The Bad Husband
A short screenplay about a small town that’s big on monsters.
Ext. Ranch — Night
A human silhouette approaches as flames lick the night sky from a barn and farmhouse in the distance. Monstrous, lupine forms dart around the scene until one, with a roar, engulfs the camera.
Ext. Ranch — Day
A boy in a dark suit sits morosely on the stoop while a crowd of well-wishers take their leave. The sound of cars departing gradually fades to a whisper. His father, also dressed for a funeral, approaches and takes a seat behind his son.
Father
“Now that it’s just the two of us, I’ll be needing your help with the animals. They’re our legacy, yours and mine. One day, you’ll pass them on to your own son. Make me proud, son.”
Ext. Forest — Day
Billy Cavendish, an awkward-looking man in his forties, walks on wooden stilts through wet earth, leaving a trail of backwards Sasquatch footprints in his wake. Behind him, the blurry bulk of a bigfoot carcass can be seen lying in the brush.
Billy
“I’m so sorry, father.”
Ext. Mountain Road — Day
Sam Randall, a woman in her thirties, drives a rented car down a long, winding road. The forest canopy cascades down the far side of an approaching valley.
She sings along with the radio while holding a spray bottle out the window. As she passes the city limits, she spritzes a little colorless mist into the air.
Ext. Main Street — Day
Through Sam’s windshield, a scene of trailer park pandemonium unfolds. Some local hunters are standing in the back of their pick-up and riling up the crowd. One of them appears to be taking money in exchange for letting people climb up into the bed and gawk at whatever’s inside.
Sam pulls her car over and gets her camera out. She grabs the first random gawker who comes within arm’s reach.
Sam
“Did somebody win the meat raffle?”
Random Gawker
“No. Well, kinda. Heheh. They caught Bigfoot!”
The gawker runs off to get a closer gawk and Sam follows.
Hunter #1
“No need to shove, people! There’s plenty Bigfoot to go around. Twenty bucks gets you twenty seconds. Limit one per customer. No pictures!”
He jabs an accusatory finger at the truck, where somebody’s gawking kid is snapping a selfie. Hunter #2 grabs the kid and hoists them out of the truck. More gawkers flow in to fill the newly vacated space.
Sam slings her camera behind her back, circles around to the front of the truck, and climbs onto the hood. She vaults over the cab and scares Hunter #2 half to death.
Hunter #1
“Hey! Get no cutting in line, lady!”
Sam waves a stack of irregular bills in front of Hunter #2 and inspects the so-called sasquatch corpse while they’re counting the bribe.
Hunter #1 spies the camera and warms up his accusing finger.
Hunter #1
“Hey! And no damn photos! Get her outta there!”
Sam shrugs off Hunter #2’s grabby hands and addresses the mob.
Sam
“It’s a fake!”
Hunter #1
“The hell it is!”
Sam
“This isn’t Bigfoot; it’s a hairless bear!”
Hunter #1
“Get her outta there, fershitsake!”
Sam throws her arms around Hunter #1 and the other gawkers in the truck, then pulls their heads down conspiratorially.
Sam
“Check it out. There’s no bleeding from these wounds, which means they were made post-mortem. You can feel where the ankle is broken, here, probably from a bear trap. And see how the paws are deformed to make them look like feet? That’s not natural. Someone did this surgically and tried to conceal the incisions here and here.”
She releases her hold on the group and turns around to address the mob once more.
Sam
“It’s a fraud! Who wants their money back?”
Hunter #1 grabs her by the shoulders and hurls her out of the truck. She falls into the throng of angry gawkers shouting for their refunds.
Cornwall
“Of course it’s a fake!”
Cornwall Seavers, a working class man in his forties, hollers furiously over the mob.
“We all know it weren’t no goddamned Bigfoot that killed my boy! That cut him up like a piece of meat!”
He starts making his way toward the truck.
