Based on the movie by George Barry (1977)

Translation and Production by ZJC (2026)

Characters

• Diane
• Susan
• Sharon
• Sharon’s Brother
• The Artist (the soul of Aubrey Beardsley)
• Lenore, the Resurrected Mother
• Boy (First male victim)
• Girl (First female victim)

Note: The Gangsters, Doctors, and Patient have been removed.

Note on the Bed

The Bed should function not as furniture but as a visible, predatory puppet-object animated by black-clad operators whose presence the production does not attempt to hide. Its movement vocabulary should suggest appetite, mood, and cruel intelligence: at times languid and seductive, breathing almost imperceptibly through tiny ripples of curtain, sheet, and mattress; at others abrupt, playful, and vicious, with snaps, lunges, recoils, and convulsive inward folds. It should never move like a machine and never like a person in costume; rather, it should feel like a possessed household object that has, over decades, learned the rhythms of hunger, boredom, delight, and rage. The operators may manipulate curtains, slats, mattress seams, and hidden inner “mouth” spaces so that the Bed can tease, listen, toy with victims, savor their fear, and finally strike with terrifying speed. In this way, the Bed acquires a real stage personality: vain, watchful, malicious, and almost playful in its certainty that no ordinary human action can hurt it.

Set Description

Gar Wood Mansion, Detroit, Michigan.

Darkness. The sounds of the Bed are all we hear, overlapping: the rhythmic crunch of an apple being eaten, mixed in with an extremely slow, extremely heavy snoring. It’s not the sound of a human; it sounds more like something eldritch, uncanny, turning over underground. Layered beneath this is faint drumming, a queer heartbeat.

We find ourselves in a small stone building with a fire burning in its brick hearth. Cold. Eerie. The Bed, a creepy four-poster canopy, sits in the center of the room. To one side on the wall is a Painting of the Bed—grotesque, decadent, erotic. Behind the painting resides the Soul of the Artist.

The entire play unfolds within a single space; however, this space constantly shifts and slides between memory, hallucination, mythological narrative and reality.

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SCENE I: Breakfast (早餐)

Like Cthulhu, dreaming in a death-like stasis, the Artist simultaneously exists and does not exist, residing both behind the painting and elsewhere. The Artist is both soliloquy and exposition.

ARTIST

我死后六十年，一直烂在我自己的画面后。不是土里的那种烂。土里的死人，多少还有土肯收。我没有。我只有这一层夹缝。一层潮的、霉的、死不透的黑。这些年陪着我的，只有那东西睡觉时的声音。就在它昏昏睡去的那一刻，整座房子仿佛都承受着一股沉重而压抑的重压。但它醒来的那一刻——

I have been rotting behind my own painting for sixty years after my death. Not the way the dead rot in the ground. The dead in the ground at least have earth that will take them. I have nothing but this crack between worlds. A damp, moldy, undead darkness. All these years, the only thing that has kept me company is the sound of it sleeping. When it sinks into its slumber, the whole house feels a heavy, crushing weight. But when it wakes—

Footsteps are heard in the distance.

又有人来了。

Someone is coming again.

天哪！

God help them.

它闻到他们的气味了！

It smells them already.

Outside the locked door, the Girl and Boy enter. The Boy holds a picnic basket.

GIRL

我不想进去。

I don’t want to go in.

BOY

你怎么又来了？刚才不还好好的？

What’s wrong with you now? You were fine a moment ago.

GIRL

我不知道。我就是不想进去。

I don’t know. I just don’t want to go in.

BOY

宝贝，你是走累了。这地方破是破了点，可也不至于把你吓成这样。你看看，门、窗、墙，顶多就是栋空房子。能有什么？

Baby, your feet are tired. This place is falling apart, sure, but it’s not going to hurt you. Look—doors, windows, walls. It’s just an empty house. What could be in here?

GIRL

我说不上来。可这里不像空的。像……像里面有什么东西，一直在等。

I can’t explain it. But it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like something in here has been waiting.

BOY

等什么？等我们？行了，别自己吓自己。你要真想走，我们就走。可你先想清楚。我们都走到这儿了。嘿。你知道我爱你。

Waiting for what? For us? Come on. Don’t scare yourself. If you really want to leave, we’ll leave. But think about it. We came all this way.

Hey.

You know I love you.

GIRL

……好吧。

…All right.

BOY

这就对了。你在这儿等等，我去看看。

That’s my girl. Wait here. I’ll take a look.

