NOCTIUM FANTASMATA

A torch-lit Gothic chamber. In a high-backed chair, center, POE sits brooding.

POE. Alas! Too many nights have I spent in wretched
contemplation, inwardly weaving tales of ornate woe,
spurred by luckless living and the raw, hot wounds
of shattered lineage. My imagination waxes strong,
crammed to the seams with conceits both rare and dolorous.
But what price this hard-won gift of fabulation?
For my labyrinthian fancy soon betrays my simpler nature
that ought tonight to roam uncaged, to keen and sigh in grief
for my fallen bride. O Virginia! Sweet cousin and virgin child-wife,
your noble heart was never hobbled so. Your full-throated song
declared to all the world your blessèd innocence.
(Though that same song took your life, a bitter irony.)
Now you, like the lady who gave me birth, lie untimely
in your grave and leave me here to suffer in guilt-wracked silence—

A door opens in the back wall, throwing a wedge of yellow light onto the stage. Suddenly ropes and pulleys are visible in the wings. A YOKEL inserts his bald head.

YOKEL. Hey, buddy. Whatcha doing here in the dark?

POE sits rigid with disbelief, staring with boiling intensity into his private void.

YOKEL (over his shoulder). This way, boys!

The YOKEL throws a series of switches near the door; one row at a time, the house lights flicker on. He crosses to POE’s chair, gazes with dismay at the torches mounted on two papier-mâché pillars.

YOKEL. These are against fire code, buddy. I’m gonna have to ask you to extinguish them, I’m afraid.

POE sits in outraged silence. The YOKEL shrugs, shuffles offstage, then returns lugging a huge plastic pail. He twists one torch out of its mount and dunks it into the pail, producing a hiss and a jet of black smoke. Then he circles POE and repeats the procedure with the second torch. He sets the pail down behind the chair.

YOKEL. Buddy, we reserved this space for our rehearsal this afternoon. If you check the clipboard on the door outside, you’ll see I’m being square. Our town’s got a barbers’ convention coming up, and the mayor wants us to perform at the potluck. It’s a opportunity we couldn’t let slide.

The YOKEL crosses again to the open door.

YOKEL (screaming). In here!

The four remaining members of a WASHBOARD BAND enter, overburdened with banjo, fiddle, guitar, clay jugs, tub, washboard, stools, stands, straw hats, and gumption. A general hubbub of purposeful grumbling arises. As they arrange themselves into a crescent on one side of the stage, each takes a turn eyeing POE with deep suspicion.

YOKEL. We got company, boys. He durn near set the place on fire, and he’s mute—but I reckon we got us a audience, like it or not.

The YOKEL steps into the center of the group, lifts the guitar, slings the strap over his shoulder—then, very solemnly, nods three times. The BAND erupts into a performance both manic and mournful. POE slumps backward in his chair.

BAND (in five-part harmony).

In a cavern, in a canyon,
Excavating for a mine,
Lived a miner, forty-niner,
And his daughter, Clementine.

A flood of SCHOOLCHILDREN pours in, shrieking, from the opposite side; several CHAPERONES—haggard, middle-aged women—wade among them. The BAND continues to play.

FIRST CHAPERONE (above the din). This is where we had the puppet show, kids, remember?

CHILDREN (variously). I hate puppet shows! Something smells funny! Ronald Lasky pulled my hair! I have to pee!

SECOND CHAPERONE. Listen to the pretty music, children!

CHILDREN (pointing at POE). Who is that awful man? I hate him! His forehead is huge! He’s stupid!

The CHILDREN gather around POE. They scream and swoon. Then a wad of paper sails through the air and bounces off POE’s chin. The CHILDREN freeze. POE remains absolutely motionless. Emboldened, the CHILDREN burst into a chorus of derision and unleash a hailstorm of spitballs, chewing gum, apple cores, baloney sandwiches. A full minute later, when the supply of ammunition runs low at last, the CHAPERONES intervene.

SECOND CHAPERONE. Let’s move along now, children! Time to go!

FIRST CHAPERONE. Say goodbye to the nice musicians, kids!

CHILDREN (waving). Goodbye! Goodbye!

THIRD CHAPERONE (aside to POE). How dare you ruin our field trip! These are children, sir! Innocent lambs! Oh, you’re a monster!

BAND (undaunted).

In a corner of the churchyard,
Where the myrtle boughs entwine,
Grow the roses in their poses,
Fertilized by Clementine.

At the far end of the auditorium, a pair of double doors flies open, and a DIRECTOR strides in, surrounded by an entourage of ASSISTANTS. The DIRECTOR’s purple beret floats like a lilypad atop the group as he marches down the center aisle.

DIRECTOR. Unicycles! Showgirls on unicycles! Fifty at least!

