Downstage

submitted for our May Flash Fiction Contest

“This time, you need to hold back on the menace and evil.” 

“What do you mean?” the Lead replied.

“You leaned too hard into being obviously malicious in the last take. There needs to be seduction. The audience needs to feel unease. A sense deep down that something’s wrong beneath the surface but a hesitation to acknowledge it. There’s a delicate balance. Your smile should linger just a bit too long when you’re let in. You should hint at their dirty secrets. You should imply future calamity in an offhand way. The script will only take you so far if you get the mood wrong.”

“I’m struggling to connect with this character. I figured he was like a Man in Black. I’ve been those many times. Is he more like an alien?” The Lead was a well known method actor, but you could tell he’d been getting sci-fi roles for too long.

“This character is a common folklore trope. A malevolent being waiting at the door to be invited in. In the Philippines, there are the three hooded omens of death. They knock on the door of a home where someone is sick or dying. If allowed in, they bring evil on those in the house. The Dark Guest is in that vein with a few adjustments to fit in rural Delmarva. He’s a harbinger of torment to the grieving. One who unlocks depravity hiding below the surface.”

After a few more takes, I could tell the Lead was finding his groove, so I went to speak to the Lighting Designer.

“We need the main character to be almost normal looking except that he’s always enveloped in palpable shadows, like a cradle of darkness.”

“There’s different ways to show that. Let’s see which you like best.” The Lighting Designer was always eager.

“One more thing, we’ll need glowing orbs floating over fields after the Dark Guest steals the souls of his victims.”

Next, I made my way to the costume designer.

“What do we have for the actors to wear?”

“The wardrobe folks have acquired a few good suits. There’s a local rapist, several nearby travelers, and a professor associated with the paranormal a few towns over. All are in good condition and should last as long as the actors wish to wear them.”

“Those are excellent catches. Let me know if the wardrobe department acquire any particularly useful new costumes.”

Then, I met with the Producer.

“I know we need permission from higher up, but we can’t capture the audience if there are no stakes. We have to kill a few members of the audience to raise the paranoia. I’d like to arrange deaths for a young man, a 9 year old boy, and an old man. The young man is engaged to be married and will die in an accident with a tractor. The 9 year old boy will fall out of a second story window. The old man has a weak heart. We can frighten him to death.”

The Producer replied with exasperation. “You art types are all the same. You think you’re creative when you’re just rehashing old work. I’ll need clearance from the Enemy, or the deaths won’t happen. I warn you, be ready to go on without them.”

The last few rehearsals went well, and opening day finally arrived. If we played this well, the audience would embellish the story more than we ever could. Their imaginations  would see the Dark Guest wherever they looked. Some of the more attention-seeking would make up Dark Guest stories just for attention. Perhaps I could top the Director who put on the Flatwoods Monster a couple years ago. I’d heard he’s sitting somewhere hot, close to the bottom of things. My main worry was a sudden canceling of the show. At any time an audience member could ask the Enemy and He could decide to end our production. Our efforts would be wasted and we’d have to find other work. 

I stood just off stage as the first scene began. The Dark Guest appeared before the house of an older couple with visiting children and grandchildren. The grandfather’s heart was failing. A few choice remarks and a few technical effects would be all it took to convince the family, the Dark Guest was the cause of his death. Things would escalate rapidly in the next scene at Pearl’s Diner just down the road.

The Lead knocked on the farm house door and glanced into the eyes of the old man sitting in the front room. The old man shouted for someone to let in the visitor waiting at the door. As the eldest daughter rounded the corner towards the door, the entire troupe heard a terrible sound. One of the grandchildren had folded her hands and was praying to the Enemy to protect her family. Out of the sky, light shone down and evaporated the image the Lead was projecting. Deprived of his character, he slithered into the Earth. The eldest daughter looked out the window, and seeing nothing, she assumed her failing father was seeing false images. Then the sky opened up, and all of us fled before we were struck down.

The loss of the whole production ruined my career as a director of demonic dramas. A few years later my Stage Manager stole some of my best ideas and led the Mothman production, which was a smash hit. Show business is Hell. I was called back down and reassigned to psychiatry. I could safely sit in comfortable offices, weaving webs in weak minds, without having to work with difficult demonic divas. I’d reach a smaller audience, but the rewards were still stolen, one soul at a time.