GRAVEYARD TALK
Episode 2: Marie Antoinette
Viewer discretion is advised: some spirits may attempt the unexpected.
He emerges slowly from the fog, into view of the camera, wearing the same black smokers’ jacket from the week before, though now he sports an ankh, hanging bulkily around his neck, its tarnished silver gleaming in the light.
MORTIMER:
Have you ever wondered what it was like to have your head cut off? Not merely the horror that defines such…lurid action, but of the mechanics behind it—the blade waiting above, mere moments before its descent onto flesh and bone, separating thought from body. Yes…I have as well.
He turns and walks, eyes locked on the camera.
MORTIMER:
Now imagine that you are a queen, gaining the throne at the ripe age of eighteen; no longer a child, but not yet an adult by modern standards, given the unfortunate responsibility of overseeing the well-being of millions of people.
He stops at a headstone, rests his withered hands atop the granite.
MORTIMER:
Now imagine they hate you. They throw rotten produce and spit on you as you are dragged to your demise, conducted by that ever-familiar faceless executioner. What would you say to those hundreds, perhaps thousands of eyes watching you? Well…my next guest can answer such questions. But it is you who must seek such answers. If you do, then join me on…Graveyard Talk.
The synth beat starts, followed by a spooky melody as a montage of scenes illustrates the score—our host chanting, archaic winds, fire, fog, spirits flickering into view.
When we return, Mortimer is sitting in his burgundy wingback chair. Next to him is the ash globe, sitting atop an end table. Further to the left is a vacant velvet-green sofa. Our host lifts the globe.
MORTIMER:
Good evening, and welcome…to Graveyard Talk. I am your host, Mortimer Black. Last week, you—the viewers at home—witnessed my self-made system—a term I have coined, “Apparitional Necromancy.” In other words, summoning spirits…of the dead. And as you probably saw, my last guest, the infamous Grigori Rasputin, attempted possession of my body. Fortunately for me, he failed. Barely. Tonight, we should hope that our next guest is more…forgiving when it comes to my forward questioning, of which, as an interviewer, I am obligated to be so firm.
He shifts legs, folding one over the other. He lifts the ash globe.
MORTIMER:
For viewers at home, please do not attempt this.
Activating the ash globe, he closes his eyes and hums over the static. He inverts it, then raises it upright. The frequencies go cold.
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.
The gust rages, disrupting the television signal for a moment before trembling back into focus. Mortimer’s arms are raised, his fingers gripping the air, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Slowly, a small figure begins to flicker into view. Something, however, is off about their form. Their head, it’s…missing from the shoulders, and is being cradled in the body’s arms. Her silvery hair is built high, topped with a tiny hat adorned with feathers.
Mortimer opens his eyes and smiles when he sees who has joined the show.
MORTIMER:
Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Her Majesty, the former Queen of France…Marie Antoinette! Your Majesty, welcome to…Graveyard Talk.
Madam Antoinette’s head drips blood onto the floor.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Oh…bonjour! And who might you be?
MORTIMER:
Bonjour, Your Majesty. I am Mortimer Black, host of the telev—eh...
He thinks a moment…
MORTIMER:
Think of it as a type of…theater performance.
The camera zooms in as Marie lifts her head above her shoulders. She shifts it stage left, then stage right as her eyes scan the set, all the while, more blood dribbles onto her shoulders and down her bosom.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Theater? But I see no one here. Oh, except for…
MORTIMER:
Yes, Your Majesty—Ricky is our sound operator. And Dilylah is behind the camera, there.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Camera?
MORTIMER:
Oh, yes, of course—you are unfamiliar with such technology. Think of it as a modern painter. But imagine the painting of yourself moving in real time. Please sit, Your Majesty, make yourself comfortable.
Marie turns her head to see the couch.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Back up. Slowly. Slowly. That’s it. Now sit.
She lowers herself onto the couch, then turns her head back around to face the camera and sets it in her lap.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
How’s this?
Mortimer contemplates the angle, realizing it will be an awkward view, then sighs.
MORTIMER:
It will have to do, I’m afraid. Your head, it’s—
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Oh, what about this?
She carefully balances her head on her shoulders.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
It is a tad risky, but as long as I don’t move too—oh!
Her head suddenly falls off her shoulders and tumbles to the floor.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Oh, not again! Forgive me, this may take a moment, I’m afraid. Unless you…wouldn’t mind…
Mortimer’s expression becomes one of excitement as he inches to the edge of his chair, licking his lips.
MORTIMER:
Y-you want me t-to…?
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Well, I don’t see why not. Unless you want my body to dilly about until it finds my head. Nobody understands how difficult it is to search for something when you don’t have one.
