The Amperage of a Ghost
Artie polishes the copper sphere of his carnival game, feeling another piece of himself flake away with the tarnish. When a customer's simple question unlocks a memory he didn't know he'd lost, the hum of the machine begins to sound like a threat.
INT. CARNIVAL GAME BOOTH - NIGHT
A cramped, claustrophobic world of weathered wood and peeling paint, adrift in a sea of neon chaos.
SOUND: The distant screams from a roller coaster, the cheerful din of carnival music, the sizzle of frying food—all a muffled, chaotic blur.
Inside the booth, the only clear sound is the low, electric HUM of THE STATIC TAMER. It's an antique contraption of polished brass, copper, and dark wood. A large copper sphere sits center, flanked by two smaller steel hand-spheres. A brass gauge with a delicate needle is mounted above.
ARTIE (40s), a man worn down to a ghost, operates it on autopilot. His face is a blank mask of fatigue.
He takes a ticket from a TEENAGER. Resets a rheostat dial. Watches the Teenager place his hands on the spheres.
The HUM deepens. The needle on the gauge climbs. The Teenager yelps, pulling his hands away as if burned.
Artie wordlessly hands him a cheap plastic keychain. The cycle repeats.
Another ticket. Another face. Another yelp. Another keychain. The hollowing out is visible behind his eyes.
A crumpled ticket is pushed onto the counter.
TRACI (V.O.)
> One try, please.
Artie looks up. TRACI (early 20s) stands there, a point of genuine life in the artificial gloom. Her dark hair is in a messy knot.
He takes the ticket. His fingers brush hers. A small, sharp JOLT of static electricity sparks between them. He flinches, pulling his hand back.
ARTIE
> Sorry. Been a long night.
TRACI
> It’s fine.
She smiles, placing her hands firmly on the polished steel spheres.
TRACI
> (a playful challenge)
> Alright, zap me.
Artie turns the dial. The HUM deepens into a low THUM that vibrates through the floorboards. The central copper sphere seems to glow, shimmering under the single yellow bulb overhead.
CLOSE ON the brass gauge. The needle begins its climb.
ANGLE ON Traci. Her expression is calm, her eyes focused. She doesn't flinch.
The needle passes 60... 70...
Artie leans forward slightly. No one gets this far. The air in the booth feels tight, charged. A faint scent of OZONE rises from the machine.
The needle hits 80... 85...
Her knuckles are white on the spheres, but her face remains serene.
Artie feels a strange, sympathetic pulling in his own chest. An echo of the machine's work.
The needle touches 90... 91... 92...
At 93, she gasps, pulling her hands away. She shakes them vigorously, a genuine laugh escaping her.
TRACI
> Whoa. That's intense. Feels like my fillings are vibrating.
ARTIE
> (rote)
> You did well. Better than most.
He reaches under the counter. His hand hovers over the bins of plastic keychains and rubber monsters. But it moves past them, of its own accord, closing around a small, CLOUDY GLASS HORSE.
He places it on the counter.
As Traci reaches for it, her gaze falls on his wrist.
TRACI
> That's a neat scar. How'd you get it?
CLOSE ON Artie's left wrist. A pale, crescent-shaped mark on the inside. A meaningless part of his geography. Until now.
The question HITS him. The world TILTS.
The SOUND of the carnival fades into a rushing wind. The smell of fried onions is replaced by sharp, clean PINE SAP.
EXT. FOREST - DAY (FLASHBACK)
Sunlight dapples through a canopy of towering pines. The image is vibrant, alive, shot handheld.
SOUND: A girl's bright, clear LAUGHTER.
Artie's P.O.V. - looking down. Young hands grip a thick tree branch. Bark scrapes against his palms. The ground is a dizzying distance below.
GIRL (O.S.)
> Artie, you clumsy oaf!
The voice is fond, teasing.
His grip slips. The gut-lurching sensation of a fall. A blur of green and brown.
The sharp SNAP of a branch breaking his fall.
Hot, sudden PAIN flares in his wrist. He sees blood well up, shockingly red against his young skin.
INT. CARNIVAL GAME BOOTH - NIGHT
Artie blinks. The cacophony of the carnival crashes back in.
He's leaning heavily on the counter, gasping for air. He's pale, sweating. The glass horse is still in his hand.
Traci looks at him with genuine concern.
TRACI
> Are you okay? You went completely pale.
ARTIE
> (croaks)
> Fine.
His throat is dust. He forces the glass horse into her hand. His own is trembling.
ARTIE
> Here. Your prize.
TRACI
> ...Thanks.
She gives him one last worried look, then melts back into the river of people on the midway.
Artie stares after her, then looks at his own hands as if they're alien. He picks up a prize from the bin—a plastic compass. The needle spins uselessly. He closes his eyes, trying to feel something. Nothing.
He drops it. Picks up a garish keychain of a cartoon alien.
The moment his skin touches the plastic, a FLICKER—
Not a memory. An impression. The feeling of frustration trying to solve a math problem. The satisfying *click* in the brain when the answer finally comes. It's faint, an echo, but it's THERE.
His eyes snap open. He looks at the shelves of junk. The glass animals, the puzzle rings, the rubber monsters.
They aren't prizes. They're an archive.
His gaze sweeps up to the top shelf. To the grand prize no one ever wins: a multi-faceted CRYSTAL SWAN, refracting the booth's single yellow light into a hundred tiny rainbows.
He looks from the swan back to the pale, crescent scar on his own wrist.
*Artie, you clumsy oaf!*
His head turns slowly, mechanically, toward The Static Tamer. The central copper sphere glows like a malevolent, unblinking eye.
The low HUM is no longer background noise. It's the sound of a parasite. The sound of feeding.
