Return to the House on Haunted Hill
Six 1958 model funeral cars drove slowly up the winding driveway to the house on top of the hill. Built in the 1850s, the sprawling stone mansion had stood alone atop the hill for more than one hundred and fifty years, like a vulture peering down from its nest on its unsuspecting prey. During that century and a half, the house had many owners, but none lived there very long. Nine people were murdered within its walls, the last two in 1958 on the night of Frederick Loren's party. The cars stopped in front of the entrance to discharge their passengers, and the six guests stood on the stone steps, clutching their overnight luggage and looking at each other with uncertainty.
A dark-haired, ruggedly handsome man in his late twenties glanced impatiently at his watch and asked, "Shall we go in, or do you all want to sit out here and wait for the butler?"
A mousy young woman with thick eyeglasses, a nondescript hairstyle and an outfit that looked like it came off the racks of a Good Will thrift store, meekly replied, "Maybe we should knock first."
Suddenly the front door was thrown open, and the guests looked up into a face that had graced the silver screen for nearly fifteen years. Actress Alexis Shelley, the host of the party, then invited them all inside.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," she announced, her voice echoing through the empty halls of the old mansion. "In 1958 a most unusual party was held in this house. The hosts, millionaire Frederick Loren and his wife, Annabelle, rented the place for the event because it was rumored to be haunted. Mr. Loren invited five people, all strangers to him and to each other—or so he thought—and agreed to pay them each $10,000 if they stayed the night. Well, I guess most if not all of you know the story. When the caretakers arrived the next morning, Mrs. Loren and her lover, Dr. David Trent, were found dead, murdered by her husband, Frederick, in a fit of jealousy."
"Didn't Loren claim he acted in self-defense?" asked an exceptionally good-looking man with a pronounced Boston accent.
"Yes, he did. Mr. West, isn't it?" Alexis asked. "Perry West, the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist?"
"That's right. And may I suggest you introduce the rest of your guests to each other?"
"Forgive me. I seem to be forgetting my manners in the excitement of the evening. I'm your hostess, Alexis Shelley," she introduced herself, on the odd chance one or more of the guests did not know who she was. "This gentleman is Mr. Perry West. The young lady next to him"—she was referring to the mousy thing with the Coke bottle glasses—"is Miss Betsy Chase, a secretary for an insurance company. The dashing young man to her left is Dean Mansfield, a professional racecar driver. If any of you follow the NASCAR circuit, you will no doubt recognize him."
"I thought you looked familiar," said a somewhat nervous man who resembled an aging Norman Bates. "I'm Jay Pritchard, by the way."
Alexis added, "If the name sounds familiar, it's because Jay's uncle, Watson Pritchard, was one of the guests at Frederick Loren's party. Mr. Pritchard's family at one time owned this house."
"Watson Pritchard?" an older woman, dressed in conservative, professional attire echoed. "Wasn't he the one whose sister-in-law murdered her husband and her sister in this house? Didn't I read somewhere that she cut off her victims' heads or something?"
Jay nodded.
"My mother was a sick woman. She got it into her head that my father was having an affair with her sister, and one night she went crazy and murdered the two of them with a butcher knife. She cut them into pieces and hid the body parts around the house; no one has ever found the heads, though."
Alexis broke the awkward silence that followed.
"Next, allow me to present Dr. Lillian Shaw, one of the most respected psychiatrists in New England. Our last guest is also one whose name you will recognize: Everett Loren, the renowned obstetrician."
The other guests turned in the direction of a distinguished-looking elderly man in an expensively tailored suit.
"Dr. Loren," the hostess added, "is the younger brother of Frederick Loren."
As an actress, Alexis knew the importance of timing and paused before continuing.
