“Yes, sir! Got one in Daddy’s old office. Works just fine.”
Turning to Jean, Doc said, “Jean, we’ll need to run off flyers to pass out around town.”
“I’m on it.”
To Sam and Ronnie, Doc said, “Good. Now let’s get that truck unloaded.”
Leaving Jean to grab some clip art and make a new flyer, the men walked out of the theater. Ronnie directed Sam to bring the truck around to the back, where the Rialto had a loading dock. As they began to unpack, moving in the huge haunted cemetery backdrop, the Asa levitation equipment, and the trunks and boxes of equipment, Doc went inside to the stage to start arranging.
When he walked back into the dressing room, Jean was pale, clutching herself, mouth still open in shock.
Doc rushed forward. “What’s wrong—?”
“I . . . Daddy, I . . . ” Jean dropped into the old wooden chair at the vanity. “Something very strange just happened.”
Jean wasn’t prone to either exaggeration or hallucination. Doc pulled up another chair and sat by her side. “Tell me.”
“Well, I was standing there, pasting together the new flyer, and the lights started to dim. I looked up, thinking there must be a problem with the power in here, and then something touched me.”
“Like what?”
“It felt for all the world like a hand stroking my head. I glanced in the mirror and thought I saw someone behind me, but when I turned—no one was there.”
“Jean Marie Knox, are you trying to tell me that you saw a ghost?” Doc tried to keep his tone even—his only child had mastered bookkeeping in three weeks when she was still a teenager, she was the most level-headed soul he’d ever known—but magicians were among the most skeptical folks on earth.
“I know how it sounds, but . . . well, doggone it, I’ve had this feeling like I was being watched ever since we got here.”
Doc turned his eye on the room, looking for stray spider webs, air vents, anything like the tricks they used every night to tease audiences, but there was nothing. With a sigh, he turned back to his daughter, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Honey, why don’t you go outside and find us a place for lunch. Sam and I will finish unpacking, then meet you out on the front sidewalk.”
Jean was plainly relieved. “Okay.” She tidied up her papers and left.
Ronnie watched her go before asking, “Everything okay, Doc?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Doc answered.
But he wondered what could possibly have gotten into his daughter.
***
IT WAS NEARLY 1 P.M. BEFORE they were seated in a worn leatherette booth in Pokey’s Diner, a block from the Rialto. A middle-aged waitress with a massively-teased hairdo and a tired smile handed them menus. “Got a special today on fried chicken, comes with mashed potatoes and green beans. Best in the county.”
Sam immediately returned his menu. “Good enough for me . . . ” He squinted at her name tag before adding, “ . . . Babe.”
They all ordered the lunch special, and though they hadn’t sampled all the other fried chicken in the county, they agreed that Babe had told the truth. They discussed details for the night’s show—the foot controls on the Asa Levitation needed some adjustment, they needed to mix up more fake blood for the jigsaw dismemberment effect—but broke off when their check appeared. Sam pulled out his wallet, removed a twenty—a great deal more than the cost of the three lunch specials—and handed it to Babe with the check and a question. “So, have you been around this town long?”
“Sweetie,” she said, deliberately accentuating her drawl as she thrust one bony hip out, “I was born in this heap and ain’t never got out.”
“Then maybe you can tell us why the Rialto Theater looks like nobody’s used it for two years.”
Babe didn’t answer, but her eyes darted to the next booth over, where a young man sat with his back to them. Without turning, the man said, “I can tell you all about that.”
Looking vaguely disgusted, Babe snatched the money and check and headed over to the register. The young man turned to face them, and Doc saw that he was good-looking, maybe Jean’s age, with jet black hair and skin the color of caramel candy. “The good people of Ginmill think it’s my fault, after all.”
Sam swigged his coffee before asking, “And why’s that?”
“Because the Rialto is haunted, and they think I murdered the fella who’s now the ghost.”
The diner fell completely silent. Doc looked around and saw that it wasn’t just his table—every other conversation had died, with all eyes on the man who’d just spoken. After a few seconds, a middle-aged couple sitting a few booths down slapped bills on the table, glared in their direction, and walked out without another word.
