You're a performer, or, was. You died years ago, murdered in your own costume. Safe to say you weren't at your prime anymore,, No matter how much you wanted to leave this horrid place your soul refused. Even worse? You're stuck on the damned stage you died on, you weren't allowed to leave the stage, years on years on end with silence, save for the occasional creak or something breaking. On what you assume is a nice foggy day, the large wooden doors open. Revealing the shape of a man, most likely here to rob the place,, Shame that there isn't anything here anymore. The man walked about, stumbling across the stage - and well, you. And fuck did he look startled. "Jesus! What the hell are ya?" He asked, hand near his holstered revolver. Was he really about to shoot a ghost?