“How dare you turn my son’s death into a sideshow attraction! How dare you validate that horseshit alibi of his! You better get this fucking fraud outta here before I call the sheriff.”
He leaps onto the truck’s back bumper, so he can go toe-to-toe with Hunter #1.
“Or maybe we should just settle this right here and now.”
Hunter #1
“I don’t know anything about that murder, Cornwall, and I’m real sorry for what happened to your buy, but this here ain’t no fake.”
Cornwall
“You’d better get it on outta here, all the same.”
Hunter #1
“Fine.” (To Hunter #2, but loud enough for everyone to hear.) “Let’s head back to the motel and see how many free nights this is worth!”
Sam fights her way to Cornwall through the thinning crowd. As the truck pulls away, she reaches out to shake his hand.
Sam
“Thanks, but you know I had that in the bag, right? Cornwall… Seavers is it?”
Cornwall
“Yeah, well, that shit’s disrespectful. I hope they didn’t rough you up too much.”
Sam
“I can take my licks. Mind if I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Cornwall
“Make it a fifth of scotch and I won’t mind a bit.”
Int. Bar — Day
The Salt Lick is to hunting lodges what Long Island Iced Tea is to cocktails. Every wall is hidden behind a thick bramble of antlers. Kitschy paintings of deer, dogs, and game cover the occasional bare spot, leaving the paisley wallpaper to peek out along the floorboards and ceiling.
Even the drunks look ashamed to be seen there. They cast long looks at Sam’s camera and even longer ones at her breasts, unsure which is the bigger scandal.
Cornwall mounts a bar stool without even checking the tables. This is far from his first rodeo. Sam leans against the bar, but thinks better of it when something sticks to her arms. She swipes a napkin and scrubs vigorously.
Cornwall
(To the bartender) “Whiskey sour, on the lady.”
They both look at Sam expectantly.
Sam
“I’ll have the same.”
Cornwall
“You have good taste.”
Sam
“When in Rome.”
Cornwall
“Pft! This ain’t hardly Rome… unless Rome had an ass end somewhere I don’t know about.”
Sam
“I’m sure it wasn’t always like this.”
Cornwall
“Always is a long time. It’s been pretty much like this since I was a boy: the Brooks family brought a bunch of new money here during the Reagan era, tried to turn the place into a resort town. ‘Your refuge from modern life!’ Took a global recession to make them admit defeat, now they’re just glorified slumlords.”
Sam
“Did you say ‘Brooks?’ Are those the parents of—”
Cornwall
“… the little shit that killed my son?”
He takes his drink from the bartender and throws most of it back in one gulp.
“They sure as shit are. And they’ll get their darling psychopath off scot-free, I’m sure. Assholes.”
Sam
“What happened?”
He looks at her like he’s second guessing his free drink. Then he finishes it off, gestures to the bartender for another, and begins.
Cornwall
“Butch, that’s what the kids call the Brooks boy, has been picking on my son since the second grade. Typical jock type plus spoiled rich brat equals monster, no two ways about it.
“Joseph was never the most popular kid in school. He had thick glasses and didn’t much care for sports, but he wasn’t an egghead, either. Worst of both worlds, I guess. Kid never got a fair shake in his life. Lord knows I wasn’t the best father.
“Anyway, I don’t know why they were off in the woods together. Musta been a prank gone wrong or a hazing of some kind, but I sure as shit know it wasn’t what Butch told the cops.”
He looks around at the bar’s semi-conscious patrons, then lowers his voice.
“My son weren’t no queer. Maybe Butch is, but not my Henry. It’s just another layer of bullshit that Brooks thinks he can shovel over his little Osama’s crimes.
“And it sure as hell weren’t not sasquatch that slashed my boy to pieces.”
Sam
“You really think a teenager could do that kind of damage?”
Cornwall
“Well, I’m sure he used tools! Police just haven’t found ‘em yet. Or maybe they have and conveniently lost them. I’ve seen livestock butchered worse than that with a good cleaver. Might seem strange to a city girl, but livin’ out here, even in a ‘resort town,’ Butch ain’t no stranger to butcherin’.”