He tries the door.

BOY

见鬼。全锁着。

Damn. It’s locked.

GIRL

那就走吧。现在就走。

Then let’s go. Right now.

BOY

急什么。能进院子，就总能找到别的路。

Don’t rush. If we made it into the yard, there’s got to be another way in.

They move off to explore. As their backs are turned, the door slowly creaks open. The Girl notices.

GIRL

嘿，这边。

Hey. Over here.

As the Couple enter, the fire in the fireplace goes out.

GIRL

这里有味道。

There’s a smell in here.

BOY

什么味道？

What kind of smell?

GIRL

像湿木头。又像……像什么东西放坏了。

Like wet wood. Like something’s just gone bad.

ARTIST

对。放坏了。血放久了，木头也会有味。可你们这些活人，总要等闻见自己了，才肯信。

Yes. Gone bad. Blood left too long in wood has a smell. But you living people never believe it until you smell your own.

BOY

嘿——这边。你过来看看。

Hey—over here. Come look at this.

Girl remains motionless.

BOY

怎么了？

What’s wrong?

GIRL

你先说，里面有什么。

You tell me what’s in there first.

BOY

一张床。好大的床。老天，这玩意儿真够气派。现在你总不会还想走吧？

A bed. A huge bed. My God, this thing is magnificent. You’re not still thinking about leaving, are you?

GIRL

是挺漂亮。

It’s beautiful.

ARTIST

漂亮。对。牙也可以很漂亮。井口也可以很漂亮。坟若铺了花，也会显得漂亮。

Beautiful. Yes. Teeth can be beautiful. A well can be beautiful. A grave covered in flowers can look beautiful.

The Boy takes out a candle, places it on the ground and lights it.

BOY

过来啊。

Come here.

The Couple sit on the Bed and begin kissing. After a moment…

GIRL

你有没有吃的？

Did you bring anything to eat?

BOY

你饿了？

You’re hungry?

GIRL

走太久了。我有点发虚。

We walked too far. I’m feeling a little weak.

BOY

行，我找找。

All right, let me see.

From the picnic basket the Boy produces two apples, a bottle of wine and a bucket of fried chicken.

GIRL

弗兰克。

Frank.

BOY

嗯？

Yeah?

GIRL

把门锁上。

Lock the door.

BOY

宝贝，我都说了，这地方好多年没人住了。谁还会来？

Baby, I told you. Nobody’s lived here for years. Who’s going to come?

GIRL

锁上比较好。

Lock it anyway.

BOY

好吧。

Fine.

He tests the door.

BOY

本来就是锁着的。

It was already locked.

The Couple goes back to kissing. Unnoticed, though inches away, frothy digestive juices seep up through the mattress, pulling one of the apples down inside. Slowly, the Bed then consumes the other apple, the wine and the chicken in the same manner.

GIRL

我们吃点东西吧。

Let’s eat something.

The Boy reaches for the chicken and bottle only to find them gone.

BOY

不对。不对劲。

No. Something’s wrong.

GIRL

那就算了。我现在……也不怎么饿了。

Never mind. I’m not… that hungry anymore.

ARTIST

因为它已经先尝过你了。不是用嘴。不是用牙。是更早的那一步。先让你困。先让你软。先让你想，躺一下也没什么。怪物若有耐心，就比张口更坏。

Because it already tasted you. Not with a mouth. Not with teeth. Something earlier. First it makes you tired. Then it makes you soft. Then it makes you think—lying down for a moment won’t hurt. A patient monster is worse than one that simply bites.

The Boy manages to remove the Girl’s bra. She stands up, nervously begins pacing.

BOY

你先坐一会儿吧。

Just sit down for a minute.

GIRL

我不想坐那张床。

I don’t want to sit on that bed.

BOY

为什么？

Why not?

GIRL

我不知道。我不喜欢它在看我。

I don’t know. I don’t like the way it’s looking at me.

BOY

……你今天真有点不对劲。

…You’re really not yourself today.

GIRL

不是我不对劲。是这里不对劲。

It’s not me. It’s this place.

Before their lovemaking can progress any further the curtains of the Bed pull themselves closed. The Boy and Girl begin screaming, accompanied by the apple-crunching sounds of the Bed eating, mixed in with its labored breathing.

Blood splatters from under the curtains and onto the floor, dousing the candle.

After a moment: silence.

The curtains open. The Bed is, once more, empty.

