by Cynthia Kuhn
“Sorry to interrupt, Vance, but could you guys please put everything back the way you found it afterwards?” I tried to say it gently.
“No prob.” He grinned at me, then looked around at the crew. One of them counted down and the camera light went on.
“Hi, all you ghost hunters! I’m Vance Myers of Spirit Wranglers.” He smiled brightly. “Today we are in Colorado, at the Stonedale Opera House, said to be the site of a terrifying haunting.”
I wouldn’t say terrifying, exactly. More like annoying.
“Legend has it that the spirit of a professor—the owner of the Opera House—is trapped here. His wife was said to have had an affair with another professor from nearby Stonedale University. And after he discovered it, he hanged himself onstage.”
After an appropriately grave pause, Vance perked up. “There have been numerous hauntings—including multiple full-body sightings—reported in the years since. Using our state-of-the-art equipment, we’re going to get to the bottom of this tragic tale and see what the spirit himself has to tell us. Stay tuned.”
He held his bright smile until the camera light went out. Vance came over to me, holding a microphone. “Hey, would you let us interview you, Lila? It would be cool to have another Stonedale professor, aside from Dr. Frinkle.”
The last thing I wanted to do was go on camera and talk about ghosts. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t help my tenure bid down the road—in fact, it might even hurt it. “Oh, I don’t really have anything to say. You know as much as I do, basically.”
“Could I just ask you some questions, then?”
I looked pointedly at the microphone in his hand. “Is that thing on?”
“Nah,” he said. “It’s just you and me talking. So. You’ve been here for a few months. Ever see anything strange?”
I craned my neck toward the camera man to make sure he wasn’t surreptitiously filming. No lens was pointed in my direction as far as I could tell.
“Anything at all unusual?” Vance persisted.
“No.”
“Maybe I should ask if you have ever experienced anything? It doesn’t just have to be something you saw. Sounds, sensations, stuff like that.”
“Well, the temperature down here always surprises me. It’s cold all the time. It could just be because it’s below ground, though, right?”
He tilted his head. “Maybe, but it could also be a sign of paranormal activity. Good. What else?”
I hesitated.
He took a step closer and lowered his voice. His aftershave was spicy and not unappealing. “You can tell me, Lila. I won’t think you’re losing it. You’d be surprised how many people talk themselves out of believing something they definitely experienced just because it sounds crazy.”
“Well, I have heard knocking or scratching in the walls, though that could be squirrels.”
“Or not.” He gave me a you-never-know shrug.
“And the lights often go out, though that could be just be the old electrical system. The main breaker literally sparks when the lever is moved.”
“Or not. Though they should get someone to fix that,” Vance said. “I mean, ghost hunting aside, it’s a fire hazard. I’m surprised the university hasn’t taken care of it.”
“The school doesn’t usually stage productions here. The chancellor and Tolliver came to an agreement about that. Tolliver said he likes the ambiance. Plus, we just found out that they’re probably selling the building, so perhaps they aren’t too concerned about updating everything.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks for the information. It jives with what the students are saying too. Though a few of them reported having seen a full-body manifestation as well...a man walking down the hallway. Have you ever seen that?”
“No,” I said. Thank goodness.
“Let me just run down a few other things if you have a minute. Any orbs or unexplained light phenomena?”
“No. Aside from the lights going on and off.”
“Well, I’d say that counts.”
“It’s an old building,” I insisted.
“Any doors, windows, or cabinets opening or closing by themselves?”
“Doors have been known to slam. But that could be because the building foundation has shifted. It happens a lot in Colorado, I’ve heard, because of the soil.”
He ignored that explanation. “Any screams or groans or other sounds?”
“No. Oh, wait. Several students have heard singing. But I don’t think—”
“Good. Okay, how about any floating or falling objects? Or items moving locations without explanation?”
“I did find a small trunk sitting in a stairwell once. But it could have been left there by anyone. I don’t know if it moved—”
“How about unusual marks on any objects?”
“No. Oh. Well, there are the claw-like marks along there.” I pointed to the wall near the dressing rooms.
“Saw those.” His eyes lit up. “You do realize that you’ve said yes to almost everything I’ve raised, in one way or another, don’t you? I think we may have an actual presence here. Maybe even poltergeist. This could be very exciting.”
“For you, maybe. Not so much for us.”
He laughed. “Lila, part of what our show does is help people come to terms with what’s already happening. You’ll feel better afterwards, once you know what you’re dealing with, I promise.”
I wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 13
Later that night, I lay awake, staring up at the ceiling while I ran through my to-do lists. Cady, a lovely brown cat, was curled up next to me—Calista had asked me to cat-sit while she attended a conference—and her warmth was comforting, but I couldn’t fall asleep. The rehearsals were getting longer and more exhausting, and it was all I could do to keep up with my normal class load. I was afraid my classes were getting the short shrift, but no matter how late I stayed up, I couldn’t accomplish more than the bare minimum.
