Challenge #04646-L262: Hubris in the Temple of Art

A playwright and troop director has crafted his greatest play. Only hitch is he has scorned warnings of restless spirits in the theater. Now ghosts are causing havoc while opening night is almost here. -- Deathshead419

Actors are a superstitious and cowardly lot. In a high-pressure environment where their means of continuing life and relative comfort depends entirely on a combination of extreme good fortunes, superstition is a natural reaction. Their practiced skills could fall victim to any little thing. A random atom of dust could destroy their voice in the middle of a performance and ruin the production.

Theatres gather these superstitions, becoming temples to the beliefs of those who keep it running. Thus... they generate what the performers call 'ghosts'.

Sometimes, they're real ghosts. Performers or stagehands who had unfinished business just keep hanging around. From needing to sing their swansong to missing their final paycheque, they just stay. Making demands, the lights flicker, strange noises in weird corners, and various small mishaps where they catch the blame. And through blame, power.

Firmin Leroux insisted it was all nonsense. He had bought the theatre so they would stage his literary genius. He told the players, stagehands, and other staff that all their concerns were nonsensical. He said that he didn't have to capitulate a bunch of hypersensitive dramatists.

The ghosts did not like that.

On opening night: half the lights didn't work, the prima donna got laryngitis, the leading man got chicken pox, three quarters of the ballet sprained their ankles, and a decent number of the stage flats visibly peeled the instant they were set up on stage.

And to make their point, Mr Leroux's seat to view the performance remained ice cold, and the main chandelier almost snapped off its moorings.

He could believe now.

In order to be forgiven, he had to stand at the centre of his stage, then sing and dance the I am a Stupid Moron song. And then wait five minutes and accept everything that came to him.

It was a rotten tomato and a custard pie.

[Photo by Gwen King on Unsplash]

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