CHITTERROR TALES - EPISODE 002 The Continuity Hour, Part II: The Servant Tonight's story concerns a devoted maid and her precise employer. Viewer discretion is advised. Viewer participation is inevitable. --- The studio audience applauds before you enter. You can hear them through the curtain. There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of hands striking together with mechanical enthusiasm. Their rhythm is too perfect to be spontaneous. There are no cheers, no whistles, no individual voices rising above the rest. Only the unending applause. The volume begins at full, then ends abruptly in silence. A red light illuminates the air in front of the stage door. ON AIR. You smooth the front of your uniform. The dress is not yours. Yet it fits too perfectly to have ever belonged to someone else. Your uniforms have always been practical things in the past. Reinforced dark cloth, deep pockets, cleaning implements, and so forth. This dress is theatrical. The skirt is too full, the white apron is too clean, and the cuffs are so starched that they abrade your wrists. Looking down, you see that someone has polished your shoes so thoroughly that the toes reflect the red light above the door. Your employer would not have approved. Rather, your former employer, you must remind yourself. The distinction remains unpleasant. A stagehand gestures for you to proceed. Their face cannot be discerned. Their head is concealed beneath a black cloth, as though they are furniture waiting to be unveiled at a realty staging. The applause begins again. You step through the curtain. The set resembles a sitting room assembled by someone who has only heard sitting rooms described over the telephone. A velvet sofa rests before painted bookshelves. A fireplace crackles without producing heat. Framed portraits hang on the walls, though every painting depicts the room from a slightly different angle. In one, the sofa is empty. In another, you are already seated. In the third, the Host stands behind you with both hands resting upon your shoulders. The sight makes you unwilling to look at the remaining portraits. Instead, your eyes dart forward. The Host reclines in a high-backed chair opposite the sofa. Tonight, he is dressed in a black smoking jacket with satin lapels, a white cravat, and pale gloves. His featureless yet bright face has been softened by the studio lighting, allowing the suggestion of cheekbones and a courteous smile to emerge from the glare. A silver microphone rests on the table between you. Beside it sits a tea service. There is only one cup. [Ah. There she is.] His voice rattles as though it comes from a can on a string, yet it is also clarity itself in the back of your mind. The Host extends his arm toward you. The audience applauds again. [Our guest this evening has worked in domestic service for a truly astonishing length of time. Maid, caretaker, confidante, accomplice. She has worn many titles, although I understand very few of them were voluntary.] The audience's laughter leaves you stunned and standing. The Host's indistinct face inclines toward the sofa. [Please. Make yourself comfortable.] You sit. The cushions sigh beneath you. The sound does not resemble air escaping from a cloth pillow, but rather the whimper of a person attempting not to cry out. The Host collects a stack of cue cards from the table. [You have been rather difficult to schedule as of late.] "I was occupied." Your voice is raspy from disuse. You soon clear it. Your hand reaches toward the teacup in the hope that it is yours. It never is. He deftly and simply moves it out of your reach. [For several centuries, apparently.] "Some households are demanding." The audience begins laughing rancorously. Your small joke seems to be the jest of the century to the onlookers. But maybe they are laughing at you, not for you. The Host waits for them to finish. [Would you care for tea?] You know this trick. "No." [How fortunate. We have none.] He lifts the silver pot and pours. A thick black stream fills the cup. It does not steam. Something pale and narrow turns beneath its surface before sinking out of sight. [Let us begin with the question viewers have died over and over to ask.] The smile sharpens within the light of his face. [What did you do for him?] Him? Who is "him" in this instance? Maybe your previous employer. The lights of the set are too bright for you to see anyone seated there. You see rows of perfectly still silhouettes. "I maintained the house." [How modest.] "I cleaned his rooms. I prepared his meals. I received his guests." [Oh? What happened after you received the guests?] "Things became untidy. I would have to clean again." The audience's applause sign illuminates. They clap again. You glance up at the sign, and it goes dark. Their hands continue moving for several seconds after