Sam throws back the last of her whiskey and hops off the bar stool. She tosses some bills on the counter and pats Cornwall on the shoulder.
Sam
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Seavers. I hope your son gets the justice he deserves.”
Cornwall
“Don’t waste your well wishes on that, miss. Thanks for the whiskey and sorry again about those yahoos outside. This town seems to run on crazy.”
Ext. Main Street — Day
As Sam returns to her car, she catches sight of a tour group gathering on the corner. A family is having their picture taken behind a set of sasquatch cardboard cut-outs. Their guide is decked out like a big game hunter right down to the safari hat and khaki breeches. He shouts at them in what sounds like an affected Australian accent.
Sam snaps a picture, gets in her car, and drives off.
Ext. Motel — Day
Sam pulls up to a no-account motel encrusted with pick-up trucks and pervert vans. A sign outside reads “Free Stay w/ Genuine Monster Photo.”
She tucks her spray bottle into a duffle bag, hoists it over her shoulder, and heads inside.
Int. Motel — Day
A team of monster hunters is cleaning their equipment in the lobby: air rifles, tranquilizer darts, night vision goggles, the works.
Sam saunters up to the desk and beats out a little tune on the bell. An attendant quickly appears and whisks the bell out from under Sam’s raised hand.
Attendant
“Welcome to the Better Stop Inn, best damn beds in Refuge. We dare you to find a better bed. How may I help you?”
Sam
“I guess I’d like a bed. Since all your beds are the best, I’ll take the cheapest one available.”
Attendant
“You’re a savvy shopper. How many nights?”
Sam
“Let’s say one and have this conversation again tomorrow.”
Attendant
“I’ll finally have something to look forward to. Name?”
Sam
“Sam Randall.”
Attendant
“Samantha?”
Sam
“Nope. My father didn’t handle disappointment well.”
The attendant nods sagely and starts scrawling in his ledger. Sam takes another look at the gear pile in the lobby.
Sam
“Anyone ever take you up on that free stay offer? If I were a camera shy giant ape right now, I’d be headed for the hills.”
Attendant
“Oh, it’s been a busy season, but no verified photos yet. Here’s your key. That’ll be $65.”
Sam
“Thanks.” She scoops her key up off the counter. “Until the ‘morrow, good sir.”
She takes a quick photo of the monster hunters and their gear before exiting down the hall. They mug it up like the glory hounds they are.
Int. Motel Room — Day
The Better Stop Inn’s cheapest room is gaudy beyond imagining. There must be a discount for the damage done to one’s eyes.
Sam flinches against the horror, but goes inside anyway. She tosses her duffle bag down on the bed — it does look like a damn fine bed — and removes her spray bottle. Still wincing at the wallpaper, she opens the window and sprays a little liquid on the outside wall.
Sam
“Welcome to Refuge.”
She closes the window and turns back to that gods awful decor.
“What a shit show.”
Int. Barn — Day
A boy and his father are butchering enormous rats over a dimly-lit workbench. Unnatural animal sounds rattle the rafters all around them.
Father
“Secrecy is essential, for all our sakes, Billy. Protect our breeds with your life…
He tosses a handful of entrails over a low wall. Feeding sounds erupt in response.
“… but protect our secrets first.”
Ext. Forest — Day
A deer hunter huddles inside his tiny tree fort, scanning the forest through binoculars. He spots a number of strange shapes bounding through the undergrowth like dolphins in the surf. He fumbles for his rifle and looks down the scope. They’re about to pass right under him. He flips the safety off, takes aim, and fires.
An almost human cry echoes through the trees and the rest of the shapes stop in their tracks. Slowly, they gather around whatever it was the hunter shot. His pulse begins to pound. He slides another round into the chamber and the click attracts their attention.
