The Grip of the Unfinished Play

I’ve never been one to dismiss the unseen. As a stage actress, I’ve learned that the most powerful presences are often the ones you can’t see. But what happened three summers ago at my mother’s farmhouse in the hills of Vermont was beyond any ghost story I’d ever heard.

It was the night of the final dress rehearsal for ‘The Hollow Crown,’ a play about a cursed king. My co-star, Julian, had died in a car accident just two months before. He was supposed to play the king, but I was filling in for him. We had been close—not romantically, but we shared a certain chemistry on stage, a trust that only comes from countless hours of rehearsal. His death had hit me hard, and the understudy, Marcus, was talented but lacked Julian’s intensity.

That night, I was exhausted. My daughter, Lily, was five, and I had brought her to my mother’s place because my babysitter had cancelled. My mother had gone to bed early, and Lily was in my old room, watching a cartoon on my phone. I lay beside her on the twin bed, my eyes heavy. The old house creaked with familiar sounds, but something felt off—a chill that didn’t come from the drafty windows.

As I drifted toward sleep, a figure took shape in the darkness behind my eyelids. It was Julian, as clear as if he were standing in front of me. His face was pale, his eyes hollow. He opened his mouth, and I heard his voice with startling clarity, though his lips barely moved: ‘Watch out for Lando. He will be the death of you.’

I jolted awake, my heart pounding. Lando was our stage manager, a quiet, unassuming man who had never given me any reason for concern. Why would Julian warn me about him? And why now?

Before I could process the dream, I felt it—a crushing weight on my hip, as if an invisible giant had pressed a knee into my pelvis. I couldn’t move. My limbs were frozen, my voice trapped in my throat. Panic surged through me. I was awake, fully conscious, but paralyzed. I could still see Lily, her face bathed in the glow of the phone, her eyes wide with cartoons. She was oblivious.

The weight increased, pressing down until I thought my bones would crack. I tried to turn my head, but it was immovable. In my peripheral vision, I saw the shadows in the corner of the room deepen and coalesce into a dark silhouette—tall, faceless, and malevolent. It hovered there, watching me, and I knew with certainty that it was not human.

A cold breath brushed my ear, and I heard Julian’s voice again, but this time it was a whisper so faint I almost missed it: ‘He’s not what he seems. Run.’

The pressure suddenly lifted, and I gasped, my body free. I scrambled to sit up, my heart racing. Lily looked at me with a curious expression. ‘Mommy, you were making funny noises.’

I hugged her tight, my eyes darting around the room. The silhouette was gone, but the chill remained. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay awake, watching the door, expecting Lando to appear.

The next day, I told my mother, who was a believer in the old ways. She nodded slowly, her face grim. ‘Your grandmother always said that the dead speak to those who can listen. But this warning—it’s not about the play, is it?’

I didn’t know. I went back to rehearsals, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. Lando seemed normal, but I noticed things I had overlooked before. He was always around when I tripped on a cable or a prop fell. He was too eager to help me with my costume, his fingers lingering.on the zipper. And he had a habit of staring at me from the wings, his eyes glinting in the dark.

One evening, after a late rehearsal, I found myself alone backstage. The lights were dim, and the silence was oppressive. I was gathering my things when I heard a footstep behind me. I spun around, but there was no one. Then, a low chuckle echoed from the shadows.

‘Going somewhere, Fiona?’ Lando stepped out, his face half-lit by a single work light. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

I clutched my bag to my chest. ‘I’ve just been tired.’

He moved closer, and I backed away until I hit the wall. ‘I know what you heard. Julian told you, didn’t he? That old meddler. He always did have a soft spot for you.’

My blood ran cold. ‘What are you talking about?’

Lando’s smile widened, and his eyes seemed to darken. ‘I’m talking about the truth. Julian was supposed to die in that car accident. It was meant to be. But he came back, somehow, to warn you. That’s fine. It changes nothing.’

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rusted key. I recognized it—it was the key to the old trapdoor that led to the basement under the stage. ‘The play must go on, Fiona. And you will play your part, to the end.’

I ran. I didn’t stop until I was in my car, driving away. I never went back. I quit the production, citing personal reasons. But the nightmares didn’t stop. Every night, I saw Julian’s face, and I heard his voice: ‘Watch out for Lando.’

And every night, I felt that weight on my hip, and I saw that shadowy figure in my room. I moved, changed my number, but it didn’t help. The presence followed me. My mother passed away two months later, and in her will, she left me the farmhouse. I haven’t been back since.

Now, years later, I still can’t shake it. I’m writing this from a city apartment, but last night, I woke up to find a set of footprints in the dust on my floor, leading from the door to my bed. And on my nightstand, there was a note, written in Julian’s handwriting: ‘It’s not over. He knows where you are.’

The grip of the unfinished play never loosens. I’m afraid it will never let go.