Lights come up on an agent's office. Upstage is a desk, covered with scattered papers and books. Stacks of screenplays litter the floor. Downstage, sit two arm chairs. One unremarkable. The other is very large, luxurious and comfortable-looking.

ANGELA MARR is curled up in the big armchair, reading a screenplay. She is lovely, in a somewhat severe and overly-serious fashion, as if she considers her looks a detriment to her job.

A knock at the door disturbs her.

ANGELA
Come in, please.

STACY, Angela's secretary, pokes her head in.

STACY
Your one o'clock is here.

ANGELA
Send him in, please.

JOSHUA WEYLAND shuffles in. He's a small, nondescript man, maybe in his mid-thirties, humble and downtrodden looking, with the appearance of a blue-collar laborer. He holds his body awkwardly, crumpled and insect-like, as if he is handicapped.

Angela stands up politely. She looks startled and a little repulsed, but she quickly conceals it.

ANGELA
Come in please, Mr...

WEYLAND
Joshua Weyland.

ANGELA
Oh, yes. Sit down, please, Mr. Weyland.

Weyland glances at the big chair, and then perches himself nervously on the edge of the second, unremarkable chair. Angela resumes her seat in the big chair.

ANGELA
You come well-recommended, Mr. Weyland. Albert's letter speaks very highly of your writing skills, and he doesn't praise many new writers.

Weyland laughs nervously.

WEYLAND
Well, I have a confession to make. Three confessions, actually. The first one is, I forged that letter.

ANGELA
Excuse me?

WEYLAND
Albert Hutchinson has never seen my writing. He has no idea who I am.

ANGELA
Mr. Weyland. I am extremely busy...

WEYLAND
Wait! Please. Before you throw me out, Ms. Marr -- which I completely understand -- please listen to what I have to say.

ANGELA
Your second confession?

WEYLAND
Do I shock you? I shock you; I can see that.

ANGELA
Mr. Weyland, I think you have the wrong office. The psychoanalyst is two doors down.

WEYLAND
No, no. I came to see you, Ms. Marr.

Angela rises from her chair, angry and scared.

WEYLAND
Please. Just indulge me with a few minutes of your time.
(he indicates his handicap; continued)
WEYLAND
(continued)
Look at me. What could I possibly do to you? Your secretary is right outside the door. You're in no danger whatsoever.

Angela sits down again in the armchair, looking wary, and a bit ashamed of herself.

ANGELA
Five minutes, Mr. Weyland.

WEYLAND
Thank you. I'm sorry I had to rely on the fact that I am a cripple, in order to gain your sympathy.

ANGELA
No, really. It's all right.

WEYLAND
It's distasteful. But, what I have to tell you is so very important. This is my story. For many months, I've hidden from the light of civilization, hidden like the Devil himself. In this whole, wide world, no one knows of my deeds. I couldn't bear to keep my secret any longer. So... if you will listen to me...?

ANGELA
Go ahead, Mr. Weyland.

WEYLAND
I shall tell you the most important... no, no. I shall tell you chronologically. Arrange the events as they occurred, and please -- listen through the end of my story, and don't judge me until you have heard it all. First, I shall begin by stating the obvious: I am ugly beyond description.

ANGELA
Now, Mr. Weyland, I hardly think...

WEYLAND
Oh, you needn't flatter me. Everyone is so polite. But, I know what I look like. I make people so uncomfortable.

ANGELA
Well, I...

WEYLAND
I make them feel so lucky they aren't me. It doesn't matter. I'm wasting your time. Let's move on. I am a workman by trade. I make furniture. Specifically, chairs. I'm very good at it. It is the one respite from the torment in my soul brought on by my ugliness.

Angela raises her eyebrows at this rather purple phrasing, but Weyland doesn't notice her. He's on a roll now.

WEYLAND
I've gained the reputation of being able to satisfy any request, no matter how complicated. I enjoy the special privilege of taking only orders for luxury chairs. Complicated requests, you understand. Unique carvings, special designs for the back rest and the arm supports, fancy padding for the cushions and the seat... any sort of work calling for skilled hands, and patience and trial. I'm sure you must find this all very boring.

In spite of herself, Angela is getting interested in Weyland's story.

ANGELA
No, I'm... well, you take pride in your craft. That's very admirable.

WEYLAND
Yes, exactly. You understand me, Ms. Marr. How wonderful. And when I finish a chair, the first thing I like to do is to sit in it.

ANGELA
To see if you've done your work well.

WEYLAND
No. To imagine what kind of people will sit in it after me. People worthy of my work. People of nobility. People living in palatial residences. With priceless paintings, crystal chandeliers, expensive rugs on the floor.
(continued)
WEYLAND
(continued)
When I sit in a chair of my own, sometimes I believe that I, the designer of this beautiful chair for these beautiful people to sit in... I believe that I, too, belong in such a setting. Imagine that. Imagine me! How pathetic. Reclining comfortably in my luxurious chair. Pretending to belong among the beautiful people.

Weyland takes a good long look at the chair he's sitting in.

WEYLAND
This is a bad chair. It's not made well at all. There's no love in this chair. But, never mind. My story.

ANGELA
Please.

WEYLAND
One day, I received a commission for a huge armchair. A customer came to my boss. He admired the gorgeous furniture in our shop, and he commissioned a chair from us. Or from me, I should say. I was so proud. Proud and excited. To live up to my reputation as a superior craftsman, I devoted myself entirely to my new assignment. I even skipped food and sleep. The job became my life. At last the chair was complete, and it was the pinnacle of my craft. At last... I could sit in the chair. I had imagined that moment for weeks. When I sat down in the finished chair, I saw in my mind the people who would sit in it... And then I had an idea. A weird and sinister idea.

