#finalperformance

The wind howled as Mia, Lucas, Sarah, and Ben stood before the crumbling façade of the abandoned Crestwood Theatre. The moon cast long, eerie shadows across the street, and the decaying building loomed over them, as if daring them to step inside. Crestwood had been closed for nearly fifty years, ever since the tragic fire that had burned it down during a performance. Rumour had it that the final show, The Phantom’s Masquerade, had never reached its conclusion. The fire had erupted without warning, claiming the lives of several cast members and the director. Ever since, people in town whispered that strange things happened inside the old theatre. Shadows moved on their own, strange melodies drifted out into the night, and lights flickered through the boarded-up windows—despite there being no electricity.

"Are we really doing this?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

Lucas grinned, shaking a flashlight in his hand. "Come on, it'll be fun. What’s a little ghost hunt between friends?"

Ben, always the practical one, folded his arms. "I don’t know. People say this place is cursed for a reason."

Mia, the quietest of the group, felt an odd pull toward the building. She didn’t know why, but something about the Crestwood had always fascinated her, even frightened her. It wasn’t just the tragic fire; it was something more, something… unfinished. Without a word, she walked toward the heavy, broken doors.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the remnants of a once-grand theatre lay in ruins. Red velvet seats, now torn and decaying, lined the sloping floor leading to a stage draped in thick cobwebs. A broken chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly in the cold draft.

Mia shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. "We shouldn’t be here," she whispered.

Ben scoffed. "No kidding."

"Let’s just take a quick look around and get out of here," Lucas said, clicking on his flashlight and shining it across the rows of forgotten seats.

As the beam swept across the darkened theatre, something glinted from the stage. It was faint, barely noticeable, but enough to make Mia’s heart skip a beat. Without thinking, she moved toward the stage.

"Hey, Mia!" Lucas called after her. "Where are you going?"

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where she had seen the glint. There was something there—something waiting.

The others followed, reluctantly climbing onto the stage behind her. Up close, the smell of old smoke still lingered in the air, as though the fire had never truly gone out. The curtains, now tattered and singed, fluttered slightly as if moved by an unseen hand.

"This is giving me the creeps," Sarah murmured.

As they reached the center of the stage, Mia suddenly froze. There, lying at her feet, was a charred mask—half burned, half pristine. It was a prop from the final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade. She bent down to pick it up, but the moment her fingers touched the mask, the theatre changed.

The air grew thick, and a deep chill swept through the building. A low hum of music began to play, distant but growing louder. The friends exchanged uneasy glances as the ghostly melody filled the room.

Suddenly, the dim emergency lights that lined the aisles flickered on, casting a sickly glow over the seats. Lucas swung his flashlight wildly, but it wasn’t his light that illuminated the room—it was something else. The theatre was coming alive.

Then, they heard it.

Soft whispers. Laughter. The distant applause of an invisible audience.

"Oh my God," Sarah whispered. "Do you hear that?"

Mia clutched the mask tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. "We need to leave. Now."

But before they could move, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the torn curtains. It was dressed in a tattered costume from the show, its face hidden beneath a mask identical to the one Mia held. The figure moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if it were still performing the role it had been cast in all those years ago.

"It’s a ghost," Ben gasped, backing away.

The figure turned toward them, raising a hand as if beckoning them closer. Its mask glinted in the dim light, and behind it, Mia could swear she saw hollow, empty eyes staring back at her.

Suddenly, the stage beneath their feet began to shake. The wood groaned as if under immense pressure, and the faint smell of smoke grew stronger. Flames—tiny at first—licked at the edges of the stage, curling around the old, decaying wood.

"We have to go!" Lucas shouted, grabbing Mia’s arm.

But she couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the ghostly figure. The whispers grew louder, the laughter more intense. The ghost raised its other hand, and with a sudden, violent gust of wind, the flames surged higher, engulfing the stage.

"No!" Mia screamed, finally breaking free from her trance.

She threw the mask down onto the stage, and as it hit the floor, the flames vanished. The theatre fell silent. The whispers stopped, the music faded, and the figure disappeared into the shadows.

The friends stood frozen, staring at the charred mask, still lying on the floor where Mia had dropped it. The air was thick with tension, but the theatre was quiet again. Too quiet.

Without a word, they bolted for the exit, not daring to look back. Outside, the cold night air felt like a relief, though their hearts were still pounding with terror.

"What just happened?" Sarah gasped, clutching her chest.

"It was them," Mia said quietly, staring back at the dark theatre. "The cast. They never finished their final performance. They’re still trapped in there, reliving that night over and over again."

Lucas shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. "We have to tell someone—"

"No one would believe us," Ben interrupted, his face pale. "Besides, I think it’s better if we just… let them be."

Mia nodded, her thoughts still lingering on the mask and the shadowy figure that had haunted the stage. As they walked away from the theatre, the wind picked up again, carrying with it a faint, haunting melody.

