Post by andyg on Apr 1, 2016 15:14:57 GMT
This isn't a piece that I'm particularly proud of, but it was nice to explore some of my weaknesses with characterization.
Padraig’s Ghost Tour
Waves crash against the fjord, announcing the tide with a monstrous energy. Two figures step out of a noisy pickup and proceed north toward the lighthouse. One figure takes the lead, testing the batteries of the flashlight in expectation of the oncoming night.
“Anywhere particular you haven’t seen? I’ve done the round a few times over.”
“I’d like to see the outcrop before it gets dark.”
“Okay, but the tour won’t lead to the rocks.”
“No ghosts there?”
“None that we know of.”
The figures proceed to the east; they pass the lighthouse and then follow a thinning trail towards the ledge. The trail disappears beside a break in the fjord where rock outcrops splinter the even surface of the seawall. The break continues down the wall towards a hidden point beneath the thrashing waves.
“We should use a lantern during the tours.”
“The flashlight works fine. It’s got nine LEDs. Three rows of three.”
“But a lantern would be atmospheric. They wouldn’t be able to see how steep the fall is here. Like a secret oblivion.”
“Sounds like a safety hazard. Plus, I said we will not be taking the group out this far.”
“I think it adds to the suspense.”
“But nobody died here.”
“That we know of.”
“If the team ever agrees to extend the walk, I guess you could take a few groups down this way. It is a little creepy when you look over the ledge.”
“Shine your light down there.”
The beam of the flashlight pierces the thickening twilight and illuminates the fractal breaks on the outcrop. A stone is kicked out to the outcrop and collides with the jagged rocks before descending into the shadows of the benthic world below.
“I like to imagine that before Padraig offed himself, he came down this way to look over the Atlantic one last time.”
“That’s sentimental. We should work that into the tour.”
“But it’s not true. Just my baseless speculation.”
“But it’s nice to think about. It fits the atmosphere.”
“We’re not trying to rewrite history. Stick with the script and you’ll find that the story tells itself.”
“But the story doesn’t sell itself. Look, I’m not telling you that we should make things up. But even you can see how impactful it would be to embellish a bit.”
“That sounds all well and good, but when you have somebody somebody in the tour who claims to have read all of the books about the haunting of Padraig’s lighthouse, they’re going to start calling your bluff.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“Not yet.”
“See?”
“That’s because I don’t embellish. The true story is more than enough.”
The two figures step away from the seawall and walk west onto the lawn. A steady wind begins to pick up, causing the ryegrass and fescue to dance indiscriminately under the beam of the flashlight. The two stand before the entrance of the lighthouse.
“This is the spot. Right here.”
“Where he did it?”
“Yes. He stepped out of the house, walked right onto this patch of lawn, and then let the stubby barrel of his revolver kiss his temple.”
“I thought he killed himself in the lighthouse.”
“That’s what the townies believe, but the police report demarcates this patch of grass as where his body was found.”
“But I remember reading that it was in the lighthouse.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“So he finds out his wife was having an affair, steps out of the front door, and then pulls the trigger?”
“No. His wife wasn’t having an affair. He wasn’t even married!”
“I remember reading that though.”
“It was stomach cancer. He’d been diagnosed for over a year, and the pain became too much to bear.”
“How do we know that?”
“Medical records and conversations with the pharmacist.”
“But he never actually left a note explicitly saying why he pulled the trigger?”
“No, but the facts are insurmountable.”
“Sounds like a rubbish theory. What if he found something, or maybe he was blackmailed?”
“That’s baseless. When you’re out here you have to stick to the script and the facts.”
“As you like it.”
One of the figures unlocks the front door of the lighthouse and proceeds to enter. The other follows, listening carefully to the rickety sounds of the floorboards.
“There’s a basement? I thought this had a flat stone foundation.”
“Many lighthouses do, but a cellar was dug out for this property. This was originally the site of a fishing cottage in the early 1800s. The house was torn down for lumber, and the lighthouse was erected in its place a half century later.”
“What do you tell them about the basement?”