"Now that we're all acquainted, I'll tell you why I invited you here tonight. Through some real estate investments made by my business manager, I became the owner of a large parcel of land, including what has come to be known as the House on Haunted Hill. Recently, a contractor made a generous offer on the property, and I accepted it. This building is to be torn down, and a shopping mall will go up in its place. But before the wrecking ball destroys this infamous mansion, I decided to throw a party, one patterned after that fateful celebration held in 1958. As closely as possible, I've duplicated the circumstances of that night—hence the funeral cars that brought you all here. I've also tried to duplicate the original guest list; we have four men and three women, one of whom is a Loren. There is also a Pritchard, a reporter, a psychiatrist and a secretary. I couldn't find a test pilot, so I had to settle for a racecar driver."
She smiled apologetically at Dean Mansfield.
"I even have similar party favors," she boasted, pointing to the sideboard. "Little wooden coffins with revolvers inside, identical to the ones Frederick Loren ordered for his party. And, just like Mr. Loren, I'll pay each of you who will stay the night. Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen, I realize this isn't 1958 and that $10,000 can't buy much, what with inflation the way it is. So, I've upped the ante. I'll pay $100,000 to each person who is still here at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow morning."
The shy Miss Chase smiled, apparently pleased with the arrangement. That was understandable; insurance companies rarely paid their secretaries a decent salary.
"Finally, let me tell you what Mr. Loren told his guests. The caretakers will leave at midnight, locking the doors behind them. Once they go, there's no way out. The doors are made of solid steel, and the bars on the windows are set in stone. The house has no electricity or telephone service. Oh, and you can forget about your cell phones. I'm afraid you won't get any reception up here. So, if you do decide to stay, plan on 'roughing' it. Think of it as being at summer camp when you were a kid."
Dr. Loren looked at his laughing hostess with smug condescension.
"I don't find your sense of humor particularly amusing, young woman. My family experienced great tragedy in this house. You might show a little respect."
Alexis Shelley was not one to be intimidated, not even by the wealthy and respected Everett Loren.
"Mr. Pritchard lost his father and his aunt in this house. I don't hear him complaining, do you?"
Perry West stared at the old man, somewhat disrespectfully.
"Pardon me for saying so, Doctor, but you don't look like you need the money. Why did you come here tonight?"
"For the same reason that people insist on seeing the wreck of a car in which a loved one was killed or the burned shell of a building that was the site of a fatal fire. I just had to see the place for myself."
Alexis looked at her watch; it was 8:20.
"Is there anyone who wants to leave?"
All six guests agreed to stay the night.
"Good," the hostess said. "Well, then, since we're going to be here for almost twelve more hours, may I suggest we make ourselves comfortable? I'll show you all to your rooms now so you can get settled in. Then why don't we meet in the drawing room for a drink in about an hour?"
* * *
Dr. Loren walked down the staircase past the spot where his sister-in-law, Annabelle, had faked her death by hanging. She was such a beautiful woman. What a shame Frederick pushed her into a vat of acid. But then, all four of his brother's wives had been beautiful.
The doctor walked into the drawing room and saw Alexis Shelley in a private conversation with the reporter and the racecar driver.
"Dr. Loren, I hope you found your room to your liking," she said.
"It's not the Hilton, but it will have to do."
Mansfield, who was anxious to return to the conversation they were having when Loren walked into the room, announced, "We were just discussing Ruth Bridges' book, wondering how much of it was accurate and how much was exaggeration."
Perry, perhaps because he, too, worked for a newspaper, defended his fellow writer.
"She was a guest in the house that night. I would imagine her account was pretty accurate."
"At least as far as what she herself saw," Alexis added. "But how much did Ms. Bridges really know about the plotting that went on behind the scenes?"
"If you want to know whether or not Frederick Loren planned to kill his wife, there's the man you should ask," West said, pointing to the doctor.
"What makes you think my brother confided in me? We were never close."
"He left you his millions," Mansfield pointed out. "I'd consider that pretty damned close."
"I inherited his money because he died without heirs. None of his wives had given him a child. Had she lived, the money would have gone to Annabelle."
