Watson, a weary alcoholic who always looks dizzy and dismayed as he relates the story of his brother’s ghastly murder. He pulls out a butcher knife from an ornamental chest. The other guests are startled by the sight of the knife.
Watson: This what she used on my brother and her sister. Hacked them to pieces. We found parts of the bodies all over the house, in places you wouldn't think. Funny thing is, the heads have never been found. Hands and feet and things like that, but no heads.
David: The wife, probably in a rage, threatened her husband with a knife, and then, carried away by hysteria, took a swing at him and simply went on from there.
Lance: Heh heh. She certainly went on. How many people did she kill, Mr. Pritchard?
Watson: Only two - her husband and her sister. No one else was here.
Lance: So there are two loose heads just floating around in here?
Pritchard rambles on with his nihilistic warnings of death. He is the authority on the place and the gruesome circumstances involving the other untimely and violent deaths plaguing the cursed house.
Watson: You can hear them at night. They whisper to each other and then cry.
The suave test pilot, who isn’t easily rattled, laughs and walks away. Ruth, besides being addicted to gambling, is another avid drinker, she changes the subject. . .
Ruth: Since our host isn't here, would ayone care to mix me a drink?
David: Certainly. What will you have?
Their host, Frederick, finally arrives.
Frederick: Good evening. I'm your host - Frederick Loren. Since we're all strangers to each other, let's get acquainted with a drink, shall we?
Pritchard disapproves of Loren's use of the house for his "party," making it unclear how Loren acquired access to the house in the first place.
Watson: Mr. Loren, I advise you to call this party off now. The ghosts are already moving, and that's a bad sign.
Frederick: Let me apologize for my wife. She'll join us later. What will you have?
Ruth: Scotch and . . .
Frederick: Doctor?
David: I'll have the same.
Frederick: Hmm. Now, before the party begins, let's go over the details. The caretakers will leave at midnight, locking us in here until they come back in the morning. Once the door is locked, there's no way out. The windows have bars that a jail would be proud of. And the only door to the outside locks like a vault. There's no electricity, no phone, no one within miles, so, no way to call for help.
Watson: Like a coffin.
Frederick (curious smile): So if any of you decide not to stay for the party, you must let me know before midnight. Of course, if you leave, I shan't be able to pay you anything.
David: I'm interested in your reasons for this . . . party. Aside from pleasant company.
Frederick: Ghosts, doctor. I think everyone wonders what they would do if they saw a ghost. And now my wife has given us all the opportunity to find out.
David: Hmm. Amusing. Ghosts, et cetera, being only creations of hysteria, your party should be a success.
Frederick: But Pritchard here promises us genuine ghosts.
Watson: Seven now, maybe more before morning.
Frederick: That's cheerful.
Watson: Four men have been murdered in this house and three women.
David: You planned your party very well, Mr. Loren. Four of us are men, three are women. A ghost for everybody.
Frederick: Hmm. Pritchard, why don't you take us on a tour through the house, and let's see what happens, huh?
Watson swigs down his drink and leads the party to another room, revealing a blood stain on the ceiling.
Watson: A young girl was killed here, and whatever got her wasn't human.
Ruth steps forward underneath the ceiling stain.
Watson (alarmed): Don't stand there.
Ruth: What do you mean? Where?
Blood drips onto the back of her hand, she looks up.
Watson: It's too late. They've marked you.
David: Ridiculous. The roof probably leaks.
Ruth: Oh, that must be what it is. Who would want to haunt me?
Frederick: I would say any self-respecting male ghost.
Watson: I hope it doesn't come back.
David: Oh, Mr. Pritchard, you're the life of the party.
Frederick: He hasn't even started yet. Wasn't there a man who threw his wife into a wine vat or something?
Watson: That was in the cellar. There's been a murder almost everyplace in this house.
Watson leads them to the cellar. The starkness of the wine cellar and it’s empty miniscule dark grey rooms with sliding panels is almost more creepy than black shadowy corners with cob webs and clutter.
Watson: All this belonged to a Mr. Norton, who didn't die here. He was electrocuted later.
Watson turns a wheel to raise a floor hatch.
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