We open on a pristine, tree-lined avenue of some affluent North American suburb, as

a paperboy cycles merrily along, casually tossing papers toward the grand mansion-houses

that line the street. The camera pans to the left, centering on one such mansion. It's

perfectly manicured front lawn and grand façade, offering up a vision of wealthy domestic

perfection. But as we move in closer, beyond the façade, we find a very different story.

In an upstairs bathroom of the drag-old and hair suit Henry Morrison, early forties

and in casual dress, stands at the sink, staring intensely into the mirror. His face covered

in blood. After removing a pressed and cleaned suit from a pre-prepared suitcase, he steps

into the shower and washes the blood from his face, before shaving his beard and trimming

his hair. Moments later, he stands once again in front of the mirror, the image of a calm,

go-getting professional. Soon the smartly dressed Henry, now with a briefcase in his hand, is

walking down the stairs, past a blood-stained wall, covered in happy family portraits of

Henry with his wife and kids. Finally, as he steps down into a large entry hall, stopping

calmly to write a knocked-over chair, we see the true horror within. Ignored by Henry,

as he makes his way to the front door, the floor of the living room behind is littered with

the blood and bodies of those same wife and children. Paying no attention to the dead

bloodied body of a young girl clutching a teddy bear in the foreground, Henry lets

himself out and closes the door behind him. Outside, he breaks into a whistle and collects

the paper from the lawn, then steps into the quiet of the street and disappears up the road.

The opening scene of Joseph Rubens' 1987 film, The Stepfather, is widely considered one of the

most effective and shocking in cinematic history. Sadly, it is also loosely based on a true story.

In 1971, John List was a well-respected father of three and church-going resident

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