Skeffingtown

“Cut!” director Carlo Romeo yells as Cosmo Skeffington wallops Monty Mulhare with a knee-buckling slap across his cheek.

“Hey, what the hell was that?” Monty protests, rubbing his throbbing cheek.

“We have to make it look good, don’t we?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to enjoy it so much.”

“Three’s A Crowd,” a top ten comedy in its second season, centers around three men in their sixties who meet at a counseling group for divorced men. With a lilting, mannered British accent, two-time Oscar nominee Cosmo Skeffington plays Mortimer Clyde, a suave, sixty-five-year-old Casanova just jettisoned from his third marriage. Although this is his first attempt at comedy, Cosmo’s sardonic wit, pompous attitude, and aversion to physical confrontation make him the perfect fish out of water for his blue-collar co-stars. Cosmo is the only child of acclaimed director/producer Bolt Skeffington, who disappeared in a plane crash a decade ago, and beloved stage actress Thelma Sheffield found dead in her car five years prior to her husband’s demise in Skeffingtown, a movie set built to resemble a town that is now owned by Cosmo.

Sixty-two-year-old Monty Mulhare’s boyish blonde beach boy looks, ready smile, easy-going attitude and knack for comedy make him the right choice to play Alex Underwood, a photographer who has spent his career making others look good.

A roly-poly, self-effacing former stage comic, sixty-seven-year-old Chester Wright has been typecast in the role of Eb, the dummy, which often leads people to think of him as a pushover off camera.

“Okay, take your places, everybody,” Carlo commands.

Carlo’s milky skin begins to redden. “Where’s Joyce Frankenberg? This is her big scene; you think she’d bother showing up on time.”

Carlo, Monty, and Chester stare at Monty.

“Why are you all looking at me like I stole your paychecks?”

“Since you’re getting paid more than the rest of us, you have,” Monty replies. “But you were the last person on the set to see Joyce. You were going to give her the grand tour of Skeffingtown.”

Sticking his nose in the air, Cosmo responds. “That doesn’t mean I was the last person she had contact with, Sherlock Holmes. She left here around eight p.m., a little more knowledgeable about love and life.”

“Why do I always feel like taking a shower after I talk to him?” Monty mutters to himself.

“Well, wherever Joyce is I hope it’s worth it for her because she’s out,” Carlo says.

Carlo surveys the extras standing nearby, pointing at a well-proportioned blonde. “You! Are you ready for your big break? Somebody show this woman a script.”

Cosmo rubs his hands, smiling greedily.

“Easy, praying mantis,” Monty says. “Let her at least do the scene before you devour her.”

“I beg your pardon, Mulhare. What kind of a man do you think I am?... Wait, don’t answer that!”

When the scene wraps, Cosmo cozies up to the blonde.

“He’s like a meat-seeking missile,” Chester comments. “You wanna bet she gets the grand tour of Skeffington?”

“No bet,” Monty replies. “Has he ever offered you a tour?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have what he’s looking for. I wonder what Skeffingtown is like?”

“Why don't we go find out?”

The two men stand outside of the fence surrounding Skeffingtown. The deserted but well-maintained middle American-styled town includes a hotel, a filling station, a soda shop, and a five and ten-cent store.

“I never understood why a Cosmo would do some of the dreck he has,” Monty says. “Now I get it. Maintaining this museum to his folks has to be expensive.”

“He had a long run with that science fiction show. What was it, eight years?”

“Yeah. And it was shot at Mega Studios, which is up the road from us.”

“So, he’s been able to be the sole proprietor of Skeffingtown for a decade,” Chester replies. “And he’s been shuttling would-be starlets here to his secluded version of the Playboy Compound. Can you imagine the skeletons in these closets?”

“We find something risqué maybe and Cosmo will be more inclined to treat us like equals.”

From behind them, Cosmo yells, “Get away from that fence, you scene-stealing hacks!”

Caught off guard, Monty stammers “Cosmo! We’ve been looking for you! We’d like to join the tour!”

“How cool would that be!” the blonde says enthusiastically.

“How many times do I have to tell you, my tours are only for special guests.”

“Yeah, the gullible ones,” Chester says under his breath.

