Improvised play PART 1

Maor David stood alone behind the curtains of the Ophir Theatre, wrapped in a silence that felt unnatural for this hour. Tonight was supposed to be the pinnacle of his career — the grand premiere of The Hunch, a modern adaptation of a 17th-century play by Leonardo Brown, a dark and intricate story about a man born with a deformity whose shadow left a trail of victims. This performance was meant to shake the audience. And he had worked on it for half a year.

But something was wrong.

The stage manager hadn’t shown up. The lead actress — vanished. Not even a message.

There was no way they simply forgot. Not tonight.

From a crack in the curtain, he noticed the audience beginning to fill the seats — about two thousand people, not just from Tel Aviv, but all over the country. Maybe in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t much, but for a small fringe theatre, it was like West End for one night. Three floors, an old balcony with peeling wooden railings, the main hall warm with the scent of dust and velvet — all of it was about to be tested tonight.

He took a deep breath. Something wasn’t right.

Behind the scenery, it was too quiet. Not the usual calm before the show. A heavy silence. As if the walls themselves were listening. he felt a chill crawl down his spine. It wasn’t just the worry about missing crew members. It was a clear, chilling feeling that something much deeper had gone wrong. Every step in the backstage hallway echoed like a knock from a coffin.

The audience, mostly middle-aged, dressed carefully, some even bringing homemade treats. Maor knew this would hurt the theatre’s profits — they had planned to sell refreshments — but that wasn’t the point.

He felt that this performance… wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to.

The play, dealing with humiliation, trauma, and revenge, suddenly seemed to seep into reality. The lines written centuries ago echoed with a different tone, as if part of a plan meant to unfold tonight. Maor felt the stage transform into something else. A place of exposure. Of revelation. Perhaps even danger.

And the curtain hadn’t risen yet.

Maor sat down, completely lost on what to do next. On one hand, there was the audience — all those people who had come to see the play, waiting for the curtain to rise so they could be swept away in a whirl of colors, characters, and gripping stories into the rich world of the performance. It truly was a special play.

But on the other hand... how could the play go on without all those people — the very foundation of the show, its supporting beams? He didn’t know how he could possibly pull it off without them. He assumed he could try, but... the performance wouldn’t reach its peak without them.

Besides, there was something deeply strange about the absence of so many people. Something... unnatural. Yes, unnatural — that was the right word. If just one or two hadn’t shown up, Maor could understand. But ten? Or more?

He sat down in his dressing room chair and stared into the mirror. The dim lights cast faint shadows on his face, and he thought he looked strange. No dark circles under his eyes — he was wearing makeup — but faint wrinkles had appeared at the corners of his mouth. He thought he looked afraid. Not just afraid; when you looked into his eyes, you could see real terror. Raw terror, the kind you see every day — terror that signals something truly awful is about to happen. If it didn’t show on his face, it was clear in his eyes.

He thought he was about to cry from despair, which was unfortunate because it would ruin his makeup.

Then, suddenly, he heard a scream.

A sharp scream — a scream of terror.

It wasn’t the kind of scream you imagine in a horror movie — some girl being caught by the killer, another victim dragged to her doom. Another jump scare for the audience among a sea of cheap scares.

No — this was the scream of a man. A terrified man. the scream abruptly cut off in a very suspicious silence. Maor knew something terrible had happened. You already know he did. he ran toward the source of the scream — fast, frantic — what people might call a “dead sprint.” But this was a frantic sprint.

He reached backstage, where the curtain was pulled aside. He pushed it back and saw the most horrifying scene his eyes had ever beheld.

And when I say horrifying, I mean it.

He wanted to scream, but was paralyzed by fear. You can be paralyzed by fear — it’s possible. It’s not just written in books. Try it sometime. You might not find anything that terrifies you enough to freeze you solid, but surely you can find someone it has happened to. It happened to many, including Maor.

He saw the body of a man — but not just any body. The body of the stage manager.

The stage manager was a man who, from the outside, looked stern and grim, but anyone who knew him well understood it was a product of constant pressure. After all, being a stage manager was no easy job. He always wore a serious expression—even when he was happy—such was his nature. He was a hardworking man, intolerant of laziness because he himself was never lazy. If he had been an actor, he probably wouldn’t have succeeded, especially with fans. He simply didn’t have the patience for young women yelling at him, demanding his signature.

He had a large mustache that spread across his face like it had a personality of its own, loudly announcing his presence. His thick eyebrows were equally prominent, hanging low over his eyes. He was a big man, strong, with muscular arms and a hooked nose. Not much to look at—he was, frankly, quite ugly.

Now, his face bore the usual serious expression, but mixed with terror—terrible, raw terror. And rightly so. He had reason to be terrified.

He wasn’t just dead. His body was there—whole, but hanging by metal chains that were either sewn or forcibly embedded into his flesh, dangling from the ceiling. His arms and legs were twisted in a brutal, unnatural way. On his eyes were sunglasses, but it was almost unmistakable that his eyeballs had been gouged out before the glasses were placed there.

There were several cuts across his body, and on the floor lay a pair of scissors—most likely the cause of the wounds. It was clear this torment had been inflicted on him before he was killed, Poor guy.

Maor vomited onto the floor, though it hardly mattered—the floor was already stained dark with blood.

Maor thought about how cunning the killer was. He had forced Maor to come here, probably to threaten him. Maybe it was meant for someone else, but Maor was almost certain the killer was sending him a message: The games were over You’re next.