Playella | Whisky by Pete Brassett

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.

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