Ghost stories usually begin with a flicker of candlelight or a creaking door. Corpse, the new show from comedian Kirsty Mann, begins in darkness. Total darkness.

Then something crawls.

A figure moves slowly down the aisle between two rows of audience members. A long black wig trails across the floor. The body twists like something dragged out of a nightmare. It feels demonic. The room holds its breath.

The lights flash on. Mann whips off the wig. “Relax,” she says. “It’s not that kind of show.”

Of course, it absolutely is.

Mann first gained attention with her debut solo show Skeletons, which began at the Edinburgh Fringe before touring Australia. That show blended stand-up storytelling with theatrical sound design. It later transferred to London’s Soho Theatre and won the Comedy Award at Fringe World.

Her creative work also stretches beyond the stage. Her short film Lady Brently’s End screened at more than twenty international festivals and collected multiple awards. With Corpse, Mann expands the formula.

The stage is gone. The audience faces each other in four rows. It feels like sitting inside the story rather than watching it. Horror arrives first. Then a punchline. Then another scare. Then another gag. The rhythm is relentless.

It’s a clever structural choice. Life rarely unfolds with tidy emotional pacing. Sometimes tragedy and absurdity collide in the same moment.

Mann knows this better than most comedians. Outside the theatre she works in hospitals as a doctor. One of her regular tasks is recording the time of death.

That experience forms the beating heart of Corpse. The show explores Mann’s relationship with mortality and her uneasy belief in the afterlife. At its centre is a personal ghost story. The details unfold slowly and should remain unspoiled here.

The brilliance of the writing lies in how Mann builds doubt.

Each strange moment invites explanation. The audience searches for rational answers. Mann understands that instinct well. Humans are masters of justification. We rewrite evidence until the world feels safe again.

By the end of the show, you may not believe in ghosts. But you will notice the mental gymnastics required not to.

The technical team deserve enormous credit. The production features around 200 lighting and sound cues. Timing is everything. Thunder must crack at the exact moment for a scare or punchline to land. The precision is remarkable. Every flash and rumble arrives like clockwork.

Yet Corpse is not just about death. It is also about belief. What happens when someone you love tells you something impossible? Do you trust them? Do you dismiss them? How much evidence is enough to change your mind?

Mann connects the story to another horror narrative familiar to many young adults: the housing market. The affordability crisis is a reminder that the living can be just as frightening as the dead.

There is real tenderness here as well. Beneath the ghost story sits a meditation on relationships. The show quietly asks how we hold space for the strange experiences of people we care about.

Comedy rarely sits comfortably beside horror. Corpse proves it can thrive there. You may leave unconvinced about the supernatural. But you will leave thinking about death, belief, and the fragile ways we explain the unknown.