I also needed to call Clara to ask for the signed paperwork, just so we had it. She’d completed the tour, which was the final step, but we had never received anything official. Although the chancellor had said the paperwork was merely a formality, it was clear that Clara didn’t view it quite the same way. It was also clear that she would take oppositional action—discourage people from attending at the very least—if she wasn’t happy.
Maybe I shouldn’t talk to her about it. What if she said no? What would we do then? What would she do then?
Turning onto my side, I tucked my arm under the pillow. Cady shifted slightly and blinked her yellow eyes at me but didn’t meow any complaint.
I ran through the conversation with Vance again. The comment he made was bothering me—that I’d checked off almost all of the boxes on his paranormal activity list. How could there have been so many signs, and why weren’t they on my radar sooner? I mean, I wasn’t sure if I believed that the Opera House was haunted. It was definitely spooky in some parts, and it was the site of a suicide, but I wasn’t sure if I believed in an actual ghost inhabiting it. I didn’t not believe...because no one can grow up the daughter of artist Violet O and not have an open mind. But I’d never really come into contact with any ghosts, to my knowledge.
Still, my body had gone into high alert mode at the theater before, with goosebumps and anxiety spikes and an array of disconcerting symptoms. Until now, I’d written it off as stress-induced and tried to ignore it. What if it was something paranormal instead?
And how had Zandra known we’d been looking in the black trunk? Had Malcom really told her, as she claimed? Or had she seen us onstage?
I flipped over to the other side, this time earning a protest from the cat. She made a noise, then jumped over me to curl up in the nook of my stomach on the other side.
Through the window shade, I could see the shadow outline of the few rema
ining leaves clinging to swaying branches in the gentle wind. It was mesmerizing, and after a while I closed my eyes and began to drift off, only to be jolted awake again when my phone rang soon after.
I shot up in my bed, torn from a dream about Althea Gaines sitting in front of a mirror, making strange gestures. Bella was standing behind her, silently, staring into the glass. It was so vivid I felt as though I’d been there with them.
In a daze, I answered the phone.
“Lila! Get down here.” Tolliver shouted. “I need you.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear slightly. “Where are you?”
“At the theater. On the double, okay?”
“What’s going on—”
But he had already hung up.
I sighed and dressed quickly, zipping up my Stonedale University sweatshirt over a thermal and jeans, scraping my long dark waves into a ponytail. As I grabbed my keys, I told Cady that I’d be back soon, hoping it was true.
I pulled up to the Opera House less than five minutes later. Tolliver met me out front. “I’m sorry to bother you, Petal, but you have to see this for yourself.”
He pulled my arm, and we went into the lobby. The spirit wranglers were huddled together, looking at something. When the door slammed shut and caught his attention, Vance waved me over.
“Hi,” I said as I joined them.
“Restart it,” he said to the guy holding an iPad. “Let Lila see.”
After it had been reset, Vance took the iPad and aimed it in my direction. “Night vision,” he said curtly.
“Do you have to film at night?”
“Not really,” he said. “But it’s more dramatic. Plays better.”
I watched as the footage began to roll. It was grainy, but there was Vance, his face rendered peculiarly by the night vision camera. Even if there was no ghost captured on film, he looked sufficiently creepy.
“I’m here in the prop room below the stage of the Opera House, where there have been reports of objects moving around. We are about to use the recorder to see if we can capture any voices.”
He held up the small rectangular box I’d seen earlier. “The EMF recorder indicates higher electromagnetic activity in this area. As soon as we came into this room, the needle jumped.”
Suddenly, there was a loud bang. He jolted, his face registering genuine surprise.
“What was that?”
Off camera, I heard someone yelling, “Over there, over there!” The screen began to shake as the camera operator followed Vance. It was chaotic and jerky, capturing indistinguishable parts of the floor as Vance moved down the hallway and stopped at the corner dressing room.
“Get this!” He gestured wildly to the camera and stepped out of the way to allow us to see the door in the wall to the secret staircase closing, becoming indistinguishable from the rest of the wall. “It’s a secret door!” Vance yelled, as he ran over and began pushing so that it would open again. After the third attempt, there was a visible click as the door unlatched.
Vance went through it, the camera followed, and they moved up the spiral staircase. As they emerged, Vance pointed. “Get it!” The shot moved past him to capture an image of a dark figure moving rapidly across the stage.
The camera raced after it but cut soon after.
“We couldn’t catch up,” Vance explained apologetically.
I looked at Tolliver, who said, “That seems like proof.”
“Of what?”
“Malcolm.”
Vance was nodding and high-fiving the guys around him.
“But what makes you so sure it wasn’t just a person who was faster than you?” I asked.
They all stared at me.
“Didn’t you see? It was hovering,” Vance said, excitedly. “We got ourselves a floater!”