FIRST ASSISTANT. Are you crazy? We can’t afford one, let alone —

DIRECTOR. Don’t talk to me about money, damn it! I’m an artist!

SECOND ASSISTANT. You’ll need a magician to produce fifty showgirls.

DIRECTOR. A magician? Very droll. And a good idea, too. Make a note of it!

The group circles the orchestra pit and climbs the stairs to the stage. As they pass the WASHBOARD BAND, the DIRECTOR halts abruptly, causing the ASSISTANTS to collide with one another. The DIRECTOR stares in abject horror.

DIRECTOR (flabbergasted). Who let the hillbillies in here?

The BAND reaches the end of its song. Silence falls.

YOKEL (grinning proudly). We’re playing at the barbers’ potluck!

DIRECTOR (recoiling). Well, if you don’t mind, please confine your hideous twanging to that benighted venue and get the hell off my stage!

YOKEL. Say, buddy, we reserved this space—

Suddenly the DIRECTOR unleashes a high-pitched, fluttering shriek, staggers about, then collapses across the stage in a faint. The ASSISTANTS, panic-stricken, swarm around him.

YOKEL (to the BAND). Boys, I believe we took a wrong turn and landed in Paris, France. Let’s hit the trail.

The BAND gathers its gear together and departs, heads wagging. Moments later, the DIRECTOR revives.

DIRECTOR (delirious). Tell me it was all a dream. A sickening, ghastly dream!

FIRST ASSISTANT. The hillbillies are gone, sir.

DIRECTOR (panting). Thank the gods. But they weren’t what threw me into a fit. I could have sworn I saw a ghost—

SECOND ASSISTANT. A ghost?

DIRECTOR. The spitting image of that sinister avatar of darkling American consciousness—

The DIRECTOR cranes his head and sees POE again. As before, the sight sends him into a squealing conniption. The ASSISTANTS lift him by the limbs and carry him out the back door. Simultaneously, a squad of CHEERLEADERS pours into the auditorium and down the center aisle, chanting and waving pompoms. They are followed by thousands of grubby SPORTS FANS, who fill the seats as the CHEERLEADERS, hopping and twirling, take to the stage.

CHEERLEADERS.

Blood makes the grass grow!
Kill! Kill!
Blood makes the grass grow!
Kill! Kill!

The auditorium fills to capacity. The CHEERLEADERS form a solid line across the stage, momentarily blocking POE. The FANS bark like wild dogs. Then the MAYOR enters and strolls calmly down the aisle, taking plenty of time to wave, slap shoulders, and shake hands. At last he stands center stage and coaxes the crowd down.

MAYOR (grinning unctuously). Thank you!

The FANS continue to cheer. The MAYOR flaps both arms in a soothing gesture. Eventually, the noise subsides.

MAYOR. Thank you! Thank you. Now, I know perfectly well you’re not here to see me. You’re here for a pep rally, am I right?

The FANS go berserk.

MAYOR (laughing). That’s what I thought! Yes, we’ll get to that in just a moment. But first I want to talk about something that’s been troubling all of us—the mysterious recent outbreak among our citizens of vivid, terrifying nightmares.

The FANS subside into pensive murmuring.

MAYOR. We needn’t go into details—

A SPORTS FAN. I dreamed my mother grew the head of a lizard!

ANOTHER SPORTS FAN. I dreamed my house turned into a meat locker!

A CHEERLEADER. I dreamed my toilet overflowed with cockroaches!

ANOTHER CHEERLEADER. I dreamed my boyfriend tried to kill me with a weed whacker!

MAYOR. None of us has been spared. I myself dreamed I was assaulted by an enormous gerbil. But, friends, we now know who is to blame for these visitations—and he is with us here in this very room!

The CHEERLEADERS stand aside to reveal POE. The FANS gasp.

MAYOR. Ladies and gentlemen, this man is the most dastardly occult sorcerer the world has seen since the Dark Ages! His warlock powers have enabled him to plant seeds of evil in our innocent heads, to torture us with visions of Hell itself! If we fail to retaliate against him, we’ll not be long for this world—and will surely find ourselves damned in the next!

The FANS explode with raging hatred. The CHEERLEADERS egg them on.

MAYOR. But let’s not be uncivilized! I’ve arranged an effigy burning in the parking lot! We’ll leave the man himself to the proper authorities! Come on! There’s plenty of kerosene for everyone!

The FANS stampede for the exits. The CHEERLEADERS squeal with delight. Suddenly a MORON appears from the wings; he stands naked, both hands cupped over his crotch, his body a painted checkerboard of white and azure squares.

MORON (streaking across the stage). We’re Number One! We’re Number One! We’re Number One! We’re Number One!

Eventually the theater empties. The doors slam. Seemingly of their own accord, the lights shut off one row at a time. POE sits alone in total darkness. He sighs.