Suddenly, the whole pack is converging around the base of his tree. He takes a few more panicked shots, but his prey darts in and out of view like whack-a-moles. He reaches for more ammo, but spills the case with quaking hands.
Then, he hears something climbing the ladder up to his deer blind. It’s a curious combination of footfalls and scratching, like a dog pawing at a door. Slowly, quietly, the hunter puts down his rifle and reaches for a shotgun.
The shotgun rises into position. Scratch, scratch, scratch then silence. A clawed human hand inches up over the edge of the platform. It’s gnarled, sinewy knuckles are coated with fine, gray fur.
The hunter’s eyes go wide, but his fingers are too numb to pull the trigger. A chorus of growls rumbles up from below.
Int. Brooks’ Foyer — Day
Billy Cavendish struggles with his necktie while he waits in Brooks’ foyer. It would be an impressive space, all vaulted ceilings and Roman-style marble tile, in not for the kitschy shit. His eyes linger on a gargantuan gas grill that’s being stored in the coat closet and shakes his head in defeat.
Johnson Brooks appears at the top of the stairs. He wears a sleeveless business suit to show off his well-muscled arms. It probably set him back a few thousand before the unfortunate alterations. The tribal tattoos around his forearms really bring the whole ensemble together.
Johnson
“Billy Cavendish! How’s the old money?”
Billy
“Fine, Brooks. Listen, I came to apologize for what happened to your son. It happened on my land and—”
Johnson
“Nothing to be sorry for, Billy.”
He proceeds down the stairs like a pony on parade.
“It was an animal attack. I’ve told him not to trespass on your land. He got very lucky. Nothing worth an apology there.”
Billy
“I meant his legal troubles—”
Johnson
“I’ve beaten worse wraps than this. Justice will be served, Billy. Don’t worry your pretty head about that.”
Billy
“Alright, well, the point is: I’m sorry and I’ll make it right.”
He turns to leave.
Johnson
“Wadaya say we settle our differences over a bottle of Cristal?”
Billy
“Sorry, Brooks. I’ve got another stop to make.”
He opens the door and almost runs into Sam Randall, whose right hand is raised toward the doorbell, but looks for all the world like she was eavesdropping.
Sam
“You’re Billy Cavendish? Grandson of the town founder?”
Billy
“The same, but I was just leaving.”
He pushes his way past her.
“Nice to meet you.”
Johnson
“And I’m Johnson Brooks, the man with two last names. Please, come in.”
Sam
“I’m Sam Randall. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your son and Henry Seavers.”
He takes her hand as if to shake it, then turns it palm down and kisses her fingers. Honest to god, kisses her fingers. She pulls her hand back and puts it in her pocket.
Sam
“As bold with your introductions as with your attire.”
Johnson
“No point in puttin’ on a gun show if nobody comes.”
He leads her into another room.
Int. Another Room — Day
There’s no telling what the room’s original purpose may have been, it’s so overwhelmed with random crap, but Johnson clears off two reasonably level surfaces and Sam takes a seat.
Johnson
“So, you wanna know about Diddles?”
Sam
“I’m not sure how to answer that. Yes?”
Johnson
“It was Seaver’s kid’s nickname. Diddles. There were stories about him being molested. You know how kids are.”
Sam
“I heard he was unpopular, but Jesus.”
Johnson
“Yeah, well, he had problems. I figure that’s why the cops put it in Joe’s head that he and Diddles were gay for each other. Convenient way to explain them going out into the woods together, but I know my boy. He ain’t gay and he had no business with that basketcase.”
Sam
“What do you think happened?”
Johnson
“Diddles lured my boy out there for whatever purpose, probably a prank, and they got mauled by a bear. Happens every year. Joe ran for his life, went straight to the cops and they tried to pin it on him. They get false confessions outta people all the time. I’m just glad Joe had the wherewithal to make up some story about Bigfoot, rather than confess to a murder that ain’t even a murder.”
Sam
“But he hasn’t been charged with anything?”
