It was the kind of theatre that you'd expect to see in the old black and white films and the only one around that still enforced a formal attire dress code. It showed a mix of modern day cinema and sepia toned classics, now dubbed masterpieces. From time to time they would roll up the old silk screen and play host to live local performances.
The midnight screenings were always the most popular but the least populated - most of the living had better things to do than watch a seemingly empty stage. There were a select few who could see the performers, hundreds of years old and frozen in their prime. They would reenact their favourite shows, their most famed shows and with each session they would grow stronger.
It seemed sometimes like they almost fed from the attention of the sparse but rapt audience, flickering shades brighter with each round of muted applause from their regular fans and whatever bored friends they dragged with them, insisting that the stage was filled with the ghosts of such performers as Anna Pavlova and Marlon Brando.
Mostly these people, the ones that couldn't see the actors, walked out before any kind of climax had been built. Times like these made the performers' flickering form dim. Countless ghosts had been lost to audiences like this, vanishing before their very eyes, their faces the very definition of terror. Not that they were seen by the ones who left. Those people left as ignorant as they arrived but with an urge to rewatch old theatricals.
The midnight screenings were always the most popular but the least populated - most of the living had better things to do than watch a seemingly empty stage. There were a select few who could see the performers, hundreds of years old and frozen in their prime. They would reenact their favourite shows, their most famed shows and with each session they would grow stronger.
It seemed sometimes like they almost fed from the attention of the sparse but rapt audience, flickering shades brighter with each round of muted applause from their regular fans and whatever bored friends they dragged with them, insisting that the stage was filled with the ghosts of such performers as Anna Pavlova and Marlon Brando.
Mostly these people, the ones that couldn't see the actors, walked out before any kind of climax had been built. Times like these made the performers' flickering form dim. Countless ghosts had been lost to audiences like this, vanishing before their very eyes, their faces the very definition of terror. Not that they were seen by the ones who left. Those people left as ignorant as they arrived but with an urge to rewatch old theatricals.
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