GRAVEYARD TALK

Episode 1: Grigori Rasputin

Viewer discretion is advised: some spirits may attempt the unexpected.

A cemetery. Waves of eerie synth music play. He emerges from the fog, wearing a black velvet smokers’ jacket with silk lapels. His silver hair is slicked back while his ghoulish eyes stare straight ahead.

MORTIMER:

Good evening, and welcome…to Graveyard Talk. I am your host, Mortimer Black.

He walks slowly amid the haze, eyes fixed on the viewers at home.

MORTIMER:

Culturally defined as ghosts or spirits, they are often thought of as wandering souls of the deceased, trapped between the realms of the living…and the dead. But what if we could better understand these apparitions by a simple gesture of invitation? Old-world tactics combined with new-world technology, allowing us not only to observe these spirits in real time, but to speak with them…as I speak with you now.

He stops beside a wingback chair. A peculiar glass globe rests on an end table. Further left is a small green sofa. Mortimer sits carefully in the chair and lifts the globe for the viewers to see.

MORTIMER:

From a distance, this may seem like a simple snow globe. But if you look closely, you will notice the particles inside are not white, but grey—cremated ashes of the long-forgotten. Encased in glass, they appear harmless, yet at the base lies a spirit box—a device used to communicate with the departed. Observe as I turn it on.

Static crackles. Mortimer fumbles with the knobs. Frequencies bend and wobble.

MORTIMER:

To the unseasoned ear, it may sound like an old radio. But when I invert the globe…and set it upright again—

Ashes whirl tempestuously before settling at the base.

MORTIMER:

Silence. It is at this crucial moment that our old-world methods come into play.

He adjusts the knobs until the globe powers off.

MORTIMER:

But before we proceed, let us speak of tonight’s guest. In life, he was seen by many as a mystic, a visionary, a healer, and even a prophet. To others, however, he was considered a charlatan…and a madman. Nevertheless, his influence cannot be denied in the time in which he lived, as he befriended and advised the last Emperor of Russia, Nicholas II, and his family. Yet it is his death that remains perhaps the most misunderstood, as well as the most disputed. But tonight, we put those disputes to rest, for such questions shall be answered—hopefully. Ladies and gentlemen, I summon for you…Grigori…Rasputin!

He reactivates the globe and inverts it. The ashes once again fill the glass.

MORTIMER (CHANTING):

Soul of the dead, hear my living call.
Rise o’ rise from thy spectral stall.
Come forth and speak of life once known.
Then return to inhabit thy deathly throne.

A mysterious wind picks up. The signal on the screen flutters. Mortimer grips the arms of his chair, eyes darting across the cemetery set. From the swirling mist, a massive figure flickers into view. His hair and beard hang long. Dripping wet, he scans the area, unsettled, confused. Mortimer rises, unruffled by the evocation, though the stench of his guest is enough to make him grimace.

MORTIMER:

Grigori Rasputin…I am Mortimer Black. Welcome…to Graveyard Talk.

RASPUTIN:

Where…am I?

MORTIMER:

You are among the living, Mr. Rasputin…albeit temporarily.

He gestures to the sofa.

MORTIMER:

Please, sit, Mr. Rasputin.

Rasputin studies the sofa, hesitating before eventually lowering himself onto it. Mortimer returns to his chair, calm, eyes fixed on his guest.

MORTIMER:

Mr. Rasputin, there are many questions I have for—

RASPUTIN:

What is that?

The camera zooms in on Rasputin’s intense, unblinking eyes.

MORTIMER:

Oh, yes. Do forgive me, that is called a camera, Mr. Rasputin.

RASPUTIN:

I see before.

MORTIMER:

Yes, there are indeed photos of you. This, however, is for what we call television. You see, we run a local access show called…Graveya—

RASPUTIN:

I bored now. Continue with question.

MORTIMER:

Yes, of course. Well…I suppose we should start with what brought you to spirituality. It is said that you left your wife and children in 1897 to pursue… “the call,” so to speak. What can you tell me about that?

RASPUTIN:

Marriage prove difficult for man like me. After ten year, I need more. So…I leave my wife and children behind. For time, I wander until I come to monastery—St. Nicolas—where I stay for months. But…I had to make sudden departure.

MORTIMER:

I see. And why is it that you left?

RASPUTIN:

Too much…gayness happen.

Mortimer seems confused.

MORTIMER:

You mean…homosexual activity?

RASPUTIN:

Mm. Yes. Monks there, they…play with each other. They invite me, but I say no. I knew then I was done.

MORTIMER:

I see. Because that…bothered you? That they…

RASPUTIN:

Yes. I like womans. Titty good for man. Man not good for man.