West responded to Loren's statement somewhat rudely.
"Had Annabelle lived, your brother wouldn't have been executed for murder."
Jay Pritchard then entered the room, followed by Dr. Lillian Shaw.
"I think I'll start preparing the drinks," Alexis announced cheerfully.
"The guests at Frederick Loren's party were given a tour," Dr. Shaw declared. "Are we to expect the same?"
"I'm sorry," Alexis replied. "I only arrived at the house about ten minutes before all of you did, so I don't know my way around here very well. Perhaps Mr. Pritchard could help us out."
Jay shook his head.
"I'm afraid not. I was only a baby when I was taken from here and sent to live with my grandparents."
"How did your Uncle Watson die?" the reporter inquired, perhaps hoping for a story.
"If you read Ms. Bridges' book, you must know that the first night my uncle spent in this house literally drove him to drink. His second night here, the night of the infamous party, didn't help matters. He died in a sanitarium in '64; he drank himself to death."
"That's interesting," Perry commented. "There were seven people here that night in 1958, and as far as I know, five of them are dead."
"I don't see anything unusual in that," Dr. Shaw commented. "After all, it was over forty years ago."
"True, but these people didn't die recently. Two of the guests were murdered the night of the party. Loren was executed in '66. Ruth Bridges died of a heart attack back in '63, right after her book was published. If Watson Pritchard died in '64, that puts all the deaths less than ten years from the date of the party."
"What about the other two guests?" Mansfield asked. "The pilot and the young girl?"
"A man named Lance Schroeder was the test pilot," Alexis answered. "And the young girl was a secretary from one of Loren's companies. Her name was Nora Manning."
"Wasn't she the one who tried to shoot Frederick Loren down in the cellar?" Dr. Shaw asked.
"Yes, she was," Alexis replied. "Annabelle Loren and David Trent tried to frighten her out of her wits. It was their plan that the girl shoot Loren in a moment of terror. Fortunately, he found out about his wife's little scheme and put blanks in Miss Manning's gun."
"That's one thing that always bothered me about the murders," Perry said. "How did Frederick Loren learn about his wife's plans to murder him? I studied the trial transcripts. Loren never answered that question to the jury's satisfaction. All he said was that he'd received an anonymous phone call."
The defendant's brother shared his own theory.
"Frederick was convicted of first-degree murder because there was never any proof against Annabelle and Trent. All we have is his word that they were plotting to kill him."
"How do you explain Annabelle's supposed hanging, the frightening things Nora Manning saw and the fact that the caretakers left early that night?" Alexis argued.
"It was a party! You didn't know Annabelle; I did. She was an incredible practical joker. Her hanging was a gag. I'd be willing to bet that Frederick was in on it. Hell, he might have put her up to it. His whole story about Annabelle and Trent being lovers was all a lie, a clever attempt to make it seem like he was acting in self-defense when he killed them."
"Your story makes even less sense than your brother's," Perry observed. "If Trent wasn't having an affair with your brother's wife, then why would Frederick want to kill him?"
"I'll be honest with you. My brother wanted his wife dead. He was tired of her, just like he grew tired of the three wives before her. But he had no grounds for divorce. Besides, even if he had, a divorce would have cost him dearly since there was no prenup. So, he decided to kill her instead. Unfortunately, the police were already suspicious over the deaths of his first three wives."
"Why is that?" Mansfield interrupted.
"The first one vanished without a trace, and the other two died of heart attacks in their twenties. Annabelle had to be gotten rid of in a way that would not cast any more suspicion on Frederick. So, he decided to make it look like she was plotting to kill him. And to gain sympathy from the jury, he decided to make it look like she had a lover to help her. Why my brother chose Trent I don't know. Perhaps he didn't like the way Annabelle spoke to him. Frederick was insanely jealous, after all. He might just as easily have chosen that pilot, Lance Schroeder, if Annabelle had looked at him the wrong way."