The slow, heavy snoring begins again.

ARTIST

对。不是你。是这里。可惜你说得还太轻。这里不是”不对劲”。这里是饿。

Yes. Not you. This place. But you didn’t say it loudly enough. This place isn’t just “not right.”

This place is hungry.

A faint, low-pitched pulsation emanates from deep underground.

ARTIST

它在做梦。

It’s dreaming.

人们太胆小。他们知道这地方有东西，却不敢烧，不敢埋，不敢拖出去。索性把门一锁，装作问题会自己烂掉。

People are too afraid. They know there’s something in this house. But they won’t burn it. Won’t bury it. Won’t drag it out. So they just lock the door and pretend the problem will rot on its own.

可饥饿不会烂掉。饥饿只会等。

But hunger doesn’t rot.

Hunger waits.

A flash of light—old newspaper headlines of The Detroit Free Press sweeping across time and space.

PROJECTION / VOICE

夜间听见奇怪咀嚼声！

“Strange Chewing Sounds Heard at Night!”

市长要求采取行动。

“Mayor Demands Action!”

科尔曼·杨：我们需要行动！

“Coleman Young: We Need Action!”

市长失踪！

“Mayor Missing!”

ARTIST

所以，你已经很多年没吃东西了。

So you haven’t eaten in years.

别怪我。我可没替你招客。我没站在门口说：请进。请进。里面凉快。里面柔软。里面适合躺下。

Don’t blame me. I don’t bring them to you. I don’t stand at the door and say: Please. Come in. It’s cool in here. It’s soft. It’s good for lying down.

是你自己太贪。见人就吞。来者不拒。如今这宅子臭名昭著。人人都知道，进来的人，出不去。谁还肯来？

You’re just too greedy. Everyone who comes in, you swallow. Now the house is notorious. Everyone knows—those who go in don’t come out. So who would come?

所以你饿。饿得在地窖里翻身。饿得连做梦都在咬。

So you’re hungry. Hungry enough to turn in your cellar. Hungry enough to bite in your dreams.

可我还是不懂。既然你有那样的力气，为什么不干脆把整栋房子都毁了？

But I still don’t understand. If you have that kind of power, why not just destroy the whole house?

啊，对。因为你是个傻子。你有力量，却没有自由。你能吞活人，却搬不动自己的监牢。

Ah. Right.

Because you’re a fool.

You have strength but no freedom.

You can devour the living but you cannot move your own prison.

---

SCENE II: Lunch (午餐)

Diane, Susan, and Sharon enter. Carrying bags and coats, they arrive from the brighter world of the living. Yet, as they draw near the house, that sense of daylight begins to fade.

DIANE

行了，就是这儿。你不是一路都在说想找个安静地方吗？现在到了，又摆这副样子给谁看？

All right, this is it. You said you wanted a quiet place. So here it is. So why are you making that face?

SUSAN

我不是摆样子。我是真的不舒服。一下车就不舒服。

I’m not making a face. I really don’t feel well. I haven’t felt well since we got out of the car.

SHARON

这里有味道。你们没闻见吗？

There’s a smell in here. Don’t you smell it?

DIANE

旧房子都有味。木头、灰、潮气。有什么好大惊小怪的？

Old houses always smell. Wood, dust, damp. What’s the big deal?

SUSAN

不是那种味道。像什么东西坏了。又像……像有人在这里病过很久。

It’s not that kind of smell. Like something’s gone bad. Or like… like someone was sick here for a long time.

我就不该来。我跟你们本来也不熟。

I shouldn’t have come. I don’t even really know you.

DIANE

苏珊，差不多行了。是你自己非要跟来的。一路上念到现在，谁受得了？

Susan, that’s enough. You’re the one who wanted to come. You’ve been complaining the whole way. Nobody can take it anymore.

SUSAN

我知道是我自己要来的。所以我才更后悔。在车上我就想下去。我真的想。可我不敢开口。你们那时候看我的眼神好像只要我一说话，你们就会一起笑。

I know I wanted to come. That’s why I’m even more upset. I wanted to get out of the car. I really did. But I couldn’t open my mouth. Because every time I was about to say something, you both looked at me like you were going to laugh.

SHARON

不是笑。是你那时候就不对劲。

We weren’t laughing. You were already acting strange back then.

SUSAN

我现在也不对劲。我一靠近这里，就觉得它认得我。

I’m still strange now. The closer I get to this place, the more it feels like it knows me.