Mortimer awkwardly adjusts his lapels, clears his throat.

MORTIMER:

Let us proceed, shall we? It is said that you began a relationship with the Romanovs, particularly taking on the role of helping to aid the young Alexei Nikolaevich, who had hemophilia, an inherited bleeding disorder.

RASPUTIN:

Yes. Doctors make worse for him. They make worry too much. So, when I come, I say everything fine, and he get better. That and I say no aspirin. Aspirin not good for blood. Family see him get better, so trust me now.

Mortimer nods.

MORTIMER:

Well, it cannot be understated that your influence over the Romanov family was immense. Over time, however, much of Russian society felt that you were a bit of a puppet master, so to speak, often depicted in propaganda photos of your impact. Eventually, people wanted you dead.

Rasputin’s eyes widen.

MORTIMER:

In 1914, a woman by the name of Khioniya Guseva attempted to kill you, successfully stabbing you with a knife, and reportedly calling you the “Antichrist.” What can you tell me about that?

RASPUTIN:

Khioniya was syphilitic strumpet, which make her delusional. She was devotee of monk, Iliodor. He used to be friend until he get jealous of me. I was more power than him. Anyway, after stabbing, I was in hospital for time…but I did not die then.

Mortimer shifts in his chair.

MORTIMER:

Tell me about the night you did die.

Rasputin tugs at his beard, pulling something away from it. He smells it before popping it into his mouth. He chews.

Mortimer turns to the camera, then back to his guest.

RASPUTIN:

There were many who want me dead. I should have know that night. Prince Yusupov invite me to his palace for dinner, wine…and womans.

He chuckles.

RASPUTIN:

It was the womans that got me to say yes.

MORTIMER:

In his memoir, Yusupov claims that he fed you cake and wine laced with cyanide. Is this true?

RASPUTIN:

I remember wine taste…strange. But I have no effect. I never have cake, though. Or womans—they never came. I knew then that I had been…

His eyes widen again, the memory playing in his mind.

RASPUTIN:

He shoot me, first in chest. I remember I try run, but he shoot me again. This time in back. But I did not die then. Last thing I remember…colors…spilling from my head.

MORTIMER:

I’m sorry…colors? Do you mean the gunshot to your head from Vladimir Purishkevich?

Rasputin stares at nothing, eventually turning his eyes toward the host.

MORTIMER:

Mr. Rasputin? Is everything al—

Suddenly, Rasputin’s form weakens, his eyes glowing faintly before intensifying. Blinding green beams erupt from his eyes and mouth, blasting into Mortimer’s face.

The host coughs, his hand clutching his throat. His voice is constricted.

MORTIMER:

Help…

Crewmembers come into view of the camera

CREWMEMBER (RICKY):

Mort! What’s happening?

MORTIMER (GASPING):

He…he…wants…to…speak…through me…

He convulses slightly, his voice splitting between his own and Rasputin’s.

MORTIMER/RASPUTIN (DOUBLE VOICE):

I am…Rasputin. I command the living to kneel before—no! I am Mortimer Black…welcome to…Graveyard—

He jerks in his chair. Wind causes objects to fly around the set. The camera view trembles and flickers.

CREWMEMBER (DILLYAH):

The globe, Ricky! Turn it off!

Ricky scrambles. Ashes swirl inside the globe, miniature lightning snapping chaotically.

Mortimer’s slicked-back hair begins to rise on end as if he is charged by the electricity inside the globe. His voice is still an amalgamation of his own and Rasputin’s—two frequencies battling for dominance.

Finally, Ricky twists the knob. The globe clicks off. The swirling ashes collapse.

Mortimer slumps in his chair, His panting is heavy.

MORTIMER:

Forgive me, all at home. That…was an attempted possession. A rarity…but it happens. A very preternatural occurrence.

CREWMEMBER (DILLYAH):

Mort, are you okay?

Mortimer runs his hands through his disorderly hair, smoothing it back into place.

MORTIMER:

I am fine. Just remind me next time to keep the questions slightly less…ambitious. I may be a veteran when it comes to specters, but as an interviewer, I am still very much a novice.

He settles into his chair, straightening his lapels, and focuses on the camera.

MORTIMER:

And with that…we conclude our first episode. Thank you for joining us, and remember: some preternatural forces are curious, some are mischievous…but all demand respect. Until next week…on Graveyard Talk.

The same eerie synth music swells as credits roll. A calm, ghostly voice says:
“Graveyard Talk is brought to you by Mortimer Black and the Department of Preternatural Studies. Mr. Black accepts no responsibility for possession, hauntings, or unexplained phenomena.”