by Cynthia Kuhn
Francisco smiled at me. “Because it is actually worth something. The university hasn’t figured out how to benefit from the theater yet.”
I set my wine down on the table. “This is a lot to take in.”
Calista leaned forward. “Keep me posted, please. I’m dying to hear about anything strange you experience there. Anything at all. Human or...otherwise.”
Chapter 9
On the morning of the Historical Society’s scheduled visit, I awoke after a troubled sleep. Bits of my dreams came back to me as I walked to campus for a department meeting: a piano playing off-key slowly, sadly; the sound of footsteps running across the floor above; my breath a visible cloud in a room so cold I could see ice forming on my skin. My brain was clearly processing the story my friends had told me, but knowing that didn’t make it any less unsettling.
Some unexplained things had happened during rehearsals, now that I thought about it: plenty of props had gone missing, lights flickered unpredictably, and it did sometimes feel as though you were being watched. Once, I’d been working late, alone, and looked up from my script to see a human-sized shadow moving steadily across the stage behind a scrim. I’d run up to look, but no one was there. That night, I figured I was just overly tired. And I’d never thought of any of them as particularly odd, but now that I had some context, it was somewhat disconcerting.
By the time I passed the gryphons positioned on either side of the wrought-iron-gated campus entrance, I’d decided to talk to Tolliver and Zandra about the specific details of the ghost story. I wasn’t sure why I felt it was important for them to know what my friends had said...it wasn’t like I was expecting a specter to come flying out of the wall during a performance or anything. But, forewarned is forearmed, as they say.
* * *
That afternoon, I zoomed past the protestors as if they weren’t there at all, pulled Tolliver and Zandra out into the lobby, and told them what I’d heard.
When I’d finished, they stared at me for a moment.
“Of course we know,” Zandra said. “Malcolm has been very active the whole time. I just haven’t mentioned it.”
Now I stared at her.
“Psychic,” she said, pointing at herself. “Remember?”
My cousin had said that to me once. Great, now I had déjà vu on top of everything else.
“But now that I know you’re interested, I’ll be more open—”
The sound of the glass door slamming interrupted our conversation.
Clara Worthingham walked vigorously toward us. Braxton trailed a few feet behind her, his crisp white shirt and black trousers with nary a wrinkle. Her royal-blue suit was immaculate as well. But her matching pillbox hat was slightly askew, and she huffed at the small veil floating above her forehead as she entered the lobby.
“Lila, I need to speak to you. Don’t move a muscle.” Tolliver and Zandra made a hasty exit. Couldn’t say I blamed them. Her outrage was palpable.
I wondered what transgression had been added to her list of complaints this time.
“Hi Clara. Hi Braxton,” I said. If she was going to leap willy-nilly into first-name status, I was too.
He smiled at me.
“Have you heard the ghastly news?” She clasped her hands in front of her as if at a recitation. “A developer is this close to buying the Opera House! He’s been trying for almost a year, but it has never seemed possible until now. Your chancellor has been refusing the offer—for which we were extremely grateful—but he has changed his mind.”
“What? No, I don’t know about that. Who is it?”
Her expression sported an odd combination of anger about the gossip and visible delight at being able to spread it. “He lives in New York City—”
She turned to Braxton and repeated, “New York City!”
Now was not the time to tell her that I hailed from there as well.
He patted her arm gently before she spun back around. She moved so close that her violet scent wafted onto me and I could see a spot of frosted pink lipstick on her front tooth.
“He wants to tear the Opera House down and build a new theater instead.”
“A new theater?”
“Yes. State of the art, he says. With automatic everything. Soulless. Doesn’t it sound awful?”
I definitely didn’t want to get into a debate about the merits of new versus old with her, so I moved on to the more pressing point. “This is really happening?”
Braxton, behind her back, nodded vigorously.
Clara clutched her head. “I can’t possibly imagine why he needs to destroy our theater. It’s historic! And we need to put a stop to it immediately.”
“Let’s see if we can find out more information,” I said. Suddenly I realized that we had become aligned against the third party, united rather than opposed. The thought heartened me. Perhaps they’d let the whole protest issue slide if the alternative was complete destruction.
“We must! We simply must. Or...” she tilted her head as she processed a thought. She turned to face Braxton again. “Dear, maybe we should buy it! If it’s up for sale? Oh, wouldn’t that be the answer to our prayers? Then we could prevent anyone from ever stepping foot in here ever again!”
Opposition back on.
I sighed.
Clara was spinning a plan with her husband who stood smiling patiently in the face of her storm of words.
After a minute, I raised my hand. “Did you still want to see the rehearsal?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Clara said.
“How long would you like to watch?”
“An hour,” she said. “Then we need to tour downstairs.” She opened her purse and removed a notepad and pen. “Proceed.”
I led them halfway down the aisle and gestured to some seats on the left. Clara began writing as soon as she sat down.