Johnson
“Not yet. And not ever, if I have anything to say about it.”
Sam
“Can I speak to him?”
Johnson
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s in a very fragile state, right now. His psychologist wants us to keep him isolated from the three ring circus that’s goin’ on out there. No offense.”
Sam
“Why would any part of that offend me?”
Johnson
“I just compared you to a circus performer.”
Sam
“Yes, thank you. I understand my own sarcasm. What if I could promise you a favorable story in the Dispatch?”
Johnson
“I can’t jeopardize my son’s mental health, but I won’t send you away empty handed.”
He pulls a paper-clipped stack of headshots out of the nearest crap pile.
“There’s a press release in there, all ready to go.”
Sam
“You think of everything.”
She takes the stack and gets up to leave.
“Oh, and what did Billy Cavendish want? I overheard something about ‘making it right?’”
Johnson
“I dunno. I guess he feels responsible for my boy’s situation, since it happened on his land.”
Sam
“But what could he possibly do—”
Her eyes widen and she quickens her pace.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Brooks. I hope you’ll go check on your son. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be alone at a time like this.”
Johnson
(Yelling out the door.) “My pleasure, Samantha! Next time you stop by, we’ll tour my collection of massage oils from around the world! Mine’s the biggest in the state!”
Int. Car Outside Police Station — Day
Knock, knock, knock.
Billy looks up from his navel gazing to find Sam’s face pressed against his passenger side window. She motions for him to roll it down. When he does, she reaches in and unlocks the door, then sweeps herself inside before he can undo the damage.
Sam
“Something on your mind, Billy?”
The facade of the Refuge police station looms behind Billy, just across the street.
Billy
“You’re the woman from Brooks’ place.”
Sam
“I am, but that’s not where I need your attention, right now. I know what you’re here to do, Billy, and you gotta know it’s not gonna work.”
He stares at her like a startled hare, afraid to admit he’s been caught.
“You feel responsible for Joe Brooks’ predicament, I get that, but no one’s going to believe you killed Diddles.”
Billy
“His name was Henry.”
Sam
“Yes, Henry. Sorry. Henry’s beyond saving, Billy, and that wasn’t anybody’s fault. The only lives on the line here are yours and Joe Brooks’… and Joe’s the son of the richest jackass in town. Even if he were guilty, there’s no way he’s gonna go to prison for this. Why put your head on the block before charges have even been filed? Do you WANT to go to prison?”
Billy
“Maybe I do! It’s what I deserve, isn’t it? I failed at the one thing my father ever asked me to do. The ONE thing! I let him down. I let everyone… else down. I’m a failure, a dead branch of the family tree. Better that I waste away in prison.”
Sam
“I didn’t know your father, Billy, but I’m sure he’d want you to pick yourself up, learn something from the experience, and do better the next time. How would he feel about his son rotting in prison?
“It’s too late for Henry, but it’s not too late for you. You’re not done yet, Billy. There are still so many things for you to do.”
She can see his determination wavering.
“Why don’t you let me drive you home?”
He consents with a nod and a sniffle, relieved to let someone else take responsibility.
Sam
“Great, Billy. Thank you. Just pop the trunk for me, will ya? I need to get something from my car.”
She gets out and he pulls the trunk release, then shimmies his way into the passenger seat. In the rear view mirror, he sees her struggle with something heavy. The car bobs a little when she drops it in the trunk. When he comes around to the driver’s side, the question is plain upon his face.
Sam
“Sorry. I can’t be without my luggage overnight and I don’t think I should leave you alone.”
He blushes. She grins and turns the ignition.
Ext. Ranch — Dusk
Sam and Billy pull up to the farmhouse in Billy’s car. His ramshackle barn lurks in the distance.
Sam
“Why don’t you head inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”
She pats him on the thigh and he does as instructed. Once he’s through the door, she fetches her spray bottle from the trunk, unscrews the top, and dumps its contents out on the driveway.
