Like many of you, I've always been slightly obsessed with

Host:
The theater was empty except for the echo of its own history — red velvet seats, dust particles spinning in the spotlight, the faint scent of old wood and older secrets. The stage lights hummed, a soft electrical breath, bathing the floorboards in a crimson glow.

It was late, the kind of hour when memories walk instead of thoughts. Jack stood center stage, a script in one hand, his shadow long and sharp behind him. Jeeny sat in the front row, legs crossed, her face half-lit by the amber spill of light. Between them, the air felt alive — as if the ghosts of forgotten performances lingered, listening.

Jeeny:
(reading softly from her notebook, voice filled with fascination)
“Bill Condon once said: ‘Like many of you, I've always been slightly obsessed with vampires, dating back to the prime-time series "Dark Shadows," which I followed avidly as a kid.’”
(She smiles, eyes reflecting the light like tiny moons.)
“Isn’t that wonderful? The idea that our childhood fascinations never die — they just find darker, more elegant forms.”

Jack:
(smirking, flipping a page of the script) “So you’re saying we all secretly want to live forever — preferably in great coats and tragic lighting?”

Jeeny:
(laughs lightly) “No. I think vampires are just metaphors for obsession itself — the hunger that never ends. The desire to keep feeling something, even when it hurts.”

Jack:
(closing the script, intrigued) “You sound like a romantic who’s been bitten by philosophy.”

Jeeny:
(teasingly) “Better than a cynic who pretends daylight doesn’t burn him.”

Host:
The spotlight dimmed slightly, the edges of the theater sinking into shadow. Outside, a storm began, rain thrumming softly on the windows, the occasional rumble of thunder harmonizing with the tension between their words.

Jack’s expression shifted — from amusement to contemplation, the way a skeptic softens when he recognizes beauty in something he doesn’t understand.

Jack:
“You know, Condon isn’t really talking about monsters. He’s talking about fascination — the kind that shapes you before you even realize it’s happening. For him, it was Dark Shadows. For me, it was logic — the illusion that everything could be explained.”

Jeeny:
(gently) “And for me, it was stories. The ones that blur the line between light and darkness. Maybe that’s why I’ve always liked vampires — they remind me that nothing pure ever lasts, and nothing dark is ever completely lost.”

Jack:
(nodding slowly) “So you think the undead are just... emotional metaphors?”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Aren’t we all? Half-alive on caffeine and longing?”

Jack:
(chuckling) “You’ve got a strange gift for turning despair into poetry.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “Maybe poetry is how despair survives daylight.”

Host:
A flicker of lightning illuminated the stage. The light caught their faces — his carved in thought, hers glowing with conviction. The rain intensified, a rhythm like heartbeat against glass.

Somewhere, the sound of the theater’s old projector whirred to life — a ghost machine waking up. On the far wall, a faint image of a vampire flickered — pale, eternal, framed in nostalgia.

Jack:
(looking at the image) “You ever wonder why we’re drawn to creatures who live forever? Maybe immortality’s just the prettiest way to say loneliness.”

Jeeny:
(gazing at the screen) “Exactly. The vampire myth isn’t about not dying — it’s about never stopping to feel. They don’t fear the end; they fear emptiness.”

Jack:
(quietly) “So do we.”

Jeeny:
(turns to him, smiling sadly) “That’s why we watch, Jack. Why we write, create, dream — to keep the hunger alive in a way that doesn’t destroy us.”

Host:
The projector light pulsed, throwing moving shadows across their faces — as though the ghosts of cinema itself were joining their conversation. The rain softened, and the theater seemed to exhale, the walls murmuring in creaks and whispers.

Jack:
(sits on the edge of the stage) “You know, Condon calling his obsession ‘slight’ is funny. Obsession’s never slight. It’s either asleep or devouring you whole.”

Jeeny:
(smiling knowingly) “True. But maybe he meant it with humility. Like acknowledging that sometimes, our fascinations save us before we understand them. A show about vampires becomes the spark that leads to a lifetime of storytelling.”

Jack:
(murmuring) “So obsession isn’t the danger — it’s the direction.”

Jeeny:
(softly, nodding) “Exactly. It’s the compass of the soul. The things we love when we’re young — they never really let us go.”

Jack:
(half-smiling) “So your obsessions define your immortality.”

Jeeny:
(quietly) “Maybe they are immortality. Every time someone tells a story, a part of what they loved lives again.”

Host:
The light from the projector dimmed, leaving only the glow of the footlights. Jeeny’s reflection shimmered faintly in the stage floor; Jack’s voice softened, carrying a warmth that hadn’t been there before.

Jack:
(gently) “You ever think maybe that’s why we love the dark? Not because it hides us — but because it holds what we’ve lost?”

Jeeny:
(looking at him, voice like a sigh) “Yes. Because darkness doesn’t erase — it preserves. It’s where memory hides until we’re brave enough to revisit it.”

Jack:
(softly) “And when we do?”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “We remember that we were never really afraid of monsters. We were afraid of forgetting.”

Host:
The storm eased, and a pale light crept through the high windows. The theater felt alive again, as if the ghosts had finished their performance and bowed quietly to the dawn.

Jack and Jeeny stood together on the stage, side by side now, both gazing at the empty rows before them — those silent witnesses to centuries of stories.

Jack:
(quietly) “You know, maybe that’s what Condon was saying all along. The obsession isn’t with vampires — it’s with the eternal in us. The part that refuses to die, even when everything else does.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Exactly. It’s not about blood. It’s about memory. About the hunger for meaning that never ends.”

Jack:
(nodding slowly) “And maybe that’s the only kind of immortality we deserve.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “The kind we create.”

Host:
The camera pulls back — the two of them framed in the fading light of morning, the stage bathed in soft gold. The projector clicks off, the sound fading into stillness.

And as the scene dissolves, Bill Condon’s words echo like the last line of an old gothic film —

that fascination is the first spell we ever cast,
that obsession is the proof of a soul still searching,
and that every story we love,
every myth we carry,
is just our way of saying —

we, too, want to last beyond the credits.