Creative Spirit with Screenplay Read online

  ANNA GALLOWAY, late-20's, pretty, in the seat behind the VAN DRIVER, 50s and bored. She holds a brochure that reads "Korban Manor: Feeding The Creative Spirit." On the brochure is a photo of Korban Manor.

  JEFFERSON SPENCE, overweight writer, 50-ish, scowling. Next to him is BRIDGET, a fresh-looking college girl, reading the book “Seasons Of Sleep.” Spence's photo is on the book jacket.

  PAUL and ADAM, 30ish couple, sit close together, holding hands.

  Mason glances out the window, pale. He closes his eyes.

  Anna studies the photo of the manor. As she watches, the photo blurs at the widow's walk atop the manor's roof. A smoky shape appears in the blur, solidifies, suggests a woman. RACHEL'S GHOST resembles Anna and holds a bouquet.

  RACHEL'S GHOST

  (whisper)

  Anna.

  Anna looks around. No one else has heard. When she looks back at the brochure, the vision has passed. Her hand trembles.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. MOUNTAIN ROAD—MORNING

  The van slows, approaching a narrow wooden bridge. Waiting at the bridge is a horse-drawn wagon. An old man in overalls, RANSOM STREATER, stands beside the horse. He waves to the van.

  The van driver waves back, stops van, opens the door.

  VAN DRIVER

  (to passengers)

  End of the line, folks. Welcome to the 19th Century.

  ANNA

  How far is the manor?

  VAN DRIVER

  A hundred yards through yonder.

  (points across bridge into woods)

  You get to walk the rest.

  SPENCE

  One would have thought you people would have modernized since the last time I was here. You have enough of my money.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. ROAD LEADING TO BRIDGE

  People leave the van. Ransom loads the baggage into the wagon. He reaches out to take the satchel that is slung over Mason's shoulder.

  MASON

  No, thank you.

  RANSOM

  Suit yourself. Looks kind of heavy, though.

  MASON

  The weight of the world.

  Ransom leads the wagon across the bridge. The passengers follow on foot. Mason crosses with his eyes closed, clinging to the rail.

  WILLIAM ROTH, 60, nature photographer, takes some shots of the mountain vista from the bridge.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. FOREST ROAD BY THE BRIDGE

  Anna leans against a tree, shaken. Mason approaches and she braces herself with a tired half-smile.

  MASON

  Hey, you okay?

  ANNA

  Long trip.

  MASON

  Well, we wanted to get away from it all, didn't we?

  ANNA

  Korban Manor is about as far away from it all as you can get. No electricity, no phone, no computers.

  MASON

  Like Gilligan's Island, only without the canned laughter.

  ANNA

  Great. Do I get to be Ginger or Mary Ann?

  MASON

  You look more like the Professor type. I mean, if he had been a woman.

  Anna gives him a look.

  MASON (CONT'D)

  So, what are you running from?

  ANNA

  What?

  MASON

  It's called an "artist's retreat." That means we're going backward.

  ANNA

  I'm not running from. I'm running to.

  Anna walks away. The passengers are spread along the road, some already disappearing into the forest. Mason looks back at the bridge, the van gone. Roth approaches.

  ROTH

  (in fake British accent)

  Korban adored his isolation. Wanted to live like a European king.

  MASON

  So it's cliffs all around?

  ROTH

  It's the edge of the bloody world.

  (holds up a brochure, quotes)

  "The splendid isolation of Korban Manor will fire the imagination and feed the creative spirit."

  MASON

  Isolation is more fun in a crowd, I always say.

  ROTH

  It gets crowded around here, all right. Especially at night.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. KORBAN MANOR LAWN

  Mason and Roth emerge from the forest to see Korban Manor in all its splendor: fenced pastures, an apple orchard, a red barn.

  The wagon pulls up to the front steps. MISS MAMIE, buxom, 40-ish, welcomes her guests from the manor's landing. She gets especially animated when she sees Anna.

  MISS MAMIE

  (to Anna)

  And you must be Anna. I've heard so much about you.

  MASON

  (to himself)

  Anna.

  Mason looks around at the other guests, out of place in his worn jeans and flannel shirt. He rubs his fingers over the woodwork of the porch railing before entering the manor.

  CUT TO:

  INT. KORBAN MANOR FOYER

  Mason stares at a large PORTRAIT OF Korban that dominates the wall above the main fireplace. Even though it's September, a fire blazes.

  A brass plate beneath the painting reads "Ephram Korban." Korban stares back at Mason with cold dark eyes.

  Mason reaches out to touch the ornately carved frame. Miss Mamie is behind him, observing.

  MISS MAMIE

  Remarkable, isn't it?

  MASON

  (yanks his hand back)

  Yes. Whoever carved it must have spent a few weeks on it.

  MISS MAMIE

  I meant the painting, silly.