ARTIST

别进来。它已经很久没吃东西了。

Don’t come in. It hasn’t eaten in a very long time.

Sharon stops.

SHARON

你们听见没有？

Did you hear that?

DIANE

听见什么？

Hear what?

SHARON

……像有人说话。

…Like someone was talking.

ARTIST

她听得见一点。总会有一个。耳朵比别人薄，魂比别人轻。

She hears a little. There’s always one. With thinner ears. A lighter soul.

DIANE

走吧。都到门口了，现在回头像什么样子？

Come on. We’re at the door. What kind of fools would we be to turn back now?

SUSAN

我们能不能别进去？

Can we please not go inside?

DIANE

不能。来都来了。

No. We’re here.

SHARON

苏珊，你走我旁边。

Susan, walk next to me.

SUSAN

我不想离你太远。

I don’t want to be too far from you.

ARTIST

又带来一个。新的。活的。会喘气、会流血、会在夜里梦见自己被咬的人。就算我现在能把话塞进你们耳朵里，也已经太晚。恐怖已经开始了。在你们眼里，我不过是墙上的一张画。在我眼里，你们却像银盘里还热着的肉。

Another one. New. Alive. Someone who breathes and bleeds and dreams at night of being bitten. Even if I could push words into your ears right now, it’s already too late. The terror has already begun. To you, I’m just a painting on the wall. But to me—you’re like warm meat on a silver platter.

They enter the house.

SHARON

那幅画……你们看见没有？

That painting—did you see it?

DIANE

看见了。怎么了？

I saw it. So what?

SHARON

他的眼睛在流血。

His eyes are bleeding.

DIANE

别胡说。

Don’t be crazy.

SUSAN

我也看见了。

I saw it too.

ARTIST

因为它在想。因为它在怕。因为你们中间，有一个碰到了它最不肯碰的旧伤。她让你不安，是不是？她让你想逃，是不是？那你为什么还不逃？

Because it’s thinking. Because it’s afraid. Because among you there is one who touches an old wound it cannot bear. She unsettles you, doesn’t she? She makes you want to run, doesn’t she? Then why don’t you run?

SHARON

我以前没见过这种地方。

I’ve never seen a place like this before.

DIANE

至少今晚不用担心没地方睡。这床够大，三个人都睡得下。

At least we don’t have to worry about where to sleep tonight. This bed is big enough for all three of us.

SUSAN

要是挤不下，我可以睡地板。

If it’s too crowded, I can sleep on the floor.

DIANE

别傻了。有地方就是有地方。我不至于让你睡地上。

Don’t be stupid. A place is a place. I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor.

SUSAN

我好累。我能不能先躺一会儿？等晚上你们再睡。

I’m so tired. Can I lie down for a while? You two can sleep later.

SHARON

那你夜里怎么办？

What will you do in the middle of the night?

SUSAN

我本来也睡不好。我可以起来生火，看书。只要你们别介意。

I don’t sleep well anyway. I can get up, build a fire, read a book. As long as you don’t mind.

DIANE

我不介意。你要睡就睡。醒了我们再吃东西。

I don’t mind. You sleep. When you wake up, we’ll eat.

SHARON

我陪你待一会儿。

I’ll stay with you for a while.

SUSAN

不用。你别走远就行。

No. Don’t go too far.

ARTIST

你居然让她躺下。她明明已经怕成这样了。可你们这些活人，总以为”累了””歇会儿””别想太多”就能把灾难推迟一点。

You’re letting her lie down. She’s already this afraid. But you living people always think “she’s tired” or “she just needs to rest” or “don’t think too much” will somehow delay the disaster.

DIANE

来吧，莎隆。先看看别的房间。

Come on, Sharon. Let’s look at the other rooms.

SHARON

我不想留她一个人。

I don’t want to leave her alone.

DIANE

就一会儿。她又不是小孩。

It’ll just be a minute. She’s not a child.

SUSAN

没事。你们去吧。我躺一下就好。

It’s fine. Go ahead. I’ll just lie down for a bit.

ARTIST

你放她走了。你们竟真把她留下了。她一定让你怕得厉害。可为什么偏偏是她？

You let her go. You actually left her. She must frighten you terribly. But why her? Why her of all people?

Diane and Sharon leave for a moment. Susan is alone by the bed.

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SCENE III: Lunch continued (午餐续)

The light grows silent and still—silent to an extreme.