“We just want to see some of your family’s history.”

“Pick up the book I co-authored with Wilber Anger. It’s on sale this week. Excuse us.”

Reaching into his pocket, Cosmo produces a set of keys. Unlocking the gate, he pulls the blonde actress along behind him.

“Still the king of rude,” Monty says.

“You hungry?” Chester asks.

“I could eat.”

“Okay, let’s chow down at Maxl’s. By the time we’re finished, it’ll be dark. Cosmo should be done by then too. Then we can come back and take our tour.”

“Next thing Cosmo should spring for is some streetlights,” Monty says, squinting at the shadowy expanse of buildings ahead of them.

The two men reach the fence.

“It’s unlocked,” Chester notes.

“He’s still in there? I bet he takes Viagra,” Monty comments.

Chester swings the gate open.

Monty suddenly grabs Chester’s jacket, pulling him aside into a thicket of trees and bushes.

Cosmo steps out of the dimly lit hotel and into the street.

“Where’s the girl?” Chester asks.

“Probably sleeping off whatever date drug he gave her.”

“You think he’d sink that low?” Chester asks.

“His sense of morality is as phony as his English accent. He’s from Long Island.”

“Home of the irredeemable diphthong,” Chester huffs.

Cosmo drops to his knees.

“Is he okay?” Chester asks as Monty blocks him from running to his aide.

A wispy white cloud forms above Cosmo. The tip coalesces into the face of a beautiful woman, her hair pulled back, her mournful eyes looking down at Cosmo.

The apparition begins to sob.

Clasping his hands together, bowing his head, Cosmo whispers, “Please forgive me.”

The apparition continues to cry.

A loud series of thumps catches Monty and Chester’s attention. A ten-foot, shadowy figure slogs out onto the Hotel’s wooden porch.

“Still want those streetlights?” Chester asks.

The figure’s muscular, crimson-colored body is adorned with sharp, white spikes. Its pointed chin juts out in defiance, and its stark white teeth grind together in anger. Two long, pointed horns protrude from its skull. Its yellow, bottomless, eyes glare in the darkness at the apparition.

“So, Lucifer lives in a hotel on our back lot,” Monty says.

Cosmo curls up on the ground, shielding his eyes as the translucent apparition fires white orbs of blinding light at her devilish opponent. The spheres bounce off of the devil’s spikey form but still manage to drive him backward.

“Is est mei!” The devilish figure bellows, throwing crimson bolts of lightning back at the apparition.

“No, He’s mine!” the woman replies.

Monty pulls at Chester, who continues to stare at the bizarre battle in front of them. “I’d say it’s a good time to get out of here before one of us screams and we both get fried.”

The two men retreat into the darkness, racing back to the other side of the studio.

Standing next to their cars in the parking lot, their hearts pounding and their breath issuing in short bursts, Monty and Chester can only look down at the cold black pavement in silence.

Monty snaps his fingers. “Of course! How could we be so stupid! A movie! Cosmo was making a movie!”

Chester chuckles. “Well, he’s got some budget for special effects.”

Monty checks his watch. “He’s been late for first call before, but four hours late?”

“Probably still editing that very realistic scene we saw last night,” Chester returns, slumping further in his chair.

Carlo stamps toward them, fury stretched across his pasty features. “I swear on my sainted mother’s grave that I’m going to kill that mincing wimp! Where is he?”

“Probably romancing a few extras in Skeffingtown.” Monty offers.

“That distraction. The studio’s been after him for years to sell it to them.”

“Yeah, I don’t understand why Cosmo would decide to turn Skeffingtown into a tribute to his parents, then not open it,” Monty says.

“As the saying goes, “It’s complicated,” Carlo answers. “I think Cosmo loved his mother so much he couldn’t bear sharing her memories with the rest of us.”

“I’ve never heard a bad word about Thelma Sheffield.”

“She was all class, like Grace Kelly. Like Grace, her public image was spotless, but her private life was stained by controversy. Soon after marrying Bolt, she realized she’d made a colossal mistake. There were rumors of Bolt cheating on her, benders, her covering his gambling debts, and worse. Thelma’s death was ruled an accident – an overdose of pain pills, but she wasn’t being treated for anything. The signed divorce papers and the bruises around Thelma’s wrist and neck were ignored.”