  (holding out her hand)

  Miss Mamie.

  Mason takes her hand, gives an unrefined bow.

  MISS MAMIE (CONT'D)

  Ah, so you're the sculptor. I can tell by your calluses.

  MASON

  Yes, ma'am. I'm honored to be here.

  MISS MAMIE

  We've been waiting for you.

  She gazes at the painting, adoring it.

  MISS MAMIE (CONT'D)

  Master Korban was devoted to the arts. That's why his will stipulated that his home should become an artist's colony. He believed in fostering the creativity of others.

  MASON

  Was he an artist?

  MISS MAMIE

  He was a . . . collector.

  Miss Mamie emits a high-pitched giggle. Mason smiles painfully. Behind them, guests are talking and being shown to their rooms.

  MISS MAMIE

  Let me see if I have it right.

  (reciting from memory)

  Mason Beaufort Jackson, honors graduate from Adderly School of the Arts. Winner of the Stanton Outdoor Competition last year. Currently employed at Rayford Hosiery in Sawyer Creek.

  (mocking look)

  Isn't that a strange line of work for a sculptor?

  MASON

  I got tired of being a starving artist. Now I'm just a plain old hungry one.

  Miss Mamie giggles again. Mason glances at the painting, then back at Miss Mamie.

  MISS MAMIE

  Ah, so you noticed.

  MASON

  The eyes.

  MISS MAMIE

  I'm the last living relative.

  (caresses Mason's satchel)

  We're so looking forward to seeing your work.

  MASON

  I'm so anxious to get started.

  MISS MAMIE

  (looking past him)

  Excuse me, there's dear Mr. and Mrs. Abramov.

  (whisper to Mason)

  They're the composers, you know.

  I'll have Lilith show you to your room.

  (calling)

  Lilith!

  LILITH, mid-20's, pale and with frightened eyes, comes through the crowd. She wears a black dress like Miss Mamie's, authentic Goth.

  Miss Mamie smiles at Mason and goes to greet MR. and MRS. ABRAMOV, 60's, who look like old money.

  Mason glances again at the portrait of Korban. For just a flicker, Korb
an's face is superimposed on the flames below.

  CUT TO:

  INT. SECOND FLOOR HALLWAY

  Mason follows Lilith from the stairway. The hall is lined with oil paintings of the manor from different angles. Portraits of Korban hang on each end of the hall.

  Lilith walks with her eyes down, as if afraid of Korban's face.

  MASON

  Mister Korban sure loved his art.

  Lilith doesn't respond. She stops at the last door on the right, the master bedroom.

  MASON (CONT'D)

  He wasn't shy about the subject matter, either.

  LILITH

  Who could resist painting him?

  MASON

  He does have a certain charisma. The Bela Lugosi of dead industrialists. Is this my room?

  LILITH

  (standing aside)

  This is Master Korban's room.

  MASON

  (entering)

  As long as he doesn’t snore.

  CUT TO:

  INT. KORBAN'S BEDROOM

  A fire is going in the fireplace. Korban's portrait hangs on the wall. Mason sits on the old poster bed, looking out the window.

  Outside, Anna walks beside the fence. She feeds the horse an apple from one of the trees. She looks back at the house, not seeing Mason. She is staring up at the widow's walk.

  Mason opens his satchel, takes out a mallet and a chisel. He watches Anna, absently caressing his tools.

  Then he takes out a bundle of cloth. He unwraps the cloth to reveal a framed picture of MASON'S MOTHER. Her eyes are stone blind.

  MASON

  (to the photograph)

  If you could see me now, Momma.

  He looks from Mom's photo to Korban's portrait. For an instant, Mom has Korban's eyes.

  CUT TO:

  INT. SPENCE'S ROOM—EVENING

  Spence is seated at a mahogany desk, oil lamp burning. Spence rolls a sheet of paper into his antique typewriter.

  He taps a few keys, rips the sheet from the carriage, and flips it to the floor. He looks at the portrait of Korban hanging above the desk.

  SPENCE

  Hello, old friend. What are you trying to tell me this time?

  BRIDGET (O.S.)

  (Southern accent)

  What's that, honey?

  SPENCE

  To have and have not.

  BRIDGET (O.S.)

  What is it you don't have? I thought we packed everything.

  SPENCE

  A Hemingway title. To have and have not.

  Bridget now stands in bathroom doorway in only a towel.

  BRIDGET

  Oh, yeah. Didn't they used to say you wrote like him?

  SPENCE

  My dear, this is the very room where twenty years ago I wrote Seasons of Sleep. Hemingway only dreamed of writing something that good. That's why he blew his head off and I still have mine.

  BRIDGET

  It's a good head, honey. And to think I was only three years old when you wrote that one.

  SPENCE

  Don't remind me. You English grad students get younger and younger every year.

  BRIDGET

  You make our relationship sound so cheap.

