This Screenplay Is Provided *solely For Review And Evaluation Purposes*.
Purchase Or Possession Of This Screenplay *does Not Grant Any Rights Of Any Kind*, Including But Not Limited To:
Production Rights, Filming Rights, Adaptation Rights, Distribution Rights, Performance Rights, Licensing Rights, Or The Right To Create Derivative Works.
All Intellectual Property Rights Remain Exclusively With *MR. PETER A. LOUTOS, II.*.
Any Copying, Sharing, Distribution, Public Display, Or Unauthorized Use Of This Screenplay Is Strictly Prohibited And May Result In Legal Action.
$233.00
The portal opens not with spectacle, but with a hush — the kind of hush that suggests the walls have been waiting for you.
The air shifts. The temperature dips. A book somewhere in the distance closes itself with the confidence of a librarian who has seen too much.
And standing in the center of it all, illuminated by a single stubborn beam of moonlight, is
Dr. Jack Mabba, PhD — the only man alive who can deliver a lecture to an empty room and still manage to be interrupted by three different dimensions at once.
He adjusts his glasses. Clears his throat. Raises his journal titled If It Glows — Don’t Touch It.
He is ready to begin his research.
The universe is ready to correct him.
They drift through the architecture like gossiping aristocrats, brushing past velvet curtains, nudging antique globes,
and rearranging dust motes into shapes that look suspiciously like sarcastic commentary.
They whisper. They swirl. They test him.
Dr. Mabba, naturally, misinterprets everything.
“Ah! A classic pre‑manifestation swirl pattern,” he announces proudly.
“Indicates a cooperative entity with mild boundary issues.”
The Spirits exchange a collective he thinks we’re cooperative?
A chandelier flickers in disbelief.
Not with thunder.
Not with spectacle.
But with a soft harmonic pulse — the cosmic equivalent of nine beings clearing their throats at once.
The room vibrates.
The ink in Dr. Mabba’s pen trembles.
His hair lifts slightly, as if reconsidering its life choices.
A braided voice — nine tones woven into one — fills the space:
“Dr. Mabba… your assumptions lack structural integrity.”
He freezes.
He straightens his coat.
He attempts to look like a man who is not being telepathically scolded by interdimensional intelligences.
“Which assumptions specifically?” he asks.
“Theoretical? Methodological? My dissertation on metaphysical mold?”
The Nine respond with a frequency that can only be described as cosmic disappointment.
The Spirits giggle again.
The visitor — you — begins to understand:
Every corridor is listening.
Every portrait is watching.
Every shadow is waiting for its cue.
The séance hasn’t even begun, and the universe is already losing patience with him.
The atmosphere shifts again — subtly, deliberately — as if the Estate itself is asking whether you’re ready to step from
observer to participant.
A soft harmonic ripple rolls through the space.
The Spirits lean in.
The Mysterious Nine pause their cosmic commentary.
Even Dr. Jack Mabba straightens his coat, sensing that something important is about to be offered.
This is the threshold where the story stops being something you read
and becomes something you enter.
This is not a fee.
This is not a purchase.
This is a ritual exchange — a symbolic alignment with the creative force behind
An Evening at The Biltmore Estate.
Your $333 unlocks:
The Estate recognizes you.
The Spirits take note.
The Nine adjust their calculations.
And Dr. Jack Mabba — bless him — immediately tries to explain the metaphysics of your decision to beings who absolutely did not ask.
A new chamber opens.
A new layer of the story reveals itself.
And you cross the threshold from curiosity to ceremonial involvement.