“Are you saying she was murdered?” Chester asks.

“Worst kept secret in Hollywood. Bolt showed up on the scene with scratches on his face and a shiner, and his alibi stunk like a week-old flounder.”

“Explains why Cosmo doesn’t talk about his father with the same reverence as his mother.”

“He hated Bolt. Like most of us, he was afraid of him. Cosmo lived with his grandmother after Thelma died.”

“So why bother to preserve his father’s memory?” Monty asks.

“Bolt made him.”

Monty and Chester burst into laughter.

“I met Bolt when I was a little boy,” Carlo says. “One look at that leer of his and those black eyes and you’d know there was something unholy about him. Bolt practiced black magic. Actors and stuntmen hated working for him because he seemed to love pain and danger and didn’t give one wit about their safety. He once dropped a woman - backward- on an airbag. She missed. He used real bullets in a gangster movie. The best thing I ever heard said about Bolt was that he was a loner with a streak of sadism and an appreciation of the grotesque. Around the studio he was known as “The Terror,” but he built Skeffingtown and produced some of the scariest, most memorable horror films of all time.”

Carlo’s phone rings. “Where are you, Cosmo? We’ve been holding up production for you! All right! But you’d better be here bright and early tomorrow!”

Carlo lets out an exasperated sigh. “I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Cosmo needs a mental health day. He did it a lot when we were doing the sci-fi series. We’ll have to try and shoot around him today.”

“Why not just feature us in this episode?” Chester asks. “We do the heavy lifting.”

Carlo nods. “…So, you do…”

Carlo dashes off, yelling, “Get me the writers!”

“Did you just finagle an episode featuring just the two of us?”

Chester leans back in his chair, casually crossing his arms behind his head. “You can thank the dummy by accompanying him back to Skeffingtown tonight.”

“We’re in luck,” Chester whispers.

“How so?”

Chester pushes open the gate.

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“What’s he going to do, pout and stamp his feet?” Chester jokes. “Where do we start?”

“He came out of the hotel the last time.”

Crouching, the two men creep up the steps to the hotel. Chester tries the handle, opening the door, which creaks loudly.

They pass the front desk, moving through the elaborately decorated parlor.

Chester slows, pointing to the glow of light ahead of them.

“Something’s cooking in the basement,” Monty notes.

“Maybe it’s his editing room.”

“More likely his rumpus room.”

“Did you just use the word rumpus?” Chester asks. “Well, vo-de-oh-doh, champ.”

Monty and Chester turn off their flashlights as they descend into the basement.

Their curiosity is stunted when they reach a plastic curtain.

“He’s hiding something we’re probably not going to want to see,” Monty says.

“Ready?” Monty asks, sliding the curtain back.

“…Bodies…,” Chester whispers.

Moving around the room, Monty notes, “There’s at least eight of them.”

The smell of embalming fluid makes their eyes water. The shelves are lined with bottles labeled formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, and arsenic. Jars with cloudy contents cram the tables.

Chester picks one up, shaking it.

He drops the jar, shrieking. A dozen eyes in a wide assortment of colors roll past Monty.

“I think our co-star has an unlawful hobby,” Monty says.

“The eyes have it,” Chester responds.

The pair examine the jars. Kidneys, intestines, hearts, and lungs swim inside Cosmo’s homemade preservation fluid.

“They never did catch Jack the Ripper, did they?” Chester asks.

They pass by two bodies isolated from the others. Monty leans over the first gurney.

“Recognize her?”

“Joyce Frankenberg. And the other one’s the blonde who replaced her. He took them on a special tour all right.”

“He gutted these women. Why?” Monty wonders aloud.

Cosmo answers “Food,” in a quiet whisper.

Monty and Chester turn around, ready to spew their anger and disgust at their co-star.

A man, or at least part of one, stands in front of them, wearing an out-of-date high-collared, double-breasted coat. He has a long, pale, bony face, dark, soulless eyes, long fangs, and long sharp nails. Cosmo stands slightly behind him, his head bowed in shame.

“Nosferatu,” Monty says, shivering.