Sam (voice over)
“So, what’s in the barn?”
Int. Farmhouse — Night
Billy just about loses a mouthful of soup all over the table. Sam sits opposite him, sipping hers in demure innocence.
Billy
“Just some livestock. I inherited them from my father, along with the rest of the place. They’re kinda my hobby.”
Sam
“I love animals! Born and raised on a cattle ranch in Wyoming. Do you think I could see them?”
Billy
“Uh, it’s um, too dark already, right now. And cold, I’d think, but maybe um…” He slips her what could be generously described as a flirtatious look. “… in this morning?”
Sam
“How about your father, then? What can you tell me about him?”
Billy
“Well, he was an excellent provider. Raised me alone after my mother died. He was second generation Refuge. Grandpa founded the town, but dad saw it through two recessions and a decade of Brooks’ tourism nonsense. He died in 2003. Stroke.”
Sam
“I hope you let someone else write his obituary, Billy. What was the man about? What was important to him?”
The sudden edge to her tone puts Billy off, but he’s a people pleaser and dives back into the task he’s been given.
Billy
“He was a steward, I guess you’d say. A custodian of the Earth and all its creatures. He dedicated nearly forty percent of Refuge’s land area to wilderness conservation…”
As he talks, Billy starts to notice strange shapes passing by the windows, the sound of footsteps on the roof.
Sam snaps her fingers to refocus his attention.
Billy
“He was a good husband. Good to my mother, of course, but I mean in the other sense of that word. He took care of us, me and, uh… the animals and… the whole town. Do you hear that?”
The footsteps have given way to a scratching sound. Not like a dog waiting to be let in, though. Slower and more deliberate. Menacing.
Sam
“Maybe one of your animals got loose. We should go check on them.”
Billy
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Not my animals.”
Something squeals in the distance, toward the barn. It’s an unsettling cry, like a human child mimicking a pig.
“But maybe I should go check.”
Billy stands and approaches the door, peers out the window as he slowly turns the knob. It swings open to inky night, but something even blacker takes shape before him. It opens glowing, red eyes and growls.
Billy slams the door and spins around, but Sam is out of her chair and blocking his retreat.
Sam
“You really are a disgrace, Billy. You let one of your father’s breeds just wander off into the woods. What? Did you leave the damned barn open?! Are you a child?!
She circles around him in small steps, herding him away from the door.
“The fake sasquatch was a nice attempt, though. High marks for that, Billy. So few of us bother with the surgical crap, nowadays. Taxidermy is so last century. I bet you keep this whole place just as your father left it. You shoulda paid more attention when he was teaching you about the Great Work, about how and why we pursue it in SECRET! About why we keep it from the public eye, so out communities don’t turn against us, like yours has, BILLY!”
She reaches behind her back and grabs the knob, starts to swing the door open. Billy staggers into the wall, his eyes like dinner plates.
“But you did make things easy for me, so thank you. After your little check-in with Brooks, he’ll have no trouble believing you were all Creepy Uncle for his boy and poor Diddles. I’ll even write you a nice suicide note. No one will look too closely at whatever’s left in the barn.”
Sam stands to one side as the werewolf pads its way into the light. It’s massive, easily 150 lbs, and well-fed. Its coat is jet black, but lustrous, obviously groomed. Alert ears and glittering eyes scan the room with intelligence, but most striking are its hands. Not paws… clawed hands complete with opposable thumbs. It looks up at Sam and she pets it affectionately.
“You endangered the Grand Work, Billy, so now my creations are destroying yours. You’re a disgrace to your father’s name.”
Billy turns to run, but there’s another werewolf in the next room, this one bluish-gray and covered in blood.
Billy
screams
Ext. Ranch — Night
Sam’s silhouette approaches as flames lick the night sky from the Cavendish barn and farmhouse in the distance. Monstrous, lupine forms dart around the scene until one, with a roar engulfs the camera.
END