"I guess it's easy to see why Frederick Loren was convicted," Dr. Shaw opined. "He couldn't even convince his own brother of his innocence."
"Aren't we missing someone?" Pritchard asked as Alexis offered her guests their choice of drinks.
"You're right," the actress replied. "Miss Chase hasn't come down yet. I'd better go up and see if she's okay."
"I'll go with you," Dr. Shaw offered. "Considering the history of this place, I don't think it's a good idea for anyone to go wandering off on his or her own."
The two women were gone for about five minutes when the men in the drawing room heard a scream coming from the second floor. Mansfield and West raced up the stairs ahead of Pritchard and Dr. Loren. They followed the scream to a room on the left side of the hall. Dr. Shaw, holding the trembling actress in her arms, nodded her head toward the direction of the closet. Perry opened the door. Inside, hanging by its mousy brown hair, was the severed head of Betsy Chase.
* * *
Down in the drawing room, the accusations started to fly.
"Unless someone is hiding in the house, then one of us in this room killed that young woman," Perry declared ominously. "Where are those caretakers?"
"They're not here now," Alexis answered. "I met them at the gate at the bottom of the hill. They drove me up here, unlocked the door and then left. They said they'd be back at midnight to lock the place up."
"Maybe it was the ghosts," Mansfield proposed nervously.
"I don't believe in ghosts," Perry cried emphatically. "Whoever killed that girl was human."
"You were the last one down here, Pritchard," Mansfield pointed out accusingly.
"Why would I want to kill her? I never even met her before tonight."
"Madmen don't need a motive to kill."
"Are you saying I'm insane?"
"Your mother was. Maybe it runs in your family."
Perry stepped in before Pritchard's fist could make contact with Mansfield's jaw.
"This isn't helping matters. Miss Shelley, I'm afraid your party was a big mistake, and I suggest we end it now before someone else gets murdered."
Alexis was still shaken from her gruesome discovery.
"I agree, Mr. West. Why don't we all leave? My car is parked down near the highway. It's about a mile and a half walk, but it's all downhill."
"Let's go," Mansfield suggested. "I remember passing a diner on the way here. We can call the police from there."
He reached out to open the front door.
"What the ...? It's locked!"
"It can't be," Alexis cried. "It's only a few minutes past ten."
West and Mansfield gave it their best, but the door would not budge.
Dr. Loren turned on Alexis Shelley.
"You said you wanted to duplicate my brother's party as closely as possible. I think you decided, just as he did, that no one was going to be allowed to leave. Do you also have a hidden agenda as he did? What have you got up your sleeve that's worth more than the half million dollars you've agreed to pay us?"
The other guests turned and looked at their hostess.
"This was meant to be a party," she answered. "With perhaps a little press coverage thrown in, but I assure you that I meant none of you any harm."
"Why don't you pass out the party favors?" Mansfield advised. "I'd feel a lot safer with a loaded gun for protection."
"They're not loaded, not even with blanks. They were only meant as a joke," Alexis explained as she poured herself a drink, the fourth one that night.
Dr. Shaw expressed her concern.
"You might want to go easy on the alcohol. Since there is a murderer among us, it would be best for you to keep your head about you."
"That's just it, Doctor. I want to keep my head right where it is!"
Alexis started laughing hysterically. Her laughter gave way to tears, and she started drinking directly from the bottle.
An alarm sounded on Jay Pritchard's watch, startling the other guests.
"It's time for my medication."
"What medication is that?" Mansfield asked suspiciously.
"Insulin. I'm diabetic, and it's time for my shot."
He turned and headed for the stairs.
"I'll go with you," Mansfield offered.
"No, I'll go," Perry insisted. "I think you and Mr. Pritchard should avoid being alone together."
"I don't trust that guy," Mansfield stated after the two men had ascended the staircase. "I bet he's a psycho, just like the rest of his family. I think we should all keep an eye on him."
