Small living room, dark, save for the yellow glow of a standard lamp. Andy is sitting on the sofa with a book in his lap. Opposite him, in the armchair, is Whisky, his pet dog, a miniature Schnauzer. The dog sits up and sniffs the air enthusiastically.
ANDY: What is it?
WHISKY: They’re here.
ANDY: What?! Who?! Who’s here?
WHISKY: The spirits.
ANDY: Spirits?! You telling me we have ghosts?
WHISKY: They’re no ghosties, numpty, they’re spirits, long and wispy, gentle wee things, mammy and her bairn.
ANDY: How do you know? Can you see them? Do they smell?
WHISKY: Aye, of course they smell, like semolina. She’s smiling, They’re happy here.
Whisky wags his tail, gently. Andy whispers.
ANDY: What do we do? Should we get a priest?
WHISKY: No need, they’ll no harm you.
Andy leans forward and stares Whisky in the eye.
ANDY: I don’t believe you. I think you’ve been at the Balvenie again.
He stands to leave and shivers as a cool breeze blows down his neck.
WHISKY: Believe, laddie. Believe.