SUSAN

太安静了。不像安静。像是在听。

It’s too quiet. It’s not like quiet. It’s like listening.

这床……怎么会这么软。

This bed… why is it so soft?

真奇怪。明明我刚才还想走。可一碰到它，就觉得……躺一下也没什么。

How strange. A minute ago I wanted to leave. But the moment I touched it, I thought—lying down for a moment won’t hurt.

等她们回来，我就说我不舒服。她们会送我回家的。一定会。一定……

When they come back, I’ll tell them I don’t feel well. They’ll take me home. Of course they will. Of course…

ARTIST

不。不是她们不肯。是这地方会先一步，把人从人身上剥下来。先剥警觉。再剥判断。再剥你说”不”的那点力气。最后，你自己都会劝自己躺下。

No. It’s not that they won’t. It’s that this place will strip the person from the person before anyone can move. First it strips away alertness. Then judgment. Then the little strength it takes to say “no.” In the end, you’ll tell yourself to lie down.

Susan closes her eyes. Sleeps.

ARTIST

她睡了。像前面的那些人一样。像后面的那些人一样。像所有以为自己只是累了的人一样。去吧。给她噩梦。让她在梦里先死一遍。

She sleeps. Like the ones before her. Like the ones after. Like all who thought they were only tired.

Go on, then.

Give her nightmares.

Let her die in dream before she dies in flesh.

A low, sustained tone—not music, not quite sound effect. The air thickens.

Susan’s body tenses. Her hands curl into claws. Her lips part.

SUSAN (in sleep, barely audible)

不……不——我没有——我不是——

No. No—I didn’t—I wasn’t—

The Bed’s surface ripples. Not consuming her yet. Waiting.

ARTIST (softer now)

床在吃人之前，是有记忆的。它记得最初的那些。不是医生。不是亡命徒。不是那些以为自己能跟它讨价还价的傻瓜。是那个造了它的人。

The bed remembers before it hungers.
It remembers the first ones.
Not the doctors.
Not the gangsters.
Not the fools who thought they could bargain with it.

The one who made it.

The fire dims further. A new image emerges—not a full scene, but a bleeding-in of memory, as if the room itself is remembering.

---

THE ARTIST’S DEATH (画中人自己)

A man lies in a narrow bed. Not the demon bed—a sickbed. Aubrey Beardsley, younger than you expect, thinner, his cheeks hollowed by consumption. Bloody handkerchiefs everywhere. Half-finished drawings pinned to the walls: grotesque, erotic, exquisite.

He is drawing even now, charcoal in trembling fingers.

ARTIST’S MEMORY-SELF (weaker, younger, but the same man)

我以为我在画自己的死床。我以为：只要把它画在纸上，我就拥有了它。终点。停止。最后一口被框起来的气。我不知道，我画的是你的床。

I thought I was drawing my deathbed.
I thought: if I put it on paper, I’ll own it.
The end. The stop. The last breath framed like a picture.

I didn’t know I was drawing yours.

The dying man looks up—directly at the audience, or through them, at something beyond.

ARTIST’S MEMORY-SELF

你那时候已经在了，是不是？在等。不在底特律。还不在这里。在木头里等。在木纹里等。在等一个躺下去会疼的人。

You were already here, weren’t you?
Waiting.
Not in Detroit. Not yet.
Waiting in the wood.
Waiting in the grain.
Waiting for someone to lie down who mattered.

Behind him, just visible in the shadows of the vision, a shape begins to form. Not the Bed—something older. A silhouette with red eyes that do not blink.

ARTIST’S MEMORY-SELF

你选中我，是因为我快死了。你想：这个人不会挣扎。这个人会躺着看。

You chose me because I was already dying.
You thought: this one won’t struggle.
This one will lie still and watch.

He laughs—a wet, consumptive sound.

ARTIST’S MEMORY-SELF

我确实看了。我画了你。你也把我画了进去——画进了墙里。

And I did.
I watched.
I painted you.
And you painted me back—

into the wall.

The vision distorts. The dying man’s face stretches, then collapses inward. The red eyes widen.

Then—

The vision tears.

Susan gasps awake for one second, sees nothing, and is pulled back under.

---

ARTIST (to the sleeping Susan, almost gentle)

你想知道它为什么恨？为什么永远不停？为什么吃了一切还是填不饱？因为它从爱里生出来。坏掉的爱。不知道轻重的爱。把自己碰坏的东西怪成伤口的爱。然后——把血哭进了伤口里。

You wanted to know why it hates?
Why it never stops?
Why it eats and eats and nothing fills it?