The ticking of the clock ominously echoed in the silent room. No one spoke. Alexis drained her bottle and was now on the verge of passing out.
Suddenly, Perry West ran into the room.
"Pritchard's gone!" he exclaimed.
"What?" Mansfield cried. "You were supposed to stay with him."
"I was only two feet behind him when the door slammed in my face. Pritchard was pounding on the other side, begging me to let him out. I finally forced the door open, but the room was empty."
"There must be a secret door or something," Dr. Shaw theorized.
"There was something," West said mysteriously and held out his hand to show that a red stain marred his white cuff. "There's blood on the ceiling."
"Didn't Ruth Bridges say something about a blood stain in her book?" Mansfield asked excitedly.
"Yes," Dr. Shaw replied. "Watson Pritchard told her a young girl was murdered in that room and that whatever killed her wasn't human. Bridges said it frightened her because at least twice that evening fresh blood dripped down onto her."
"No," West shouted. "I don't buy this supernatural crap."
"Then what happened to Pritchard?" Dr. Shaw asked.
"I told you; he's the murderer," Mansfield argued. "Didn't that pilot fellow find a secret passageway at the end of the hall? If there was one, there might be others. Pritchard was bound to know about them if there were. After all, his family owned this house."
Dr. Loren observed his hostess with suspicion.
"Maybe Pritchard had an accomplice," he hypothesized. "Miss Shelley here may have bought this property for a reason other than as an investment."
"What would she have to gain by killing Miss Chase?"
"Maybe Miss Chase isn't her intended victim. Maybe she really wants another one of us dead, and Miss Chase was only murdered to throw the police off the trail."
"I still think it's Pritchard," Mansfield stubbornly persisted.
"Whose idea was it to invite Pritchard, or even to have this party in the first place?"
A shriek from the basement made them all jump, except for Alexis Shelley, who had finally succumbed to the large quantity of alcohol she'd consumed and was passed out on the sofa.
"Was that Pritchard?" Dr. Shaw cried.
"It sounded like a woman to me," West replied, grabbing the flashlight from the end table and heading toward the stairs.
"I'll stay here and keep an eye on Miss Shelley," Mansfield offered. "Just in case Pritchard decides to make an appearance."
* * *
West, Dr. Shaw and Dr. Loren searched the lower level and finally entered the wine cellar. The three of them stopped short in the doorway as the flashlight beam illuminated the top of a huge vat.
"Is th-hat ...?" Dr. Shaw stammered.
"Yes. That's where Frederick murdered Trent and Annabelle. The vat was filled with acid that ate away their flesh and organs, leaving only their bones behind."
Perry shined the light inside the vat. Something white was floating in the dark fluid. Dr. Shaw swooned when a human skeleton rose to the surface.
"Let's get out of here," Perry said, dragging the stunned psychiatrist up the stairs.
"Who was that down there?" Lillian asked.
"It was probably Pritchard. The passageway from his room must have led down to the cellar."
"You don't think he just walked into the vat of acid by accident, do you?"
"No. I think someone pushed him in. But the million-dollar question is who?"
Dr. Everett Loren, several steps ahead of them, announced, "I have another question for you. What happened to our two friends?"
The drawing room was empty. Both Alexis Shelley and Dean Mansfield were gone.
"I'll go look for them," West volunteered.
Loren reached into his breast pocket and took out a gun—a real one, not a harmless party favor.
"Don't move, young man. The three of us are going to stay right here in this room. No one is going to leave for any reason whatsoever, not even to go to the powder room."
"Hey, what is this, Loren?" Perry asked.
"It's called self-preservation. When I was invited to this little shindig, I took the precaution of bringing along some protection."
"Why would you feel you needed protection?"
"Because ...."
The candles blew out before he could finish his sentence, and the three remaining guests found themselves in darkness. Then an eerie light appeared outside the window. As it drew closer, it assumed the appearance of a woman.