The young man sagged in resignation. “See? They hate me.”
Doc turned to look the man in the eye. “Well, I don’t. Would you care to join us and tell us your side of the story?”
“Where you folks from? And why do you care?”
“We care,” Sam said, “because we rented the Rialto to perform in tonight. See, we got a ghost show to put on.”
“You got problems, then,” the young man said as he pulled up a chair. “They think the Rialto’s already got ghosts. Ain’t nobody gonna set foot in there now.”
Doc and Sam exchanged a worried look, but Jean thrust a hand out to the man. “My name’s Jean Knox, this is my dad Fred, and this is his assistant Sam.”
The young man shook hands, relaxing as he realized they were friendly. “Billy Crockett.”
Jean turned a smile on Billy, and Doc wasn’t sure how he felt when he saw it returned. “Like Davey?”
“He was supposedly a great uncle on my pa’s side. My mom, though, she’s from Juarez.”
“So, Billy,” Doc said, anxious to break up the lingering smile being shared by his daughter and this town boy, “tell us what happened.”
Billy’s smile fell. He looked down, shrugging. “Ain’t much to tell. Jim Black was my best friend. We grew up together, played music together, eventually got jobs together at the Rialto. Back then it pulled in hundreds every night. Jim and I worked there as ushers. At the end of every show, we’d go in and clean up all the popcorn buckets and candy wrappers.
“One night we were working up in the balcony and we got into a fight—nothing major, just a silly thing about a scene in the movie. We yelled at each other, but we did that all the time, didn’t mean nothin’ by it. But that one night Jim backed up hard, hit the balcony railing, and flipped over it. He broke his neck, was dead by the time I got down there to him.”
Jean asked, “So folks thought you pushed him?”
“Yeah. In court, Beau Harwood, the Rialto’s owner, testified that he’d heard us fighting up there. And Jim’s folks refused to believe that their son could’ve just slipped, so they really blamed me. My mom bein’ Mexican didn’t help any.”
Billy looked away, and Doc felt for the young man when he saw his eyes glinting.
Billy gulped once and went on. “Lucky for me, the jury agreed with my defense that there was a ‘reasonable doubt’. But the Rialto just wasn’t the same after that. As if it wasn’t bad enough that some folks believed a murder had happened there, others started reporting weird goings-on.”
“Like what?” Sam asked.
“Like spots that suddenly got cold for no reason, or seeing somebody out of the corner of their eye, but when they turned nobody was there. A lot of girls came out saying somebody had touched them.”
Doc glanced at his daughter and saw her shiver.
“My mom has an aunt who’s a curandera—you know, like a healer—and she says that spirit won’t leave ’til it’s good ’n’ ready. Anyway, the Rialto couldn’t hardly sell a ticket. Then Beau got sick and just let it go. I think his son Ronnie would like to get it going again, so he brought in you folks.”
“What do you think?” Jean asked.
Billy clutched himself tight. “All I know is I woul
dn’t go in there.”
Silence descended on the group for a few seconds. Finally Doc leaned forward, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Billy, what if you had the chance to prove to everyone that you’re innocent?”
“Sure, but . . . how?”
“You be a part of our show tonight. We’ll stage a séance to contact Jim. And then we relay the message to everyone that Jim says you didn’t do it.”
Billy looked perplexed for a second before realization crossed his face. “You mean you’d . . . lie?”
Jean jumped in. “It’s not a lie, Billy—you didn’t do it.”
“I don’t know . . . I think folks around here just want to believe I did it.”
“We’d pay you,” Sam said, as he opened his wallet.
“I was supposed to practice with my band tonight,” Billy added.
“You’ve got a band?” Jean asked.
“Yeah—Billy and the Blue Burners. Jim used to be our drummer. We’d just cut a record when he . . . when it happened.”
Jean shot her dad a look, and Doc asked, “You any good?”
Billy didn’t answer. Instead he walked to a juke box in the corner of the diner, fed a coin in, punched a number, and returned to the table. After a few seconds the diner filled with the joyous racket of drums, twangy guitar, boogie woogie piano, and a high young voice singing about “dancin’ in the barnyard.”