Because it was born from love.
Bad love.
Love that didn’t know its own strength.
Love that broke what it touched
and then wept blood into the wound.

Susan’s body begins to sink—slowly, almost tenderly—into the mattress. Not thrashing. Not screaming. As if the bed is pulling her into a dark sleep.

ARTIST

最可怕的是这个。你以为怪物从恨里来。不对。怪物从不肯死的悲伤里来。

That’s the worst part.
You think monsters come from hate.
No.
Monsters come from grief that refused to die.

Susan’s hand, the last visible part of her, twitches once—then is gone.

The fire spits. A log collapses.

Silence.

The Bed breathes again. Satisfied.

Diane and Sharon enter.

ARTIST (to himself, but audible)

它吃过医生。吃过亡命徒。吃过念到一半就忘了祷词的牧师。到头来味道都一样：怕。

It’s had doctors.
It’s had gangsters.
It’s had priests who forgot their prayers halfway through.
They all taste the same in the end:

afraid.

DIANE

苏珊？苏珊！

Susan? Susan!

SHARON

她刚才明明还在。

She was right here a minute ago.

DIANE

别吓我。苏珊！

Don’t scare me like this. Susan!

Silence.

ARTIST

他们并不总是亲手把人交出去。更多时候，他们只是离开一下。去看另一间屋。去拿一瓶酒。去说一句”等会儿就回来”。等再回头——人已经没了。

They don’t always hand them over directly. More often, they just step away for a moment. To look at another room. To get a bottle of wine. To say “I’ll be right back.” And when they turn around—the person is already gone.

SHARON

你听见没有？

Did you hear that?

DIANE

又怎么了？

What now?

SHARON

像翻书。又像有人在火边说话。

Like pages turning. Like someone talking by the fire.

DIANE

这里除了我们还有谁？

Who else would be in here besides us?

SHARON

画里那个人。我一直都听得见他。

The man in the painting. I’ve been hearing him the whole time.

DIANE

……别在这时候说这种话。

…Don’t talk like that. Not right now.

By the fire.

SHARON

这里有本书。

There’s a book here.

DIANE

什么书？

What book?

SHARON

一本关于死人的书。我在里面。你也在里面。苏珊也在里面。

A book about the dead. I’m in it. You’re in it. Susan’s in it.

DIANE

给我看看。

Let me see that.

SHARON

你看不见。得盯着火看。看久一点。火里有字。还有脸。

You can’t see it. You have to stare into the fire. Look long enough. There are words in the fire. And faces.

ARTIST

她开始听见了。先是火。再是字。再是脸。再往后——就是她自己的魂。

She’s starting to hear. First the fire. Then the words. Then the faces. Then—

her own soul.

Shouting comes from the distance.

BROTHER (far away)

苏珊！苏珊！

Susan! Susan!

SHARON

有人来了。

Someone’s coming.

DIANE

像是在叫她。

It sounds like he’s calling her.

The Brother enters. He has been running—his clothes are caked with dust; he is gasping for breath.

BROTHER

苏珊！……见鬼。她跟你们一起来的，是不是？她人呢？

Susan! …Damn it. She came with you, didn’t she? Where is she?

DIANE

你是谁？

Who are you?

BROTHER

我是她哥。我找了她一路。她车还在外面。包也不见了。她人呢？

I’m her brother. I’ve been looking for her all the way. Her car’s still outside. Her bag’s gone. Where is she?

DIANE

我们以为她还在屋里。

We thought she was still in the house.

BROTHER

什么叫”以为”？

What do you mean, “thought”?

He stops halfway through speaking, confused.

你们闻见没有？

Do you smell that?

SHARON

刚才有臭味。现在没了。现在闻起来……很甜。

There was a bad smell a minute ago. Now it’s gone. Now it smells… sweet.

BROTHER

不。这不是甜。这像——

No. That’s not sweet. That’s—

A ripple slowly spreads across the mattress.

Beneath the fabric, the outline of a hand rises to the surface; then a forearm, ribs, and the sunken curve of a face. Susan’s remains—resembling half-dissolved bones—pushing outward from deep within the bed, only to be instantly sucked back in.

This time, all three of them see it.

BROTHER

苏珊。

Susan.

SHARON

它在吃她。

It’s eating her.

