Half a page of text following the imagination of a film. A shadow moving across the wall without an antecedent body. Elizabeth Price’s Vampyr watched in its absence during the original 1932 version of the film. The difficulty of sustaining the conceit throughout because of enduring interference of the present image. The impossible absence of the stony-faced man, the wax, the thickness of a corpse, the doctor’s bag; the impossible presence of  theatre seats in their stead. The attempt to serially unsee the picture as it persistently unfolds. The fragility, between breaths, of hallucinating its inverse and superimposing the negative over the positive to flood the celluloid with black. The subtle layering of an imaginary auditorium over the fleeting blackness of the film; the tenuous peopling of the blackened auditorium with unpeopled seats. Bearing to retain the flickering light from the cancelled images and project them into the auditorium over three dimensions. The work of the eyes to pivot palindromes of light about the lens and reflect them outwards vague and inscrutable. Some time with the ghastly grin of the infected daughter surveying her sister’s youth, and the peculiar quality of light to throw at the blind auditorium after the special horror of her bloodlust; the sombre weight of the dawn light in the churchyard with the stake; the fitful shadows of dancing animals and the skull that turns; the dead gaze of the corpse’s appalled eyes inside its coffin. The difficulty of projecting each quality faithfully onto the rows of imaginary seats in exact time with its origin. The confusion of reflection and projection. Likewise the sound. The gulps of forced amnesia to liberate sounds and voices from their consensual containers. The effort of ripping out their tethers to wildly  cast unmitigated fear into the empty seats, and the concentration of imagining the amplified thrill in precise coordination with the piercing fog.