CLOSE ON ARTIE'S FACE. The blank fatigue is gone, replaced by a dawning, profound horror. He understands. How much of him is left?
FADE TO BLACK.
A cramped, claustrophobic world of weathered wood and peeling paint, adrift in a sea of neon chaos.
SOUND: The distant screams from a roller coaster, the cheerful din of carnival music, the sizzle of frying food—all a muffled, chaotic blur.
Inside the booth, the only clear sound is the low, electric HUM of THE STATIC TAMER. It's an antique contraption of polished brass, copper, and dark wood. A large copper sphere sits center, flanked by two smaller steel hand-spheres. A brass gauge with a delicate needle is mounted above.
ARTIE (40s), a man worn down to a ghost, operates it on autopilot. His face is a blank mask of fatigue.
He takes a ticket from a TEENAGER. Resets a rheostat dial. Watches the Teenager place his hands on the spheres.
The HUM deepens. The needle on the gauge climbs. The Teenager yelps, pulling his hands away as if burned.
Artie wordlessly hands him a cheap plastic keychain. The cycle repeats.
Another ticket. Another face. Another yelp. Another keychain. The hollowing out is visible behind his eyes.
A crumpled ticket is pushed onto the counter.
TRACI (V.O.)
> One try, please.
Artie looks up. TRACI (early 20s) stands there, a point of genuine life in the artificial gloom. Her dark hair is in a messy knot.
He takes the ticket. His fingers brush hers. A small, sharp JOLT of static electricity sparks between them. He flinches, pulling his hand back.
ARTIE
> Sorry. Been a long night.
TRACI
> It’s fine.
She smiles, placing her hands firmly on the polished steel spheres.
TRACI
> (a playful challenge)
> Alright, zap me.
Artie turns the dial. The HUM deepens into a low THUM that vibrates through the floorboards. The central copper sphere seems to glow, shimmering under the single yellow bulb overhead.
CLOSE ON the brass gauge. The needle begins its climb.
ANGLE ON Traci. Her expression is calm, her eyes focused. She doesn't flinch.
The needle passes 60... 70...
Artie leans forward slightly. No one gets this far. The air in the booth feels tight, charged. A faint scent of OZONE rises from the machine.
The needle hits 80... 85...
Her knuckles are white on the spheres, but her face remains serene.
Artie feels a strange, sympathetic pulling in his own chest. An echo of the machine's work.
The needle touches 90... 91... 92...
At 93, she gasps, pulling her hands away. She shakes them vigorously, a genuine laugh escaping her.
TRACI
> Whoa. That's intense. Feels like my fillings are vibrating.
ARTIE
> (rote)
> You did well. Better than most.
He reaches under the counter. His hand hovers over the bins of plastic keychains and rubber monsters. But it moves past them, of its own accord, closing around a small, CLOUDY GLASS HORSE.
He places it on the counter.
As Traci reaches for it, her gaze falls on his wrist.
TRACI
> That's a neat scar. How'd you get it?
CLOSE ON Artie's left wrist. A pale, crescent-shaped mark on the inside. A meaningless part of his geography. Until now.
The question HITS him. The world TILTS.
The SOUND of the carnival fades into a rushing wind. The smell of fried onions is replaced by sharp, clean PINE SAP.
EXT. FOREST - DAY (FLASHBACK)
Sunlight dapples through a canopy of towering pines. The image is vibrant, alive, shot handheld.
SOUND: A girl's bright, clear LAUGHTER.
Artie's P.O.V. - looking down. Young hands grip a thick tree branch. Bark scrapes against his palms. The ground is a dizzying distance below.
GIRL (O.S.)
> Artie, you clumsy oaf!
The voice is fond, teasing.
His grip slips. The gut-lurching sensation of a fall. A blur of green and brown.
The sharp SNAP of a branch breaking his fall.
Hot, sudden PAIN flares in his wrist. He sees blood well up, shockingly red against his young skin.
INT. CARNIVAL GAME BOOTH - NIGHT
Artie blinks. The cacophony of the carnival crashes back in.
He's leaning heavily on the counter, gasping for air. He's pale, sweating. The glass horse is still in his hand.
Traci looks at him with genuine concern.
TRACI
> Are you okay? You went completely pale.
ARTIE
> (croaks)
> Fine.
His throat is dust. He forces the glass horse into her hand. His own is trembling.
ARTIE
> Here. Your prize.
TRACI
> ...Thanks.
She gives him one last worried look, then melts back into the river of people on the midway.
Artie stares after her, then looks at his own hands as if they're alien. He picks up a prize from the bin—a plastic compass. The needle spins uselessly. He closes his eyes, trying to feel something. Nothing.
He drops it. Picks up a garish keychain of a cartoon alien.
The moment his skin touches the plastic, a FLICKER—
Not a memory. An impression. The feeling of frustration trying to solve a math problem. The satisfying *click* in the brain when the answer finally comes. It's faint, an echo, but it's THERE.
His eyes snap open. He looks at the shelves of junk. The glass animals, the puzzle rings, the rubber monsters.
They aren't prizes. They're an archive.
His gaze sweeps up to the top shelf. To the grand prize no one ever wins: a multi-faceted CRYSTAL SWAN, refracting the booth's single yellow light into a hundred tiny rainbows.
He looks from the swan back to the pale, crescent scar on his own wrist.
*Artie, you clumsy oaf!*
His head turns slowly, mechanically, toward The Static Tamer. The central copper sphere glows like a malevolent, unblinking eye.
The low HUM is no longer background noise. It's the sound of a parasite. The sound of feeding.
CLOSE ON ARTIE'S FACE. The blank fatigue is gone, replaced by a dawning, profound horror. He understands. How much of him is left?
FADE TO BLACK.