“Nothing. We don’t go down there.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because there’s been no poltergeist activity there. No reported sightings. It’s just an empty space, remnant of the time before. It’s historically intriguing, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t fit into the mold of the story we’re trying to tell.”
“But imagine starting in the basement and gradually working our way up to the light, the hauntings increase during the ascension. The buildup would be nice.”
“Not everything here is up for grabs.”
“It should be. I don’t think you understand how to sell the stage. I have a background in theater. You want to put all of these elements in concert with each other. People are going to remember the dust-covered shelves that have been reported to shake by themselves, not the approximate time of Padraig’s death.”
“Well, you’re wrong. We’ve run this tour for over five years now, and people continue to pay for the experience.”
“What kind of feedback do you get?”
“We don’t generally receive any.”
“Do you ever ask for any?”
“No. But the paper always runs a nice article about us.”
“Do you pay them for it?”
“Yes, but our publicity speaks for itself.”
“Look, I’m not trying to step on your shoes, but I take acting seriously. I just see a lot of unexplored potential.”
“I get it, but you have to understand, we’re paying you to run a few tours, not reinvent the wheel.”
“So nothing’s at stake if I embellish a little.”
“Are you kidding me? Our reputation. We are a historical society, not ghost hunters.”
“But people are paying you to be.”
“No, they’re not. Many people return each year for the tour!”
“All the more reason. They are paying for the chance to run in with Padraig’s ghost.”
“This is a historical tour.”
“But it’s sold as a ghost tour. Ghosts are an experience, not a newspaper clipping. People aren’t going to visit the lighthouse just to hear me list off some dates. It’s about how we texture the experience for them.”
“This is not some halloween gimmick. This is history. You can’t just make up what sounds good.”
“If you don’t even have all of the details, how can you even properly assemble what’s happened? All I’m asking for is some room to fill in the gaps.”
“To practice your acting. Look, I don’t think you’re quite cut out for this gig. This is history, not improv.”
“It’s not about me. My loyalty is to the art, to the audience.”
“Like I said; this just isn’t for you.”
The two exit the lighthouse in silence, entering the pickup truck, and then leave the fjord behind in the red glow of the old truck’s brake lights. The wind began to calm as the truck moved deeper into the night.
Padraig’s Ghost Tour
Waves crash against the fjord, announcing the tide with a monstrous energy. Two figures step out of a noisy pickup and proceed north toward the lighthouse. One figure takes the lead, testing the batteries of the flashlight in expectation of the oncoming night.
“Anywhere particular you haven’t seen? I’ve done the round a few times over.”
“I’d like to see the outcrop before it gets dark.”
“Okay, but the tour won’t lead to the rocks.”
“No ghosts there?”
“None that we know of.”
The figures proceed to the east; they pass the lighthouse and then follow a thinning trail towards the ledge. The trail disappears beside a break in the fjord where rock outcrops splinter the even surface of the seawall. The break continues down the wall towards a hidden point beneath the thrashing waves.
“We should use a lantern during the tours.”
“The flashlight works fine. It’s got nine LEDs. Three rows of three.”
“But a lantern would be atmospheric. They wouldn’t be able to see how steep the fall is here. Like a secret oblivion.”
“Sounds like a safety hazard. Plus, I said we will not be taking the group out this far.”
“I think it adds to the suspense.”
“But nobody died here.”
“That we know of.”
“If the team ever agrees to extend the walk, I guess you could take a few groups down this way. It is a little creepy when you look over the ledge.”
“Shine your light down there.”
The beam of the flashlight pierces the thickening twilight and illuminates the fractal breaks on the outcrop. A stone is kicked out to the outcrop and collides with the jagged rocks before descending into the shadows of the benthic world below.
“I like to imagine that before Padraig offed himself, he came down this way to look over the Atlantic one last time.”
“That’s sentimental. We should work that into the tour.”
“But it’s not true. Just my baseless speculation.”
“But it’s nice to think about. It fits the atmosphere.”
“We’re not trying to rewrite history. Stick with the script and you’ll find that the story tells itself.”
“But the story doesn’t sell itself. Look, I’m not telling you that we should make things up. But even you can see how impactful it would be to embellish a bit.”
