...the haggard-looking current version of the woman in the photograph. Correction: The haggard-looking, sleep-deprived, and intensely paranoid current version of the woman in the photograph. Doctor Sylvia's whipped her scraggly mane of brunette hair around to stare wildly at the police sirens' current location, which is apparently somewhere outside her tackily appointed motel room. "'Tacky' doesn't begin to describe the horror," Raoul interjects. "It is quite seriously an Edwardian bordello by way of 1975. Just awful!" In any event, the doomed Doctor Sylvia leaps to her feet from the almost fetal crouch in which we'd found her by one of the beds to pace restlessly and hug herself and scratch at her arms and drag her ragged nails through the brunette tangle on her head. The soundtrack's taken that subtle ticking from the previous scene, handed it over to a set of snare drums, amplified it to ear-splitting level, and mixed the result with tense strings and crazy, indecipherable, low-volume voices that sound almost as if they're coming through a hospital's public address system -- the latter of which is a neat little way of illustrating the effects of sleep deprivation on this doomed surgeon's mind. Suddenly, something pounds at the room's door three times in rapid succession. Doctor Sylvia stifles a scream as she spins around to gaze wild-eyed at the locks as the horns wail on the soundtrack for her. Three more booming knocks hit, and with each, the camera cuts closer and closer to the door until it gets itself all up in the knob's grille. "Ms. Perlman?" a man's voice calls. We leap outside to find the motel manager on the stoop. "I've been calling for hours. You need to vacate the room, or you gotta pay for another night." The doomed doctor shakily unlatches the door and opens it to agree to the additional charge. She turns away from him to rifle through her wallet for a couple of twenties, then turns back and shudders to a horrified stop when she sees what the manager's become: A sunken-eyed, ashen-faced ghoul in motel manager's clothing, wordlessly working his gaping maw as his pupils cloud over with cataracts. Whee! "I agree!" enthuses Raoul. "The nifty sound cues have been delightful, but good old-fashioned visual effects are just as welcome." Doctor Doomed bares her teeth in terror and flings the cash at the ghoul's feet before slamming the door shut once more. Outside, the manager tilts a little bit towards the camera, and while the ghoul's gone from his face, we're not quite sure if it's still lurking somewhere inside him. Inside, Doctor Doomed freaks again, some more.