The idea would not leave me alone. Quickly, oh so quickly, I took my masterpiece apart. Then I reconstructed it. So that inside, there was a cavity, large enough to fit a human body.

My body, Ms. Marr. Imagine me accompanying my exquisite chair wherever it went. Imagine me sitting with the people who would sit in my chair. The rich and beautiful people. (continued)
WEYLAND
(continued)
I added a few finishing touches. A peep-hole in the back. Completely unnoticeable. Of course. As I told you, I am a master craftsman. Storage space for food and water. And then, Ms. Marr... and then... I hid myself inside the chair.

The workmen came to pick up the chair, and deliver it to its new home. With me hidden inside. Imagine me, stifling my laughter as they complained how heavy the chair was.

My chair was delivered to a private office, the gift of a rich man for his wife. A crushing blow. Imagine my despair. I dreamed my wonderful chair would sit somewhere public. Perhaps in the lobby of a five star hotel, where everyone could see it, and admire it. And sit in it. But, this pampered wife would be the only person to sit on my chair. To recline in my lap.

I wanted to give up. I wanted nothing more than to go back home. But, I was locked in her office. Torture. Such torture. Then, when she finally came to sit in me -- oh my. What a sweet, lovely body curled itself on my knees. It was heaven. I fell in love with her instantly.

But, look at me. How could she ever love a creature like me? I couldn't tell her my story. She would think I was insance. She'd think I meant to hurt her. But, how could I show her my love?

I thought about it for days and days. Finally, I hit on the answer. I would make her fall in love... with the chair.

Every time she sank her weight into the chair -- into me -- I tried my best to make her more comfortable. If she became too tired from sitting in one position, I would slowly move my knees and embrace her, to hold her more snugly. When she fell asleep in me, I would move my knees and gently rock her into a deeper sleep.
(continued)
WEYLAND
(continued)
Can you imagine the two of us... sitting for hours? She, reading or sleeping. Me, dreaming and loving her.

As I had dared to hope in my wildest dreams, my beloved fell in love with her chair. I knew that if only she would exchange one loving look with me, my life would be complete, and I could die content.

Ms. Marr... I hope you, of all people, will guess the object of my unrequited love.

Horrified, Angela leaps out of her armchair.

ANGELA
Oh, God! You --!

WEYLAND
Please, Ms. Marr! I wouldn't harm you for the world! I couldn't. Even if I could, I... I never could. I love you! I promise, I only wanted one chance to look at your lovely face, and proclaim my love for you, and tell my story.

ANGELA
Oh my God! Get out! Get out of here! I'm calling the police! Stacy!

WEYLAND
I'm going. I'm leaving now. I'm so sorry. I never should have told you this. I knew you couldn't return my love. Please, please forgive me.

ANGELA
Get out!

Weyland scuttles out of the office. Angela paces around, looking freaked out and casting evil looks at her huge armchair. She hurries out, leaving the chair alone in the center of the stage. Lights out.

Lights up, on the same scene.

Angela walks into her office, gives the chair a disgusted look, then sits down at her desk, looking dissatisfied. She works on her papers, and squirms around a bit in the unforgiving desk chair.

Stacy knocks and enters, carrying a letter.

ANGELA
Are the movers here?

STACY
No, not yet. Shame about the chair.

ANGELA
Are you kidding? I can't stand that thing. I want it out of here. It gives me the creeps.

STACY
I know, but...

Angela glares at her.

STACY
Sorry. But, there's been nothing from Mr. Weyland. Not since... you know. It just seems like a shame to get rid of a such a comfy chair.

She gives the chair an affectionate pat.

ANGELA
(indicating the letter)
What is that?

STACY
Oh! It just arrived by messenger.

She brings the letter to Angela, then exits hastily. Angela opens the letter and reads.

WEYLAND
(from off-stage)
My dear Ms. Marr. Please forgive my boldness in contacting you again. I hope you will indulge me, as I tell you my third confession. I am not a furniture craftsman, or a stalker. The story I told you last week was pure invention. In fact, am not even crippled. That, too, was an act. (continued)
WEYLAND
(continued)
I happened to hear that your husband recently purchased an armchair from my neighbor. He owns a Beverly Hills store specializing in custom-made furniture. I assure you, your chair has no sinister history.

I am a writer. Though it is true I do not know your client, Albert Hutchinson, I have admired his work for years, and I wished to have the chance to contact you. I wanted to make an impression on you, to demonstrate my talent -- as well as collect some unbiased character research for a new screenplay idea, for a horror movie entitled "The Human Chair."

Forgive me if I have frightened you. Forgive me for hoping I have frightened you. I am a horror writer, and frightening people is my stock in trade. I hope you will consider accepting me as your client. Sincerely, Joshua Weyland.

Angela laughs incredulously as she reads Weyland's letter.

ANGELA
Stacy!

Stacy enters. From her angle, she does not have a good view of the big armchair -- or her attention is exclusively focused on Angela, who has her back to the chair. As the two women converse excitedly, the lights slowly dim on them, leaving only the armchair fully lit.

STACY
What? What is it? What happened?

ANGELA
Do you still have Joshua Weyland's contact information?

STACY
I... what?

ANGELA
Call the movers, and cancel the pickup!

STACY
Wait, wait. You're keeping the stalker chair? What happened?

ANGELA
It's my favorite chair! And you're not going to believe this...

Angela waves the letter triumphantly. Both of them exit excitedly.

Unnoticed, the fabric of the chair's arm and back ripples. The clear shape of a human form surfaces for a moment, then is gone. Lights out.

THE END