House on Haunted Hill Page #8

She storms into the bathroom adjoining and slams that door.

CUT TO:

INT. MAIN SALON - JUST AFTER

Just off the foyer. The furniture, though dust-caked and

rotting is antique Deco and sumptuous. Liquor and a lavish

buffet have been set out on a sideboard that looks like one

of Dali's limp pocket-watches. As Price enters the room

grimly, he's descended upon by an angry Pritchett:

PRITCHETT:

Mr. Price:
I've done everything we

agreed on, your guests are all here and

in one piece -- my 25 thousand now,

please.

Price produces an envelope froa his jacket and taps it.

PRICE:

Right here, Mr. Pritchett. As well as

five other bona fide, bank drafts for

one million dollars each. Made out to

cash.

EDDIE:

And we get this money when?

PRICE:

The second the sun hits tomorrow

morning. Assuming you have stayed the

entire night - and you're still alive,

of course. Any other questions?

SARA:

Yeah. Why's there five checks?

There's only four of us.

PRICE:

You're forgetting my lovely wife; she's

part of the same winner-take-all as the

rest of you.

SARA:

What're you talking about?

PRICE:

Oh, sorry. Detail I guess I forgot to

mention. You die, you lose. Your check

gets divvied-up by those still amongst

the living.

BLACKBURN:

What are you playing here, Price?

PRICE:

A very, very scary game. But then look

at the bright side: if there's only one

of you still upright at dawn, you'll be

leaving here with five million dollars

in your pocket.

EDDIE:

This is nuts.

PRICE:

Yeah. But, hey, anybody who's not

"comfortable" with the rules, you're

free to walk, anytime. Seven digits

poorer, goes without saying.

PRITCHETT:

I'm ready now.

PRICE:

Alright, Mr. Pritchett, let me just

sign the damn thing.

Price sits at a rusting octagonal wire-and-steel desk, knifes

open his envelope, and produces a pen.

PRITCHETT:

Two "T"s at the end of the name.

Price looks up, puts the pen down.

PRICE:

Just for the record: what are the rest

of your names?

BLACKBURN:

Donald W. Blackburn, M.D.

MELISSA:

Melissa Margaret Marr, Celebrity.

EDDIE:

Eddie Moses, Communications Attache --

which translated from ancient bullshit

means:
I work for a Messenger service.

Beat. All eyes have now turned to Sara, who's just standing

there nervously.

PRICE:

And you, young lady?

She blurts out the lie as one word:

SARA:

Jennifer-Jenzen-Executive-V.P.-

Paragon-Pictures.

PRICE:

Very good. Well, I think I can say with

complete honesty: I've never heard of

any of you.

EDDIE:

Then what the hell are we doing here?

MELISSA:

How'd you make your guest list, Price:

throw darts at a phone book?

PRICE:

You're not my list.

BLACKBURN:

I got an engraved -- literally --

invitation -- with my name --

PRICE:

-- I'm sure you did.

SARA:

This is all maybe getting a little

too strange --

PRICE:

-- I wouldn't worry, Ms. Jenzen: the

unexplainable will probably explain

herself before too long. In the

meantime, let's all relax, have a drink,

the evening's young --

PRITCHETT:

-- it's getting older by the second.

Mr. Price, if I could just please have --

PRICE:

Sorry, Pritchett, here you go.

He signs the check and hands it to Pritchett who spins on his

heels and starts quickly for the foyer.

PRICE:

I think you're gonna miss the bash of

a lifetime --

PRITCHETT:

-- my loss --

PRICE:

-- even if I give you a million as

well?

PRITCHETT:

Wouldn't know what to do with it all --

-- and then, suddenly, we hear the distant sound of heavy

MACHINES at work. Pritchett freezes for a moment.

PRITCHETT:

Oh, no.

SARA:

What's going on?

CUT TO:

INT. GEAR ROOM -

Heavy rusted GEARS somewhere in the house, CRUNCHING as

they begin to turn.

CUT TO:

INT. GRAND FOYER -

Where Pritchett is sprinting like a madman to the exit.

PRITCHETT:

Please -- God-in-Heaven, no --

CUT TO:

INT. MAIN SALON

The NOISE inside the room, inside the entire house, is

deafening. Price senses something:

PRICE:

The windows --

Pritchett makes the long run across the huge room towards:

CUT TO:

INT. GEAR ROOM

The ancient LEVERS snapping down like punches.

CUT TO:

INT. MAIN SALON

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