The cast was working on a scene where Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, and Oliver were arguing over whose interpretation of events was correct. It was particularly tricky because it called for the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe to descend from the ceiling and referee at exactly the right moment.
Yes, like Batman. No one really understood why, but it was part of Tolliver’s vision.
The actors on stage were frozen in position, waiting. There was a clank, then a banging noise from above. The catwalk had been repaired and triple checked for safety, but I’d wager the sounds were coming from the old pulley system. The three sleuths did not break position, but glanced at each other as if silently trying to reach agreement about what to do next.
Finally, Tolliver called for them to stop. I hurried down to where he was standing, shoulders slumped.
“I cannot work in these conditions!” He threw his hands up into the air and his volume escalated. “This theater is a bag of bones. We need to get someone from the engineering department in here to rip out the rubbish and revamp the entire thing.”
I tried to get him to lower his voice. Those were exactly the kinds of changes that the Historical Society was anxious about.
“Tolliver, the Worthinghams are here,” I whispered into his ear. “Right behind us.”
“I do not care.” He began to pace back and forth, waving his arms. “We have a crisis, Lila. I must have creative control. I am an artist! And if we cannot bring my idea to life, then I quit!” With that, he stormed up the stairs on the side of the stage and out of view.
The students remained on the stage, looking around uncertainly.
“Break for lunch, everyone,” I yelled. “Come back in an hour.” I repeated it into the headset Tolliver had left lying on the table. It was early for lunch but I had to buy time in order to see if I could get Tolliver back and shoo the Worthinghams away.
My cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Tolliver. I’m not quitting. But get those people out of here. Zandra and I are in the front office,
and I don’t want to speak to them again.
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
After Tolliver’s outburst, there was nothing I wanted to do less than turn around to face the Worthinghams. But I did.
Happily, it was Bella. “Clara is wondering if she could go downstairs now.” She smiled tentatively.
I wondered why she referred to her mother by her first name. Probably another one of Clara’s preferences. She sure had a lot of them.
“Now would be fine,” I said, smiling at her. Might as well get it over with.
Bella scurried up to retrieve Clara, who marched down the aisle, complaining loudly. “Now I’m even more anxious to see the damage you’ve done. Did you hear what that director said? I have half a mind to shut things down right this instant.”
“He didn’t really mean it, Clara. He was just frustrated.” My explanation only seemed to irk her more.
“No, Lila.” She reached back to clutch Braxton’s forearm for strength. “That man announced that he plans to—and I quote—’rip and revamp’!”
Braxton nodded to corroborate her claims, his eyes wide.
I smiled at them reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Clara. He doesn’t have the power to rip or revamp anything. He won’t do that, I promise.”
She turned around to Braxton and muttered a few more things I couldn’t quite hear. She added another item to her notepad and showed him. They conferred further.
I waited, suppressing the urge to tap my foot. After her indignation had sufficiently subsided, she allowed me to lead the way downstairs, where the storage and dressing rooms, along with a combination workshop/prop room were located. We called it “below stage” in contrast to backstage, which was used primarily to store scenery and to act as a crossover area during performances.
At the top of the steep cement stairs, I asked them to please use the metal handrail.
“Look at all the crumbling!” Clara exclaimed. “No doubt from all the cast and crew parading up and down.”
I kept walking, pretending I didn’t hear her.
She raised her voice. “Lila, the steps are wearing away to nothing! That’s exactly what we are worried about.”
I made a noncommittal sound.
At the bottom step, the temperature dropped sharply, as it always did. The lower level gave me the creeps: it was narrow, damp, dark, and very cold. There was something else too, a sort of disquieting energy that emanated from the walls.
I shivered and led them to the nearest room, which was used for storage.
“Do you want to go inside?” I spoke to Clara, as she seemed to be in charge of the inspection. Tour. Whatever it was.
She poked her head inside. “This is dreadful. It needs a thorough cleaning.” After giving me a pointed look, she wrote furiously in her notepad of grievances.
When she was done making her notes, we continued down the hallway toward the dressing rooms. As we reached the section with brighter wall sconces, I silently counted to three, knowing Clara was going to resume her litany of complaints now that she could see more clearly.
She gasped. “The paint is positively falling off the walls! Braxton, look!”
It was true—there were chips and scrapes all the way down the hallway. The point I was passing even seemed to have claw marks. How bizarre.
“The paint was like that when we got here,” I reminded her. “Haven’t you ever noticed it before?”
She harrumphed and scribbled.
We continued down the hall past a variety of small dressing rooms. The doors were open and the lights were off. I explained that they were being used for members of the cast. She peered in, then made a sound of disapproval and another note.
Finally, we reached the corner, where the largest dressing room was located. The heavy wooden door was closed.