His grimy fangs forming a smile, the man’s form begins to change.

His clothes turn into crimson flowing robes, which are matched in color by a crown encircled with rubies. His dark black hair flows past his shoulders, cut and styled with the same regal care as his mustache and goatee.

The man’s eyes remain bottomless and without compassion.

“I’ve seen pictures of you,” Monty says.

“Vlad the Impaler,” Chester concludes. “But how? And who, or what, are you?”

The man’s physique dissolves, reassembling as a robust, athletic man with wavy blonde hair and a deeply cleft chin.

“Bolt Skeffington!” Chester says in recognition.

Bolt glares at Monty and Chester with his empty eyes.

“It wasn’t enough for my father that he was an award-winning director and producer, that he had a beautiful wife, and was feared by everyone. He had control of this world. He wanted to rule other worlds. So, he faked his death, devoting himself to mastering the power of black magic.”

Undaunted, Chester says, “It never ends well for men who try to play God, Bolt.”

“You’re right. My father has been given the gift to travel throughout time, but he has to feed that gift.”

“If it means killing innocent young women, Bolt, then you need to take that gift back to the refund counter,” Chester comments.

Bolt barks at Chester like a rabid wolf.

“Part of the price?” Monty surmises.

“Yes. Here, in the present, he can only speak in the tongue of the ancients.”

“I thought you hated him. Why are you helping him?” Chester asks.

“Would you rather see some dumb cluck from Mulkeytown, Illinois killed or see every woman on the set die? When my father told me he could change history, I thought he meant saving Abraham Lincoln, stopping Hitler’s rise to power, or finding a cure for cancer, so I agreed to serve him. I forgot what kind of man he was…”

“What has he done?” Monty asks.

“Perverted the future. The sinking of the cruiser Cumberland, with all 650 sailors, and the mass shootings in Dallas, Montgomery, and Seattle, they were all the work of my father. And he assured Garth Van Hope, our greatest president, will never be born. His mother’s mummified body is over there. I’m going to bury her and some of the others tonight.”

“Explains why Skeffingtown has never opened,” Monty comments. “How many people have you killed?”

Tears well up in the corners of Cosmo‘s eyes. “I stopped counting years ago.”

Chester’s anger soars. “You just hack off a piece of some poor woman and throw it at him?”

“No. I have to burn their organs, grind their bones down to ash, and mix their remains with my father’s ashes,” Cosmo replies, pointing at a blue blown glass urn with a woman’s face etched on it.

“Is that your mother’s silhouette on the glass?” Monty asks.

Cosmo smirks. “He murdered her because she divorced him. That’s why all his victims are women. He gets some sort of perverse pleasure pretending he’s killing her over and over again.”

Chester looks into Bolt’s uncaring stare. “Did you ever love anything other than power or anyone other than yourself?”

Bolt grunts disparagingly.

“He loved mother as much as a sociopath can love anyone,” Chester says remorsefully. “She tries to stop us, you know. Mother has chased away a lot of extras that I’ve lured back here. But the only way to stop my father is to contaminate his ashes and scatter them.”

“Inertia proditor,” Bolt grumbles.

“Yes, I’m a coward, Father. But don’t worry. These men and I are too weak and afraid to fight you.”

“But your mother isn’t,” Chester says, pointing to Thelma’s apparition as it forms behind Cosmo.

Thelma’s misty presence and Bolt, now a bulky, battle-scarred Ivan the Terrible, collide. Flaming spheres of light and streaks of lightning burst around them, illuminating the struggling spouses.

“That’s our cue!” Chester exclaims.

Chester grabs the urn, opening it. Rushing to a nearby table, Monty picks up beakers of chemicals, pouring them into the urn.

“Hey, Bolt!” Chester shouts, lifting the urn over his head.

Bolt gives out a courage-sapping roar, sending a searing bolt of lightning past Chester’s head.

Chester smashes the urn on the floor.

Bolt combusts. Melting, Bolt’s body burns down to ash.

Thelma’s foggy, translucent form envelopes Cosmo. Cosmo’s body disappears into his mother’s misty embrace.

“He’s mine again,” Thelma says.

“Now that’s a happy ending,” Monty replies.