"Annabelle!" Loren cried in amazement.
He leveled his gun and pulled the trigger: once, twice, three times. The image never wavered, but it stopped just outside the bars of the window.
"Everett ... why?" the ghostly apparition moaned and then vanished.
"Still doubt the supernatural is involved, Mr. West?" Dr. Shaw asked.
Perry shook his head, too terrified to speak.
"Alexis, I know it's you," Loren shouted. "If you intend on blackmailing me, you'd better forget it. I'll make you sorry you ever dreamed up this little plan."
"Look!" Dr. Shaw screamed, pointing to the hallway entrance where a luminous skeleton was slowly walking down the hall toward the drawing room.
"Why, Everett?" a male voice asked.
"For God's sake, Loren, shoot it before it kills one of us," the reporter ordered.
"It's a fake, Mr. West. Another trick."
Perry charged the doctor and wrestled the gun free. Then he shot the remaining bullets into the skeleton, which, like the woman at the window, disintegrated before their eyes.
"What do they want, Dr. Loren?" Perry demanded to know.
"You must be in on it, too," the doctor shouted in accusation. "I bet you're all in on it."
"Leave him alone, Mr. West," Dr. Shaw cautioned. "He's having a breakdown and might be dangerous."
"Me, dangerous? I get it. You're all trying to drive me crazy, just like David tried to frighten Nora Manning."
"David?" Perry asked slyly. "I thought you told us Dr. Trent was innocent and that there was no plot to kill your brother."
"You think you can make me talk, don't you? Don't you?"
"Everett?" a voice called from the doorway.
The three turned quickly to see a beautiful blond woman enter the drawing room. Behind her was Frederick Loren.
"You're dead. Both of you!"
"Yes," Annabelle confirmed, "but that wasn't how it was supposed to happen. It wasn't how we planned it, was it? Poor, frightened Nora Manning was supposed to shoot Frederick. Then you, David and I were to split the money. What happened, Everett? Did you get greedy? Is that why you telephoned Frederick and told him that David and I planned to kill him?"
"You can't prove it. Even Frederick couldn't prove it."
"You were after my money for some time, weren't you, brother?" the specter of Frederick Loren asked. "That's why you murdered my other wives. All three of them were foolish enough to go to you when they suspected they were pregnant. What did you do with the body of my first wife after you murdered her?"
"No one will ever find her," he said triumphantly, no longer concerned about making self-incriminating statements. "They didn't love you anyway, you fool. They only wanted your money—especially Annabelle. I knew her long before you ever met her. She began planning your demise from the moment you proposed to her, but don't feel too badly, she didn't love David either. Did you, my dear?"
"He was expendable," the ghost of his sister-in-law answered, "but so, apparently, was I."
Frederick Loren drew nearer to his younger brother.
"You played us all, didn't you: Trent, Annabelle and me? But weren't you taking a bit of a chance? After all, I might have been acquitted."
"There was that chance, so I bought a little insurance. I bribed the jury. I had to make sure that not only were you found guilty, but that you also got a death sentence. I certainly didn't want to wait around for my inheritance while you languished in prison. I'd waited long enough as it was. I must admit a certain regret at your death, Annabelle. I had hoped that the party would have ended with David and Frederick dead and you alive, although then I would have had to share the money with you. You were quite a woman, but you weren't worth several million. No, things worked out for the best. You and David were dead, Frederick was executed and I walked away from it all with my dear brother's fortune."
Suddenly, the lights in the house came back on. "I think we've heard enough, don't you?" Alexis Shelley asked, removing the blond wig that had so resembled Annabelle Loren's golden locks.
Dean Mansfield removed the mustache that, along with a hairpiece and heavy theatrical makeup, had transformed him into Frederick Loren.
Everett was furious.
"What is this all about? I'll have you all arrested for blackmail."
