if Johnson knows more than he's letting on? What if this investigation leads him into something he can't control?

Jared shakes off the thought and clicks the phone shut. He's already too deep to turn back now.

****

The next morning, Jared wakes to his phone vibrating on the bedside table. Groggy, he reaches for it, squinting at the screen. A text from an unknown number flashes across the screen:

"Stop digging. You don't want to know the truth."

Jared sits up quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. He stares at the message, reading it over and over. The warning is clear, but it only strengthens his resolve. He's onto something, and whoever sent this message knows it.

His fingers tremble as he types a reply, but the screen goes black before he can send it. The phone shuts off, completely dead.

The unsettling chill from last night returns, crawling up his spine. Someone's watching him, tracking his movements. Jared stands up, pacing the room, his mind racing. Whoever sent that text must know about the connection between the song and the outbreaks. They're trying to silence him, but why?

Jared turns back to his computer, flipping open the screen. He can't stop now. He needs answers, and there's only one way to get them; he has to keep digging, no matter the cost. As his fingers fly across the keys, searching through archives and police reports, the eerie melody of "People Are Strange" plays faintly in the back of his mind, like a whisper he can't shake.

The investigation isn't over. It's just beginning.

End of Episode 1.