the sound stops. The Host shuffles his cards and draws another. [When did you first enter his service?] "I do not remember." A clock chimes somewhere behind the painted bookshelves. The Host turns his head slightly, seemingly in disapproval. Maybe disappointment. [That is not true.] The hands of the clock above the fireplace begin moving backward, a warbling effect emanating from it in wondrous displays of color. You watch as the second hand reverses its way around the face for what feels like hours. "I was young." [You were.] "I was alone." [Not for much longer.] Your fingers tighten against the fabric of your skirt. The Host glances toward the nearest portrait. Your eyes follow without prompting. In it, a version of you seated on the sofa has turned her head away from him. [Did he rescue you?] "No." [Did he purchase you?] "No." [Did he create you?] You don't answer. The audience leans forward. Hundreds of chairs creak in perfect unison. The Host places that cue card to the side. [We will return to that.] The painted fireplace pops. A spark lands on the carpet. Yet instead of fading or smoldering, it crawls across the fibers like a green insect. You squash it with a polished shoe, grinding it into the carpet until the glow disappears. The Host watches, smiling. [Still cleaning up after him?] "Habit." [Devotion.] "Habit." [What is the difference?] "..." [Is there a difference?] "Yes." [How reassuring.] The audience laughs again. The Host lifts another card. [Describe an ordinary day in your former household.] "There were no ordinary days." [Humor me, then.] "I awoke before the clocks would ring." [All of them?] "Of course." You look past him toward the painted shelves. You begin reading the title of each book in your head as though they might calm you. Each one seems to be a deeply personal chapter in your life or, maybe, lives. "I would open the curtains, then extinguish whatever fires had started during the night. I would collect the weapons left throughout the corridors. I would replace the broken glass and count the doors." [Why would you count the doors?] "In case another room had appeared." [What if it did?] "I would have to clean it." [Before or after discovering what was inside?] "During." The Host settles deeply into his chair, as though your answer has provoked thoughts beyond simple acknowledgment. [You prepared his meals.] "Yes." [What did he eat?] "Whatever I placed before him." [Mighty evasive. Have you ever thought of poisoning him?] "Every time." For the first time, the Host laughs. The sound is warm and polished, yet it seems to lack amusement. The audience remains silent. [You see? She is so delightful. One wonders why he kept her hidden away.] "He did not hide me." [No?] "He displayed me whenever it served him." The smile on the Host's face becomes much easier to see. [Ah.] You hear movement, as though something is being dragged behind the curtain. Or maybe someone. It could be as innocent as the crew repositioning the set between takes. Before you're permitted to find more excuses, the Host continues. [Were you ever afraid of him?] "No." The clock begins moving again, still backward. The Host says nothing as he looks toward the crowd. The second hand continues to retreat as the crowd lets out a dramatized "Ooh," as though something saucy has been revealed. "...Yes." The clock stops moving. The audience releases a sigh of relief. [There we are.] The Host leans into his microphone. [The sponsors demand honesty, folks.] "You have no sponsors." The audience gasps at the interruption, the dissent. The Host turns toward you. Despite his lack of features, you can almost feel him wetting his lips as he prepares his mouth for correction. [You have a talent for making folks notice what they shouldn't.] You stare at the single camera beyond his shoulder. You notice that the red recording light is not illuminated. "Who is watching this?" [Everyone who missed it the first time.] "I have never been here before." [You have never been here yet.] The Host pours more of the black liquid into the already-full cup. It rises above the rim without spilling. [Tell me about the first person you killed for him.] The studio lights dim. The portraits along the walls change, each now containing a different room. A bedroom with red curtains, a stone corridor, a field beneath a violet sky, a nursery, and a ballroom full of dead guests lying facedown upon the floor. You can't help but look away. "I do not remember the first." [How about the last? Do you remember the last, dear?] "Yes." [Who was it?] You examine your white gloves. A dark stain has appeared along one fingertip. The Host looks toward the audience as though your answer is going to be a great thriller. "Someone. Someone who thought I could be forgiven." Another cooing "ooh" comes from the audience. [Optimism. A