Without a pause for anyone to process it, Diane immediately lunges forward.

DIANE

不。还没有。苏珊！苏珊，抓住我！

No. Not yet. Susan! Susan, grab my hand!

She violently tears aside the bed curtains, flinging herself to the bedside, leaning half her body inside—reaching out to grasp at the invisible within.

BROTHER

别碰那个东西！

Don’t touch that thing!

DIANE

她还在里面！她还——

She’s still in there! She’s—

The Bed transforms abruptly.

The seduction has ceased; the violence begins. The bed curtains recoil like living things, and the sheets abruptly coil around Diane’s arms and shoulders. Beneath her, the surface of the bed splits open, collapsing inward.

DIANE

不！

No!

BROTHER

放开她！

Let her go!

The Brother rushes over, but he is a step too late.

Diane struggles desperately. Her death is entirely different from Susan’s: no dreams, no coaxing—only a brief, visceral horror.

DIANE

拉我出去！拉——！

Pull me out! Pull—!

She kicks one leg and arm out from beneath the covers, only for them to be violently yanked back in. The bed curtains snap shut and open; she is gone.

A horrible, low swallow.

The Brother freezes. Sharon freezes too.

---

SCENE IV: The Ritual

The Bed is still. The demon sleeps. The fire has gone low.

The Artist crawls fully out from behind the painting—not standing, not quite human in his movements. He crouches like something that forgot how to use legs.

ARTIST (urgent, low)

现在。它睡着了。造它的东西在梦里见她——只有在它做梦的时候，这张床才是弱的。不是善良。不是安全。是弱。

Now.
It sleeps.
The thing that made it dreams of her again—
and while it dreams, the Bed is weak.

Not kind.
Not safe.
Weak.

He looks at Sharon. Then at the Brother.

ARTIST

你。听得见我的那个。你得先动。

You. The one who hears me.
You have to move first.

Sharon stares. She hasn’t spoken since Susan died.

BROTHER

她吓坏了。她不能——

She’s in shock. She can’t—

ARTIST

她能。只有她能。床看见她的脸的时候，自己先疼了。它在躲一件它想忘掉的东西。

She can.
She’s the only one who can.
The Bed bled when it saw her face.
It remembers something it tried to forget.

He turns to Sharon directly.

ARTIST

听我说。你不用信。你只要做。

Listen to me.
You don’t have to believe.
You only have to do.

---

The Figure-Eight

ARTIST

木头。什么木头都行。从门框上拆，从地板上拆，从窗框上拆。摆成八字圈。两个圈咬着彼此的尾巴。不能有缝。它会从缝里逃。

Wood.
Any wood. Break it from the door, the floor, the window frame.
Arrange it in a figure-eight.
Two circles biting each other’s tails.
No gaps.
It escapes through gaps.

Sharon moves—slowly, mechanically, but she moves. She drags broken planks, chair legs, a shattered picture frame. She arranges them around the Bed.

The Brother watches. His hands are still whole. Not for long.

BROTHER

这有什么用？

What is this supposed to do?

ARTIST

困住它。只要困住它。够用就行。

Hold it.
Just hold it.
Long enough.

Sharon finishes. The figure-eight is crooked but closed.

ARTIST

现在，血。不是为了伤它。是为了让这屋子记住——今晚不是它张口。

Now blood.
Not to hurt it.
To make the room remember whose turn this is.

The Brother hesitates. Then cuts his palm with the knife Sharon carries. He smears blood at the intersections of the wood.

The Bed’s curtains stir—not pain. Curiosity. Amusement.

BROTHER

它在看我们。

It’s watching us.

ARTIST

让它看。现在，头发。你的。把两个圈连起来。

Let it.
Now hair. Yours. Stretch it between the circles.

The Brother severs a lock of his own hair. His hands shake as he ties it across the figure-eight.

The fire drops. Cold pours in.

ARTIST

现在，刀。你得刺进去。趁它睡着。趁圈还困着它。

Now the knife.
You have to pierce it.
While it sleeps.
While the circles hold.

The Brother grips the knife.

ARTIST

去。

Now.

---

The Failure

The Brother lunges. Drives the blade into the center of the Bed.

For one breath—nothing.

Then the Bed moves.

Not in pain. In annoyance.

The figure-eight shatters. Wood flies. Hair snaps. Blood smears into nothing.

The Bed’s curtains rise like a hand swatting a fly.