“This has traditionally been given to the star of the show,” Clara informed me, even though I already knew that and she knew I knew that. She asked if we could go inside. I knocked, and there was no answer, so I turned the old metal knob and pushed open the door.
I felt along the wall for the switch. The instant the light came on, she charged in. I remained by the door as Clara stared intently at the rose-papered wall along the right side, which had a large diagonal crack. Her expression reminded me of Cady, my cousin’s cat, when she was hunting something—completely focused and poised to spring.
“That crack was already there too,” I said firmly.
She didn’t reply but continued inspecting the wall carefully, as Braxton sidled up to her.
Bella stayed in the hallway, shifting her weight from side to side.
“Would you like to come in and join us?” I invited her.
She edged into the doorway and swept her gaze across the room. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
I wouldn’t have thought to call the old blotchy mirror or wobbly vintage table beautiful—both had multiple cracks and chips, like the walls—but they were pleasant to look at nonetheless, and the velvet chair before them was an appealing deep wine color. A floor lamp in a baroque chandelier style with black crystal drops graced the corner. The room must have felt quite luxurious once.
“Have you been down here before?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “When I was very young, I think. But these days, only Clara and Braxton come down here when there’s not a production. They prefer that the rest of us stay upstairs so as not to damage anything. It’s all so fragile, you know.”
What a weird society. Two people seemed to have all the power and everyone else just followed their random rules.
When Clara was done scrutinizing the room, we headed around to the large area beneath the stage, which housed a workshop with tools hung neatly on pegboard, shelves for storing props, and assorted building materials.
“There are supposed to be mattresses there,” Clara pointed to the middle of the floor.
“Not for sleeping, surely.” Bella looked slightly aghast at the thought. Couldn’t blame her.
“Of course not. How silly.” Clara’s pointer finger rose toward the ceiling, her large diamond catching the light and flashing. “That’s the trap door. Harry Houdini himself used it, you know.”
“How remarkable,” I murmured.
“Yes. It is. A triumph for Stonedale, as his performance was covered nationwide.” She cut her eyes to me. “Is the trap door involved in this particular play? It’s very dangerous, you know.”
“Yes,” I admitted.
Clara had just opened her mouth to say more when the lights went out.
Chapter 10
We were plunged into complete darkness. I don’t know why the go-to response is sheer panic, but it was coming on hard.
I tried to swipe my cell phone screen with just the right amount of pressure to turn on the flashlight app but couldn’t get it open.
“Don’t move, anyone,” I called out. “There are a lot of things lying around, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” I sounded much calmer and in control than I felt.
After several more attempts, the tiny beam kicked on, and I swung my phone around in an arc. Bella was right next to me, her arms wrapped around herself, standing complete still.
“Is everyone okay? Would you mind turning on your phone flashlights too, if you have them, please?”
One by one, their beams joined mine. I instructed them to aim their lights ahead of us so that we could move as a unit through the dark. We took it very slowly and had almost made it to the corner when there was a loud bang.
“What was that?” Clara screeched.
“Swing your flashlights over to the right,” I directed.
There was nothing in the hallway.
“Why is the dressing room door closed?” Bella asked. “Didn’t we leave it open?”
I stared at the door. “Let’s go insi
de.”
“No!” exclaimed Clara. “Are you crazy, child?”
“There was nothing in there before,” I said. “And the doors do close by themselves sometimes here. It’s an old building—”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve been looking out for this building long before all of you folks arrived.” Clara’s flashlight circled in concert with her angry gesticulations. “And don’t be stupid. The door was open. Now it’s closed, that means someone else must have been down here with us.”
“It may have been an actor,” I said, gritting my teeth.
Suddenly, lights flooded us. Power had been restored.
I pushed on the dressing room door. The room was empty. “All clear, everyone.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I saw that part of the wall seemed to be missing. Then I realized that a door in the wall had swung outward, revealing a perfectly rectangular shape.
They filed in behind me.
“A secret passageway—how magical!” exclaimed Bella, clasping her hands in front of her. “Have any of you seen this before?”
“No,” Clara said, frowning. It must have pained her to admit that she didn’t know everything about the Opera House.
Braxton shook his head as well.
“New to me. Should we see where it leads?” I asked.
“What’s wrong with you, Lila?” Clara yelped. “Don’t stand around here all day quizzing us. Go on.” She made a shooing motion with her hands.
“Follow me.” I crossed the room and peered inside the opening.
“You should be first, in case it’s not safe,” Clara added.
Gee, thanks.
I aimed my flashlight beam around the recessed area. The floor was noticeably raised compared to where we stood, and I warned the others to watch their steps as I climbed up. On the far side, cement blocks formed a spiral staircase. Not even the thought of potential danger could have stopped me from seeing where that went.
The stairs were remarkably sturdy. In fact, they were probably the sturdiest in the Opera House. Maybe the staircase had been added later. I said as much to my companions behind me.