The final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade was far from over.

Week 15, December 4th, 2024

This was our final performance. We performed a multi-modal piece about a failed final performance. It’s aim was to convince the audience that the performance was real, as in, that everything we did was genuine and not in performance. The concept was aiming to be meta. We first had myself come in late to create tensions and frusturation within the group. Then, as me and my groupmate enact a (failed) puppet show, we get exasperated with our groupmates who are conducting the visual and audio effects because they’re not “what we rehearsed”. This then breaks out into bickering and fighting, and we all, out of frustration, break off and go to our individual stations. One of the group mates makes a rallying call to get us back together, trying to create cohesion again. We all somewhat ignore them and start making audio/visual effects at our stations. Another groupmate makes it known that, hey, we still need to figure out this group performance, so we start to brainstorm at the whiteboard. We use the whiteboard as an audio sound board, clicking and banging on the board as we draw and write. After some time, a groupmate sort of has a epiphany and proposes that we do a group performance on a failed group performance. And this queues the end of the performance.

The performance itself went according to plan. We rehearsed it once before this, just a couple hours prior to the final performance. If im being honest, I wasn’t very proud of this performance. I don’t think it showcased the full extent of abilities, which I am bummed about, but can only blame myself for. But I also acknowledge that this idea came from an earnest place, and that this is where me and my group mates were at in this time and place in our lives. We were hoping to capture the frustration we felt weeks up to the final performance—having constant scheduling issues, having some group mates put in more effort than others, everyone having a hard time coming up with a vision, apathy, hesitation, and just the end of the semester fatigue. I think this performance is unique considering these conditions. I’m proud of it in that regard, that we were all able to come together and perform something in earnest, not in jest.

Link to the full video: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1NP4bYZeLLBaq9DXS5B_DNKvBDhT1QbVo/view?usp=drivesdk

The stage was set, the heavy velvet curtain rippling with anticipation as Spencer Hart stood in the wings. His heart thumped not from the familiar stirrings of stage fright but from the weight of this final performance. Thirty years. Thirty years of dimming lights, hushed whispers, and the rapture of applause that followed his every bow. Tonight, when the curtain fell, it would fall on more than just the show—it would fall on his career.

Spencer's hands, once steady and sure, now trembled with age and the faint ache of past injuries. The role he’d chosen to go out on—a beleaguered king haunted by the echoes of past glories—felt achingly apt. He could sense the packed theater beyond the lights, the hum of an audience awaiting the last act from their favourite actor.

“Spence, break a leg out there,” came a voice from behind. It was Marla, his longtime friend and co-star, who offered a smile tinged with sadness. He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

The play began, and the world beyond the stage vanished. Spencer became the king who raged against time, mourned his waning power, and fought against the ghosts that taunted him from the shadows. His voice rang deep and commanding, holding the audience in a rapt silence that felt electric.

Then, as the final act drew to a close, Spencer fell to his knees under the spotlight, the king’s crown rolling away into the dark. The weight of the performance pressed upon him like a living thing. The applause swelled, surged, and thundered over him as he stood for the last time, taking in the sea of faces, some tearful, some cheering, but all caught in the shared spell of this moment. The curtain fell, and with it, so did the years he had devoted to the stage.

The days that followed were tinged with quietness. Spencer’s dressing room, once filled with flowers and the excited clamour of visiting fans, now sat empty but for the smell of old stage makeup and the echo of past conversations. He sat at his vanity, staring at his reflection, no longer the king but an aging man grappling with a life without the stage.

That’s when he noticed the letters. Piles of them, stacked neatly on the small table by the door. Spencer reached for the first one, a small envelope marked with careful handwriting. It read: Dear Mr. Hart, I wanted to thank you for your performance in The Last Voyage. My mother and I watched it during her illness, and it was the first time I saw her smile in months.

He sat back, eyes stinging. Letter after letter spoke of moments small and grand, where his roles had been more than just stories—they’d been lifelines, memories, escapes. A soldier’s recount of laughter in war-torn barracks over Spencer’s comedic role, a young aspiring actor inspired by his passion, a woman who said she’d found solace in his monologues during her darkest days.

Spencer pressed one against his chest, feeling the weight shift inside him. He’d thought the applause was the pinnacle, the fleeting reward of his craft. But here, in these quiet pages, was the soul of his work laid bare. The roles he’d inhabited had shaped moments in the lives of strangers, binding them together with invisible threads. His art had not just ended on the stage; it rippled through the world.

A knock on the door jolted him, and Marla stepped in, holding a small bouquet. “You’ve been holed up in here for days. How are you holding up, old friend?” she asked softly.

Spencer smiled, cradling the letters as though they were treasures. “Better than I thought,” he replied. “Turns out, the curtain doesn’t fall as hard when you know what’s beyond it.”