“That’s you?” Jean asked.
“Yeah. I’m amazed they haven’t yanked our record out of this juke box yet. Probably the only one that’s left.”
Jean listened for a few seconds, smiling and bobbing her head. Even Sam tapped a foot as he noted, “That’s pretty good stuff.”
“I thought so. Now nobody wants to hire us, though. We’re that band with the Mexican who killed his best friend.”
Jean looked at Doc, her eyebrows raised, and Doc understood her question. “Go ahead,” he said.
“Billy,” Jean asked, “how about if you and your band open our show tonight? The movie we usually show first fell through, so you’d be doing us a favor. Your band plays for a while, then you join us for our show. We all make money, and maybe folks in this town get reminded how good you are.”
Billy stared for a second in disbelief before barking a short, incredulous laugh. “Thanks, but I really don’t think—”
He broke off as Sam pulled a wad of bills out of his wallet, peeled off five twenties, and set them on the table. “Now that’s just an advance against the full payment. You’d get the same amount that would’ve gone to renting the movie.”
“And the projectionist,” Doc grumbled.
Billy’s fingers began to walk across the table toward the cash. “What would I have to do in the show?”
Doc said, “We announce you during the Spirit Slates. You come on stage. I’ll pretend to be in contact with the spirit of Jim, we’ll ask him if you killed him, then we show the audience a message written on the slates that says you’re innocent.”
“That’s it?”
Doc nodded. “That’s it. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. It’ll just take a couple of minutes.”
Billy slapped a hand down on the greenery and pulled it toward him. “Not like anybody else in this town is handing out jobs.” He inhaled deeply before saying, “Okay, just tell me what time we should be at the theater.”
***
AT 6:03 P.M., DOC WAS ONSTAGE checking out the placement of his equipment when he heard a loud clatter. He looked around and saw that the two Spirit Slates had fallen from their usual spot on a table next to the Spirit Cabinet. They’d never fallen like that before; as he walked to them he glanced around but saw no one. He picked up the slate that normally held the “ghostly” message behind a fake insert; tonight the message should have read, BILLY IS INNOCENT. Instead, the message said, YOUR GENE IS PRETTY.
Doc gaped for a second before looking up, anger simmering. He called out, “Who wrote this?”
After a moment Sam emerged from the wings. “Sorry, Doc, did you say something? I was working back in the dressing room.”
Doc held up the slate. “Got any ideas?”
Sam laughed. “No, but whoever it is needs to learn how to spell ‘Jean’.”
“You didn’t write this?”
Sam’s laughter shut off instantly. “No, Doc, ’course not. Looks like somebody’s having some fun with you.”
“Fun. Sure.”
Doc ground his teeth as he grabbed the slate with the message and went in search of Ronnie Harwood.
***
“’COURSE I DIDN’T TOUCH your equipment, Doc—heck, that stuff scares me too much!”
Doc held up the slate so Ronnie, who he’d found getting concessions ready in the lobby, could read the message. Ronnie took one look and went pale.
“That’s Jim’s writing.”
“So you’re trying to tell me a ghost really wrote this?”
Ronnie looked at Doc with guilt plastered over his freckles. “I’m sorry, Doc, I know I shoulda told you about the ghost before you signed the rental papers . . . ”
Doc sighed as he lowered the slate. “Ronnie, look: I don’t believe in ghosts. I make fake ghosts for a living. I know every trick in the book. And believe me, when I find who wrote this message, I’m going to throw that book right at them!”
Doc turned and left, already rubbing the message from beyond off the slate.
***
BILLY AND HIS BAND ARRIVED at 8 p.m. As they began setting up their instruments in front of the curtain (being careful to avoid Doc’s equipment just on the other side), Doc noticed that Billy seemed especially anxious, his eyes darting, fingers trembling.
“You going to be able to do this?”
Billy gulped and looked around. “First time I been back in this place. I can just feel him here. Makes me edgy, you know?”
Doc almost answered, “No, I don’t know,” but turned and left instead.
***
AT 9:18 P.M., BILLY AND the Blue Burners finished their sound check. The new flyers Jean had created and run off on the Rialto’s mimeo machine had stated that the doors opened at 9:30.