“Could you replay that part, please?”
They did, but I couldn’t tell if the figure was on the floor or above it. It was too dark.
“Trust me. It was a floater,” Vance said. “Plus, how about that staircase?”
“Oh. We knew about the staircase,” I said. “I’m sorry I forgot to mention it before.”
He shrugged. “It’s going to make for some great TV.”
“Couldn’t it be a human? And if so, aren’t you guys worried about there being an intruder here, maybe?” I asked.
“Nah. There are more of us than there are of him,” Vance laughed. The crew joined in.
“Someone shot our previous director not too long ago,” I informed him.
That quieted them down.
“I’m sorry,” Vance said. “We didn’t know that.”
I nodded, fighting the tears welling up in my eyes.
He took stock of my expression, gave my arm a quick squeeze, then steered the crew a few feet away.
I whirled around to go. I just wanted to sit in my car and have a long cry about Jean Claude. I had only known him a short while, but although he was bossy and bellowed a lot, he was talented and passionate and kind-hearted. And I felt his loss.
Grief poked its head up in unexpected ways. I definitely wanted to know who had killed him and why, but I didn’t know how to go about finding the answer.
Back at home, I collapsed onto my chenille sofa. Racing over to the Opera House in the middle of the night had shot me into wide-awake mode. Now my brain was buzzing, but my body was moving in slow motion.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for awhile. I could clean. I could watch TV. Neither activity was appealing at the moment. Then my conscience kicked in and suggested that I catch up on my grading, and I leaned down to the coffee table and opened the flap of the satchel.
The letters.
I’d completely forgotten I had them. I pulled the bag toward me and scrabbled around until my fingers closed on the packet. Unwinding the red ribbon slowly, I examined them. The paper was old and yellow. The neat cursive writing was the same on all of them. There were six, all sent to Althea Gaines at an address on Oak Street. I arranged them in order of postmark—the first two were a week apart, then there were intervals of several weeks between each of the remaining letters. Setting the first five envelopes on the pillow next to me, I opened the flap of the earliest dated one, carefully removing the sheet of paper inside. Unfolding it, I began scanning the words.
July 7, 1990
Dear Mrs. Gaines,
Thank you for writing. The pleasure was all mine. I was grateful for your inquiries after the performance. It’s rare that one meets another who appreciates the dramatic arts with such deep understanding. Of course, your own achievements onstage have far surpassed mine. I hope that we will have an opportunity to meet again soon.
With my best regards,
Camden Drake
It all seemed on the up and up. Polite, professional. I decided to remove the rest of the letters at once and read them in order.
July 15, 1990
Dear Mrs. Gaines,
It was a lovely chat. I hope that we have the chance to further discuss the experiments I am attempting—feebly, I fear—with my latest work. There are not many people in the world who would be willing to sit through an hour-long lecture on the subject, I’m afraid, but thank you for the invitation. If you believe that such an audience exists, I would be honored to prepare something.
With my best regards,
Camden Drake
August 18, 1990
Dear Mrs. Gaines,
I am astonished at the number of Stonedale citizens you were able to drag to my lecture. It is surely due to your organizing talents and not at all due to my own humble area of interest. (Not expertise, as you so kindly called it in your introduction.) May I take you and, if he’s available, Mr. Gaines out for dinner at your convenience as a small token of my gratitude?
With my best regards,
Camden Drake
September 22, 1990
Dear Althea,
Has it been a month since our evening together? I can hardly pay attention to the passing of the days. I can hardly pay attention to anything at all. Your face is all I see before me, wherever I look, and I have never been happier. Write me immediately and tell me when we can meet again.
With deepest affection,
Camden
October 12, 1990
Dearest A,
I cannot wait much longer. This is preposterous. You must leave him.
Yours,
Cam
October 30, 1990
My beloved,
Pack your bags. Tell Malcolm that you’re sick and have your understudy go on for you. I’ll meet you in your dressing room during the first act. Wait until you see what I’m bringing you—gems for my gem—you are going to shine in New York, in more ways than one.
With all my love,
C
I put the last letter down onto the pile and sat back, processing what I’d just read. It was all there—the affair, the plan to run away to New York, and what sounded like some very nice jewelry that he was about to give her.
It was time to put on my scholar hat and see what I could find out about the two of them. I’d been listening to everyone else’s accounts for so long, and I wanted to know the facts.
* * *
On Monday after class, I went to Pennington library to go through the microfiche. It was going the way of the dinosaur these days, but our campus hadn’t yet fully given in to the digital movement, so the town newspapers would still be preserved on film.
I had the date and year of the big fight—Halloween night, 1990—so I made a stop at the computer to look up the correct call number. Before long, I was seated at a machine, looking at the Stonedale Scout from that era.
I scrolled feverishly through the pages until I reached the proper week. The headline for November first screamed “OUTRAGE AT THE OPERA HOUSE!”