...cuts to Mama Blonde's inky silhouette delicately picking its way down the main stairs as the piano shifts into an ominous down-the-scale cascade of single notes and atonal chords before falling silent as Mama Blonde reaches the main floor. We shift to her point of view as she edges around the corner to find her real husband asleep in the La-Z-Boy while a black-and-white war movie flickers on the TV beyond. Mama Blonde gapes as the soundtrack floods with every damn string instrument the production staff could afford, the better to drive this horrifying realization home to the viewing audience. Mama Blonde gasps and spins and plunges headlong up the stairs, calling out "Sammy!" repeatedly as she reaches the upper hall. She races towards the back of the house and into the now most definitely imperiled nursery, only to pull herself up short with a stifled shriek halfway across the room.

Down in the living room, Daddy! John's eyes snap open when that stifled shriek erupts into its full-throated version above his head. "Mary?" he shouts, leaping to his feet and taking the stairs two at a time. The camera goes all shuddery and hand-held as we get his POV of his dash towards The Now Most Definitely Imperiled Nursery before it cuts inside the room to catch him as he bursts through the now-closed door, still calling out his wife's name. The nursery's empty, save for Tiny Sam, who gurgles and fusses and sticks his tongue out at his father. Daddy! John steps up to the crib to smile fondly down at the infant. Just then, a tiny, dark blotch stains the baby's duvet. Daddy! John stretches his fingers past his son's head to touch it, only to have three more of the same blotches drop onto the back of his hand from above. He slowly swivels his head around and up, and his shout of horror would be impressive indeed, were it not drowned out by the cacophonous orchestra that's arrived on the soundtrack to punctuate his discovery. And that discovery? Is Blonde Mary, looking rather Mena-Suvari-in-American Beauty-esque, actually. Well, if Kevin Spacey had imagined dreary Mena with a foot-wide gash through her torso while she was lounging around there on his ceiling, of course. The quick-cut close-up of Blonde Mary's pallid, gaping face makes it clear she's still breathing, by the way. Or trying to, at any rate.