The Brother’s arms sink into the mattress up to the elbows.

BROTHER (scream cut short)

He is thrown backward. He hits the floor.

When he raises his hands, the flesh is gone from the wrists down. Bone. Clean as a diagram.

He does not scream again. He cannot.

ARTIST (barely a whisper)

我不知道。我不知道它能这样。

I didn’t know.
I didn’t know it could do that.

The Artist looks genuinely afraid for the first time.

Sharon stands frozen. The Brother lies on the floor, staring at his own skeleton hands.

The Bed settles back. Satisfied. Waiting.

Long silence.

---

The Door

Then—

The door explodes inward. Not kicked. Not broken. Unmade, as if the darkness outside simply decided the door had never existed.

Footsteps. Heavy. Wrong. Something ancient walking where nothing should walk.

The Bed tenses—then relaxes. It has faced intruders before.

But the footsteps are not coming toward the Bed.

They are coming toward Sharon.

Sharon’s body jerks. Her spine arches. Her head snaps back.

Her hands rise to her face—not in defense. In recognition.

The Bed stops breathing.

Not a flinch. A full, desperate contraction, as if trying to make itself smaller. As if, for the first time in a hundred years, it knows what fear feels like.

Sharon’s hair falls loose around her shoulders.

She lowers her hands.

Her eyes are open.

Black.

Not dark. Not shadowed. Solid, pupil-less black—as if something has poured into her from behind and filled every visible window.

The Artist stares. His voice, when it comes, is barely a breath.

ARTIST

莉诺尔。

Lenore.

Sharon—no longer Sharon—turns her head slowly. Not like a human turning. Like a door swinging open on rusted hinges.

She looks at the Bed.

The Bed makes a sound. Low. Wet. Trapped.

When she speaks, her voice is not entirely her own. Lower. Older. A woman who has been dead and has not forgotten the temperature of the grave.

LENORE (through Sharon)

莉诺尔。那是我的名字。在他把我埋进没记号的地里之前。在他告诉自己，我只是一个可以从梦里醒过来的东西之前。

Lenore.
That was my name.
Before he buried me in unmarked dirt.
Before he told himself I was a dream he could wake from.

She takes one step toward the Bed.

The Bed’s curtains try to rise—then stop. They cannot.

LENORE

你现在记得我了。你记得自己弄坏了什么。你记得哭进木头里的那些血。

You remember me now.
You remember what you broke.
You remember the blood you cried into the wood.

She raises Sharon’s hand. The black eyes do not blink.

LENORE

我是从地里走上来的。从土里。从根里。从你以为归了你的那些年岁里。因为坟墓关不住人。关不住一个母亲。

I walked here.
Through dirt.
Through roots.
Through every year you thought was yours.
Because a grave is not a cage.
Not for a mother.

She presses her palm against the Bed’s surface.

The Bed convulses—not in violence. In recognition. In the horrible intimacy of a wound meeting the hand that first received it.

LENORE

你从来不是魔鬼。你只是悲伤。学会了吃的悲伤。

You were never a demon.
You were just grief.
Grief that learned to eat.

The Bed begins to crumble.

Not burn. Not explode. Crumble—as if the curse that held it together has simply been withdrawn.

Wood splinters. Fabric tears. The frame collapses inward like an exhausted animal finally lying down.

The Artist watches. His painting behind him cracks.

ARTIST

我能——我能感觉到——

I can—
I can feel—

He does not finish. His body begins to dissolve—not violently, but like smoke losing shape. His face stretches, softens, scatters.

He is gone before he hits the ground.

The Bed is wreckage. The painting is shards.

Lenore turns to the Brother.

He still lies on the floor, his hands gone to bone. He has not spoken. He has not looked away.

Lenore’s black eyes soften—just slightly. Just enough to remind you that something human once lived behind them.

LENORE

你不该在这里的。你们谁都不该在这里。

You were not supposed to be here.
None of you were.

She kneels. Presses her ruined hand—Sharon’s hand—against his forehead.

The Brother closes his eyes.

Lenore rises. Her body begins to waver—not collapsing, but unbecoming. The black eyes flicker. Sharon’s face shows through for one moment, exhausted and young.

Then the darkness takes her.

She is gone.

The Brother does not move. He does not call out. He lies among the wreckage of the Bed, his hands gone to bone, and watches the empty space where she stood.

The fire dies.

In the far distance, a bird calls.

Darkness.

---

END OF PLAY