"We don't want your money," West said with a contemptuous snarl, as he stood beside the actress.
"Oh, forgive me, Dr. Loren," Alexis said, "you haven't been properly introduced. Mr. West is the illegitimate son of your brother, Frederick."
"You're insane. My brother never had a child."
"Yes, he did," Dr. Lillian Shaw disclosed, staring at Everett with unconcealed hatred. "I was hired by your brother's defense attorney to evaluate Frederick's mental condition. I fell in love with him. After he was convicted, I went away to have his child, our child," she said smiling proudly at the handsome, Harvard-educated Perry West.
"You want his money, don't you? I suppose you think your bastard son deserves the inheritance."
"It's not about the money," Alexis said. "Your plan to gain your brother's fortune hurt a lot of innocent people. We've decided to see that justice is done so that our loved ones might rest in peace."
"Now what? Are you going to tell me that you're my brother's long-lost daughter?"
"No. My real name isn't Shelley; it's Schroeder. My father was Lance Schroeder, the test pilot. My mother was Nora Manning, the young woman who was so cruelly frightened by you, Annabelle and Trent. She'd been through so much in her short lifetime. First, her family had been hurt in a terrible car accident, and then she had to endure the nightmare of your brother's party. She was never the same after that. When my father was killed in a plane crash, she couldn't take anymore and took her own life, leaving me and my brother orphans."
She put her arm around the man behind her.
"By the way, this is my brother, Dean Schroeder."
"What about the other two?" Dr. Loren asked. "The dead girl and Pritchard?"
Jay Pritchard and Betsy Chase—no longer shy or mousy-looking—walked into the room and joined their co-conspirators.
"The plan wouldn't have worked without the two of them," Alexis insisted, giving credit where credit was due. "Jay Pritchard here is the special effects wizard at Centurion Studios."
"Thanks to you and Dr. Shaw. If it weren't for the two of you, I'd probably have wound up in an institution like my Uncle Watson."
"And," Alexis continued, "our makeup artist extraordinaire whose skill turned my darling brother Dean into your brother Frederick and me into Annabelle Loren: Mrs. Elizabeth Shaw Chase."
Perry West, who had one arm possessively around the beautiful Alexis, placed the other around his half-sister, Elizabeth. Alexis nodded at Pritchard. He took a walkie-talkie out of his pocket.
"You got all that?" he asked the detective on the other end of the line, and within minutes, the police arrived and arrested Dr. Everett Loren.
Perry West looked him in the eye before he was handcuffed and escorted out the door.
"Goodbye, Uncle Everett. See you in court."
"Shall we celebrate the successful conclusion of our plan?" Dean asked once the police left.
"Good God, yes!" Perry declared happily. "Now Alexis and I can finally stop hiding the fact that we're married. How'd you like a real drink, my darling? None of that caramel-colored water you were drinking before."
The actress looked around the candlelit drawing room of the old stone mansion, dubbed the House on Haunted Hill in Ruth Bridges' bestselling book. Nine people met their deaths in that eerie place. And others, like her mother, Nora Manning, and Pritchard's Uncle Watson, were driven mad by the events that had occurred there.
"By all means, let's celebrate," she agreed, "but not here. This place gives me the creeps."
The others concurred and silently walked out the steel door, down the stone steps and into the waiting van that had been parked at the rear of the house. As she and her accomplices rode down the long driveway, Alexis glanced back at the House on Haunted Hill. It was the last time she would look upon its frightening exterior. The following day the wrecking ball would reduce it to a pile of rubble.
This story is based on the characters and scenes in the 1959 movie House on Haunted Hill starring Vincent Price, written by Robb White and directed by William Castle. The image below and the one in the upper left corner of this page are from the movie. (Salem was not in the original cast, however.)
Salem tried to crash Frederick Loren's party, but the millionaire host paid the caretakers $10,000 to put him out and keep him out.