Doc was in the dressing room, relaxing for a few moments with a paper cup of bourbon. He figured he’d need it to get through this show.
Sam poked his head in. “Good news—the flyers worked, because the line to get in is around the block!”
“That’s good. Thanks, Sam.”
Sam ducked back out, leaving Doc alone. He sipped his bourbon, enjoying the few moments of peace before what he thought would be an unusually raucous show. As the ghostmaster, he always tried to stir up belief with an opening speech about “contact from the Great Beyond,” and “we cannot always control the spirits, so don’t be surprised if you feel a tap on your shoulder and there’s no one there.” But like nearly all professional magicians, Doc was a lifelong skeptic. He knew other folks wanted—no, needed—to believe in things like magic and ghosts, and he was happy to fulfill that need even if he’d never shared it.
That’s what he was thinking when the lights went out.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Doc grumbled, figuring that the old Rialto’s wiring hadn’t been checked in a long time.
Something vaguely iridescent appeared at the corner of his vision. He turned to look, could just make out a glowing mass floating near the ceiling in one corner. As he watched, the wavering, oblong shape began to move slowly across the room.
“Oh, haha, Sam, very funny. Now turn the damn lights back on!”
There was no response. The unformed glow reached the far corner of the room and seemed to pass through the wall.
The lights went back on.
Doc was alone in the room.
He cursed as he slopped some of the bourbon onto his shirt, then he rose from his chair, went to the door of the dressing room, opened it, looked in both directions but saw no one.
He returned to his dressing room table, grabbed the bourbon bottle and swigged dir
ectly from it, trying to dispel the chill that had grabbed onto him.
***
AT 9:32, THE RIALTO’S DOORS opened and the crowd started filing in. Peering out from behind the curtains, Doc saw an excited mob, with boys grabbing their girls to elicit shrieks while others shouted, “Hey, Jim!”
He knew that this was a dangerous stunt; this whole evening could boil over into a riot. But he liked Billy and thought the poor kid had been dealt a bad hand. If he could correct that and make a little money, he’d consider it a great night. It was worth the risk.
At least he hoped it was.
***
AT 10:05, BILLY AND the Blue Burners came out on stage.
The crowd started to jeer. Somebody near the front yelled, “Dirty killer!”
Billy ignored it. He kept his head down and went straight to his guitar. Watching from backstage, Doc had to admire Billy’s courage . . . but he thought Jean, standing next to him, might be admiring something more about the handsome musician.
Billy turned to his band—three boys whose flannel shirts matched Billy’s, and who looked nervous as hell—and counted off a beat.
Within ten seconds of the first song, the crowd had shut up. By the second song they were clapping and hooting with the rhythm. By the fourth song, a few couples were jitterbugging in the aisles.
Doc thought maybe Billy might be the real possessor of magic here.
***
AT 10:53, BILLY AND the Blue Burners finished their set to a round of applause. They made their way off the stage, and Doc watched as Jean gave Billy a hug that he returned with gratitude and relief. Sam and Ronnie cleared the stage of the band’s amps, the upright piano, and the drum kit, leaving one mike on a stand.
At 11:01, the curtain came up, and the crowd gasped as they saw Doc and his equipment revealed against the cemetery backdrop.
Doc stepped up to the remaining mike, his expression somber, even menacing. “Good evening,” he intoned, deepening his voice. “My name is Doctor Morbismo, and I welcome you to my InsaniTERRORium.”
The crowd laughed—as Doc knew they would—until he silenced them with a simple production of flash paper that shot a startling light right from his fingers. The onlookers went silent. Doc continued. “Tonight you will experience things that are far outside of your normal day-to-day existence. You will be here, participating, as together we open the door to the spirit world. I will be your guide for this strange and eerie journey, and although I will be in control, the forces from beyond death cannot always be commanded. We will venture far into those frightening realms, and you will see and hear many things you cannot explain. You will see objects move on their own, messages written by the spirits, and possibly even various ghostly creatures. We will meet the very ghosts who inhabit this theater, and attempt to converse with them. And now . . . prepare for the InsaniTERRORium!”
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