A Script for The Ghost of Operation Mistletoe

INT. SUMMER HAVEN PLAYHOUSE - DAY

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.

<center>RICHARD</center>

> ...and you, Scrooge, a solitary child, utterly alone.

> (a beat)

> Shawn, your cue. You see yourself. That boy, standing there.

Shawn blinks, slow as a tortoise. He peers into the gloom.

<center>SHAWN</center>

> (a reedy rasp)

> Boy? What boy? There’s no boy here, Richard. Just dust.

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.

<center>AGNES</center>

> Shawn, love. You’re *remembering* yourself as a boy. Your past.

<center>SHAWN</center>

> (frowning)

> My past? Oh, that’s right. The one with the... the thing.

He snaps his fingers. The sound is dry, hollow.

<center>SHAWN</center>

> (CONT'D)

> The... incident. With the...

Richard pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture of deep restraint.

<center>RICHARD</center>

> The Ghost of Christmas Past has just shown you your younger self. The solitary child. Now, your line. ‘I wish I had been kinder to my apprentice.’ Something to that effect.

<center>SHAWN</center>

> (a flicker of recognition)

> Apprentice, yes. Good lad, that Arthur. Always on time. Unlike some of these... these young whippersnappers.

His gaze sweeps over Betty, who is trying to retrieve a prop crutch without toppling over. She catches his eye and glares.

<center>RICHARD</center>

> (forcing a smile)

> Excellent, Shawn. Really feeling the regret. Okay, let’s move on. The Spirits of Christmas are due. Wilfred, Doris, Carl? Places, please.

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.

<center>WILFRED</center>

> Richard, old boy, I’m still not entirely clear on my... my motivation here. Am I angry? Sad? Just... floaty?

<center>RICHARD</center>

> You’re reflective, Wilfred. Benevolent, but firm. You’re showing him the errors of his past.

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.

<center>DORIS</center>

> Oh, dear. I thought I was supposed to be showing him... the present. Where’s the turkey? Did someone bring the turkey?

<center>AGNES</center>

> No turkey yet, Doris. That’s later. You’re talking about the Cratchits. Their meagre feast.

CARL (70s), a string of fairy lights blinking erratically around his neck, chimes in.

<center>CARL</center>

> Spirit, yes! That’s what I have! Spirit!

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.*

<center>RICHARD</center>

> Alright, alright. Let’s reset. Wilfred, you begin. Your opening line. The fleeting nature of time.

Wilfred clears his throat, a dry rattle. He adjusts his sheet and squints at his paper.

<center>WILFRED</center>

> Time... time... um... Ah, yes! ‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I am here to remind you that... uh... the clock is ticking.’

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.

<center>RICHARD</center>

> (voice sharper)

> Shawn. You need to interact with the Ghost. He’s showing you something important. Take his hand.

Wilfred, bless his confused heart, offers a shaky hand. Shawn stares at it as if it’s a snake.

<center>SHAWN</center>

> Why would I take his hand, Richard? He’s... dusty.

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.

<center>RICHARD</center>

> Change of plan! Let’s rehearse the scene with the... the locket. Shawn, you’re holding the locket. A cherished memory. Wilfred, you guide his hand to it.

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.

<center>SHAWN</center>

> Oh, the locket! My mother’s, yes? Always had such a lovely smell, like... like rosemary and old paper.

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.*

<center>RICHARD</center>

> (booming, false enthusiasm)

> Excellent, Shawn! Now, Wilfred, you take his hand, gently. Show him the memory evoked by the locket.

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.