The air is thick, golden with dust motes dancing in the beams of aging stage lights. The heat of a deep August summer is oppressive, sticking to everything. The velvet seats of the empty auditorium are faded, worn.
On stage, a haphazard collection of props for “A Christmas Carol” looks absurd in the sweltering heat.
RICHARD (60s), thinning grey hair, a linen shirt already damp against his back, watches with the weary patience of a saint. This is his purgatory.
On a makeshift set piece, SHAWN (70s), his face a roadmap of forgotten paths, squints out into the darkness. He’s supposed to be Ebenezer Scrooge, mid-epiphany. He just looks lost.
Shawn blinks, slow as a tortoise. He peers into the gloom.
Shawn waves a trembling hand, flicking a non-existent moth from the air.
The motion is so un-Scrooge-like that a loud SNORT echoes from stage left.
It comes from BETTY (60s), a woman of immense size, perched precariously on a child’s wooden stool. She is Tiny Tim. The stool groans under the strain.
AGNES (60s), sharp, pragmatic, the only other sane person here, steps forward. She pushes a strand of grey hair from her forehead.
He snaps his fingers. The sound is dry, hollow.
Richard pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture of deep restraint.
His gaze sweeps over Betty, who is trying to retrieve a prop crutch without toppling over. She catches his eye and glares.
From the wings, a tangle of frayed ropes and discarded plywood, emerge the three ‘spirits.’ They look like elderly librarians who took a wrong turn.
WILFRED (70s), draped in a bedsheet, shuffles forward. He holds a piece of paper.
DORIS (70s), with a glittery plastic holly wreath askew on her head, bumps into Wilfred. The air fills with the scent of her strong floral perfume.
CARL (70s), a string of fairy lights blinking erratically around his neck, chimes in.
He beams, a walking fire hazard. He is supposed to be the silent, ominous Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
Richard takes a deep, steadying breath. The metallic tang of a faulty circuit hangs in the air. Tick-tock.
Wilfred clears his throat, a dry rattle. He adjusts his sheet and squints at his paper.
Richard’s jaw tightens. It’s a line from ‘Our Town,’ three years ago.
Just then, in his trouser pocket, Richard’s left hand feels it: a subtle, silent VIBRATION.
The packet. It’s here. Frost has made the drop.
His focus sharpens. The chaos is no longer just annoying; it's a liability.
Wilfred, bless his confused heart, offers a shaky hand. Shawn stares at it as if it’s a snake.
Richard’s eyes dart around the stage, landing on the prop table—a jumble of fake food, a plastic goose, cheap trinkets. He needs a reason to get Shawn there.
Agnes looks at him, a question in her eyes. She knows this isn’t in the script. She gives a subtle nod. Go on.
Shawn’s expression brightens.
He shuffles to the prop table. His fingers fumble past a fake apple, then land on a small, tarnished silver heart.
As Shawn picks it up, Richard’s eyes lock onto it. He sees it. A faint, fresh SCRATCH on the back. A signal.
The packet is inside.
Richard’s heart hammers against his ribs. Act normal.
As Wilfred reaches for Shawn’s hand, a sound cuts through the humid air.
A single, sharp COUGH.
It’s deep. Piercing. It comes from the auditorium.
Everyone on stage freezes.
Richard’s head snaps toward the sound.
In the sixth row, bathed in the stray beam of a stage light, sits a MAN. He wasn’t there a minute ago.
He is impeccably dressed in a lightweight, light grey linen suit. Silver hair, neatly combed. His posture is unnaturally straight. He is a ghost who has appeared from nowhere.
Richard’s face drains of color. The air leaves his lungs. He knows him.
The man’s sharp, intelligent eyes are fixed not on the stage, but directly on Richard.
A faint, imperceptible smirk plays on his lips.
The man lifts a hand, slowly, and brings it to his mouth, covering another small, polite cough. A theatrical gesture. A message.
I know.
The play is over. The real show has just begun.
FADE TO BLACK.
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