In this troika of shorts, shot over six years and assembled into a low-thread-count omnibus, electrical engineer-indie-horror moonlighter Douglas Buck demonstrates a de rigueur no-budget clumsiness and a flair for sophomoric solemnity. But overshadowing it all is a diabolical knack for showing us what we hope we won’t see, and the “trilogy” ends up being a raw piece of unnerving gristle that lodges deep in your cheek teeth. Buck’s strategy can be boiled down to Raymond Carver by way of H.G. Lewis; although only the first third indulges in a Tom Savini credit as it ominously surveys a dissociative husband-wife pas de deux of self-mutilation, it’s unnerving enough to keep us hyperalert for the remainder. (Think The Big Shave times five and built for two.) Comparatively, short No. 2 is a brisk and splattery footnote, while the last act, essentially bloodless, is a noble try for Egoyan-ness in the heartland, with family secrets, unspoken feelings, and a bruised maiden in a wheelchair.