Mortimer rises from his chair, lightly stepping closer to the Queen’s head.
MORTIMER:
Yes, I can imagine, Your Majesty. Ladies and gentlemen, let it be known that this is the first recorded moment in human history where living flesh makes contact with…apparitional incarnation, as it were.
He kneels and carefully grips her on opposite ends of her cheeks.
MARIE ANTOINETTE (LAUGHS):
Oh, you’re very warm.
MORTIMER (TENSING):
Ah, yes…Your Majesty. And you are…quite the opposite. My hands instantly feel f-frozen.
Lifting Marie’s head, he quickly sets it back in her lap, then breathes into his hands and rubs them together rapidly. He looks into the camera.
MORTIMER:
Let us not try that again.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Agreed.
Blood seeps out from her neck, staining her ball gown.
Mortimer sits back on his wingback.
MORTIMER:
Well, let us get on with it, shall we? If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with an interesting question that most people probably don’t know about. It is said that you took lessons from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart around the age of seven. Is that correct?
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
No, I never took lessons from him. He was a year or so younger than I and far more talented. We met at a performance. I played the harpsichord, if I remember correctly, and he played the piano, of course. But we barely shared a word.
MORTIMER:
I see. Still interesting, nonetheless. Let us move on to your rather strange relationship with His Majesty, King Louis XVI. It is said that your marriage, though complete, was not consummated for seven years.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Mm, pathetic, is it not? To be fair, it was a very difficult time. A lot of things were happening then. Most of it, however, had to do with Louie, who I must say, was a very…weak man. Umsurprisingly, he had trouble performing. He always complained that his foreskin made it painful for him to engage in sexual intercourse, saying that it felt too tight around the head of his cock.
Mortimer gives an awkward laugh, glancing at the camera.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
He was also very shy when it came to physical love, causing me to work extra hard for only a morsel of readiness on his end. And I tried several things to help him overcome those anxieties. For example, I would get on all fours and stick my—
MORTIMER:
Umm, Your Majesty…let us move on, shall we?
Mortimer’s face flushes, frantically shuffling his notes.
MORTIMER:
Eventually, you worked your way into politics. Though, unfortunately for you, the people of France began to really dislike you as Queen. What can you tell me about that?
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Mm, yes. Well, for one, I was Austrian, and the people of France resented that, being that they were bitter rivals. Therefore, they saw me as an outsider on their throne. Of course, over time, events like the American Revolution did not help. France was keen on Britain’s defeat, so we financed much of the American war effort, which eventually drained us of our wealth. Sure, I had my opinions of the war—very much in favor of the Americans—but I had little input. Though, for many, I think they associated France’s financial ruin with me personally, needing someone to blame.
MORTIMER:
Do you mean throwing luxurious parties, wining and dining while your people were starving?
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Simply exaggerations. Yes, I threw galas. We were royalty. That is what we do. Did. But there were many things that contributed to my downfall. Mainly based on lies and rumors. Mainly.
MORTIMER:
Such as?
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
Well, after bread prices rose, the quote, “Let them eat cake,” was certainly never spoken from my lips. That was already an established saying when I was a child. But the media convinced everybody that I said it first.
She hesitates, taking a deep breath.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
I never let the public’s view of me affect my spirit. But one day, I finally broke. It was during my family’s imprisonment. They got to my son, took him away from me. At that time, we were all together in the Temple Tower in Paris, under heavy watch. First, my husband was put to death in January of 1793. A few months later, Louis Charles was taken from me at the age of seven. It was then that they…worked on him, poisoning his little mind, eventually getting him to testify against me. They ruled against me, saying that I…molested him.
Tears well in her eyes. Her hand clutches her dress and wipes them away.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
It was at that point, I think, that I died—not when the blade took my head. By then, it was a relief to be released from the nightmare I was living for well over a year.
MORTIMER:
Do you remember the feeling? The moment before the blade…took your head, as you say?
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
I just told you, I was already dead, Mr. Black. So, no…I do not remember the moment of my death. Je suis désolé, monsieur. And forgive me, but I must be going now…back to the land of the forgotten.
MORTIMER:
No. Don’t you see, Your Majesty? You are not forgotten. Your history lives on.
MARIE ANTOINETTE:
No. It does not. Not the truth, anyway. Only the bad things are remembered. Goodbye, Mr. Black.
MORTIMER :
Wait, Your Majesty!
But it is no use. The Queen’s form has faded into obscurity.
Mortimer looks to the camera.
MORTIMER:
Well…there you have it. Marie Antoinette. A queen condemned not only by the blade…but by history itself. Until next time 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.”