  SPENCE

  Love is free. But what we have is so very costly.

  Bridget is not sure if she’s being mocked.

  BRIDGET

  Well, I hope you can write while we're here. You're hard to get along with when you're not writing.

  SPENCE

  I get enough of that from the critics. Just because it's been six years.

  BRIDGET

  You'll do it again. Just start with one word. Isn't that what you said in the writing workshop?

  Bridget closes the door. The shower comes on. Spence stares at the portrait of Korban.

  SPENCE

  Well, sir, you pulled my ample derriere out of the fire the last time I was here. So tell me, what should that word be?

  Korban looks back at Spence. Spence begins typing, hesitantly at first, four distinct pecks, then faster into a steady pace.

  Words on the paper: "Fire. Soon he would breathe again."

  CUT TO:

  INT. ANNA'S ROOM—EVENING

  Anna sits on her cot. Eyes closed, breathing deeply. CRIS, tan, bored, sculpted mid-30's, sits on a cot across the room.

  CRIS

  It's pretty here, isn't it?

  ANNA

  A little chillier than I'm used to, though.

  CRIS

  All these men around here? You'll be warm soon. Plus they've got a thing for fire.

  Anna points to the portrait of Korban on the wall of their room.

  ANNA

  They've got a thing for him, too.

  CRIS

  Just like a man. Hell of an ego. I've seen one in every room. At least it fed some artists.

  ANNA

  I saw the sketch pad on your bed.

  CRIS

  I thought everybody was an artist. That's why we're here. What's your medium?

  ANNA

  Very average. Researcher, actually. Metaphysics.

  Cris flops back on the bed and rubs pillow across her stomach.

  CRIS

  Oh, science and stuff?

  ANNA

  Something like that. I worked on grants for the Institute of Parapsychology. At least I did, until a few weeks ago.

  CRIS

  Lose your funding?

  ANNA

  Lost my mind, I think. Or maybe my soul. Whichever's worth more.

  Anna gets out of bed and begins unpacking. She pulls out some rosary beads and candles and places them on the night stand.

  CRIS

  I lost my soul in my first divorce settlement. Got any holy water in there?

  ANNA

  I’m not an exorcist, just an ordinary ghost hunter.

  CRIS

  Freaky.

  ANNA

  Not so freaky anymore. Mostly it's a numbers game. Electromagnetic gizmos, ultrasonic sound recorders, infrared film. If you can't program it into a computer, they don't think it exists.

  CRIS

  How can you prove what doesn’t exist?

  ANNA

  Yeah. But I don't care for the modern methods. Never trust science to prove matters of faith.

  CRIS

  Somebody on the van said this place is haunted. Is that why you're here?

  Anna looks at the portrait of Korban again.

  ANNA

  I don't know. I'm just supposed to be here, that's all.

  Cris tugs the sheets up around her face and over her head.

  CRIS

  (makes ghost noise)

  Whooooo. You're starting to give me the creeps.

  ANNA

  Don't worry. Ghosts won't hurt you. They're more afraid of us than we are of them.

  CRIS

  (rising from bed)

  I feel better already. But I’ll feel even better after a drink. Want to come?

  ANNA

  No, thanks. I think I'll catch a nap. See you at dinner.

  Cris pauses at the door.

  CRIS

  Don't do anything crazy like walk around with a sheet over your head.

  ANNA

  If I turn into a ghost, you'll be the first to know.

  As Cris leaves the room, a misty SHAPE forms on the wall. It is Rachel's Ghost, the woman from Anna's vision.

  Rachel is dressed in early-20th century style, with a bonnet and ruffled blouse. She holds a dead bouquet of flowers.

  Anna reaches toward the ghost. Rachel's lips move soundlessly. The vision fades.

  ANNA

  When you're dying, do you see your own ghost?

  CUT TO:

  INT. THE STUDY—EVENING

  Dinner is finished and the GUESTS are chatting and drinking. Mason sits uncomfortably in a chair by the fire. A Korban portrait looks over his shoulder.

  Roth, talking to Cris, excuses himself and goes over to Mason.

&nbs
p; ROTH

  We meet again. Small crowd, you know.

  (extends hand to shake)

  I'm William Roth.

  MASON

  I know. The famous photographer.

  ROTH

  (winking)

  You're only as famous as you make them think you are.

  MASON

  I wouldn't mind a little of that.

  Roth leers at Cris, who is now talking with Anna. He hoists a toast in her direction and she smiles.

  ROTH

  I wouldn't mind a bit of that meself. She fancies herself a photographer. Which one are you chasing?

  MASON

  Chasing?

  ROTH

  (indicating Anna)

  Bet it's the quirky one.

  MASON

  She's not my type.

  ROTH

  There's only one type, mate. Lots of bored women around, and if they've heard of you, it greases the sheets a little, if you catch me drift.