“That sounds all well and good, but when you have somebody somebody in the tour who claims to have read all of the books about the haunting of Padraig’s lighthouse, they’re going to start calling your bluff.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“Not yet.”
“See?”
“That’s because I don’t embellish. The true story is more than enough.”
The two figures step away from the seawall and walk west onto the lawn. A steady wind begins to pick up, causing the ryegrass and fescue to dance indiscriminately under the beam of the flashlight. The two stand before the entrance of the lighthouse.
“This is the spot. Right here.”
“Where he did it?”
“Yes. He stepped out of the house, walked right onto this patch of lawn, and then let the stubby barrel of his revolver kiss his temple.”
“I thought he killed himself in the lighthouse.”
“That’s what the townies believe, but the police report demarcates this patch of grass as where his body was found.”
“But I remember reading that it was in the lighthouse.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“So he finds out his wife was having an affair, steps out of the front door, and then pulls the trigger?”
“No. His wife wasn’t having an affair. He wasn’t even married!”
“I remember reading that though.”
“It was stomach cancer. He’d been diagnosed for over a year, and the pain became too much to bear.”
“How do we know that?”
“Medical records and conversations with the pharmacist.”
“But he never actually left a note explicitly saying why he pulled the trigger?”
“No, but the facts are insurmountable.”
“Sounds like a rubbish theory. What if he found something, or maybe he was blackmailed?”
“That’s baseless. When you’re out here you have to stick to the script and the facts.”
“As you like it.”
One of the figures unlocks the front door of the lighthouse and proceeds to enter. The other follows, listening carefully to the rickety sounds of the floorboards.
“There’s a basement? I thought this had a flat stone foundation.”
“Many lighthouses do, but a cellar was dug out for this property. This was originally the site of a fishing cottage in the early 1800s. The house was torn down for lumber, and the lighthouse was erected in its place a half century later.”
“What do you tell them about the basement?”
“Nothing. We don’t go down there.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because there’s been no poltergeist activity there. No reported sightings. It’s just an empty space, remnant of the time before. It’s historically intriguing, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t fit into the mold of the story we’re trying to tell.”
“But imagine starting in the basement and gradually working our way up to the light, the hauntings increase during the ascension. The buildup would be nice.”
“Not everything here is up for grabs.”
“It should be. I don’t think you understand how to sell the stage. I have a background in theater. You want to put all of these elements in concert with each other. People are going to remember the dust-covered shelves that have been reported to shake by themselves, not the approximate time of Padraig’s death.”
“Well, you’re wrong. We’ve run this tour for over five years now, and people continue to pay for the experience.”
“What kind of feedback do you get?”
“We don’t generally receive any.”
“Do you ever ask for any?”
“No. But the paper always runs a nice article about us.”
“Do you pay them for it?”
“Yes, but our publicity speaks for itself.”
“Look, I’m not trying to step on your shoes, but I take acting seriously. I just see a lot of unexplored potential.”
“I get it, but you have to understand, we’re paying you to run a few tours, not reinvent the wheel.”
“So nothing’s at stake if I embellish a little.”
“Are you kidding me? Our reputation. We are a historical society, not ghost hunters.”
“But people are paying you to be.”
“No, they’re not. Many people return each year for the tour!”
“All the more reason. They are paying for the chance to run in with Padraig’s ghost.”
“This is a historical tour.”
“But it’s sold as a ghost tour. Ghosts are an experience, not a newspaper clipping. People aren’t going to visit the lighthouse just to hear me list off some dates. It’s about how we texture the experience for them.”
“This is not some halloween gimmick. This is history. You can’t just make up what sounds good.”
“If you don’t even have all of the details, how can you even properly assemble what’s happened? All I’m asking for is some room to fill in the gaps.”
“To practice your acting. Look, I don’t think you’re quite cut out for this gig. This is history, not improv.”
“It’s not about me. My loyalty is to the art, to the audience.”
“Like I said; this just isn’t for you.”
The two exit the lighthouse in silence, entering the pickup truck, and then leave the fjord behind in the red glow of the old truck’s brake lights. The wind began to calm as the truck moved deeper into the night.