recurring killer.] The sign illuminates, again calling for laughter. The audience does not respond. The Host looks again toward you, then to the darkened seats. The sign flickers again, brighter now and glowing green. LAUGH. A low chuckle begins in the back row. The others eventually join in reluctantly before the laughter rolls forward, with the entire audience performing it. The silhouettes shake so violently that they begin folding in their chairs. The others continue without acknowledging their broken brethren. [Did you enjoy it?] "No." The clock does not move. You wish that it had. The Host studies both this and you for several silent seconds. [How disappointing.] "I performed my duties." [Hardly a shelter of a phrase, dear.] "You would know." The applause sign illuminates. Nobody claps. The Host glances toward it. The word changes, becoming a hypnotic pattern of red and green spelling out SILENCE. The audience obeys. The Host sets his cue cards aside. [This is not an interrogation.] "It is." [You believe you are being judged.] "I am." [By whom?] He cocks his head. You look into the brightness where his eyes should be. "You," you hiss accusingly. Again, his face softens with disappointment. [My dear maid, I already know what you have done. I know which stains came out and which merely faded. I know every instruction you obeyed, every order you anticipated, and every small rebellion you concealed beneath perfect service.] The portraits change again. Now they all show the same image. You stand behind your former employer’s chair. His body is obscured by a green-white blaze. Your head is bowed. One hand holds a serving tray. The other holds a knife behind your back. [There is no revelation you can offer me.] “Then why am I here?” The Host folds his hands upon his knee. [Entertainment.] He offers the weak excuse. The applause sign illuminates again, now saying WELCOME. The audience begins clapping. You rise from the sofa. The Host remains seated. "What position?" The curtain behind you opens. There is no backstage beyond it. There is only a corridor. It has faded wallpaper and framed portraits. The images depict scenes from programs you've never seen. An interview with a queen, a botanist, a poet, and an author. Doors extend into the distance, marked with brass numbers. 1. 2. And 3. There are stains upon the carpet, some fresher than others. At the end of the corridor is a service cart. Your service cart. Clean towels are folded upon its shelves. Bottles of dark liquid rest beside cables, cue cards, reels of videotape, and several items concealed beneath white cloth. A uniform hangs at the side. It is not the theatrical dress you are used to wearing. It is dark, practical, and reinforced at the seams. There are deep pockets for keys, cleaning implements, folded instructions, and whatever else must be carried discreetly from one room to another. The Channel 0 insignia has been embroidered above the breast. You turn back toward the Host. "No." The clock above the fireplace begins to chime. Once. Twice. The Host lifts one finger. [That is not your line.] The word above the audience changes one last time. PURSUE. They rise from their seats. You can see them clearly for the first time. Each and every chair contains you. Young and old. Wounded and whole. All dressed in the same uniforms. Hundreds of versions of you stand beneath the studio lights. Their hands have applauded so hard for so long that you can see the flesh and bone beneath their palms. Some are smiling; some are weeping. Several lack eyes. The Host gestures toward the corridor, interrupting your gaze. [Every production requires someone willing to work behind the scenes.] “I am no one’s servant.” [Of course not.] The featureless oval of his face brightens until the set begins to disappear within it. [You are the Handmaid.] Every member of the audience snaps their head toward you. The red light above the corridor illuminates again. ON AIR. Behind the first numbered door, someone begins screaming. The service cart awaits. You look down. At some point, you have changed uniforms. The keys are already in your pocket. The Host retrieves his cue cards. [Do take care of that, won’t you? We have another guest arriving shortly.] You do not move. The screaming continues. The Host’s smile remains visible after the rest of him fades into white. [And, dear?] The first door slowly opens. Green light spills across the stained carpet. [Do try not to leave anything that might trouble continuity.] --- This episode was brought to you by Channel 0. We hope you enjoyed it. She will be cleaning up after you shortly. --- Content Tags: #horror #abuse #cw-unreality #cw-coercion #cw-captivity Submission Form: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScrx-q5ORGYYyOTKPerojhkRN_BFT7Aggaf16QlaHISxqaUcA/viewform?usp=header
