Lucas Mackenzie and the London Midnight Ghost Show

by Steven Bryant

  Lucas wiggled with anticipation at the very thought of talking to his mother, after all these years.

  Amazingly, the crystal began to cloud over, as though it were filling with an internal fog. Inside the little cloud, a light began to flicker. Lucas held Miss Price’s hands tighter.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, the swirling mist began to still itself, and then to clear, until Lucas could see…was that a face?

  A face belonging to…to…to Columbine!

  The crystal ball suddenly seemed filled with Columbine’s head. She was wearing feathers in her hair, part of her Boardwalk costume. Only traces of the mist remained.

  Someone you love more than anyone else in the world!

  “Lucas?” she said from within the crystal. “Is that you? What a clever way you’ve thought to contact me. And how are you? And how is the Professor?”

  “Oh, ah, we’re swell. Swell. Ah, how are things in Atlantic City?”

  “I’m very popular with the Armed Forces,” Columbine said. “Sailors line up for blocks to have their fortunes told. Of course, that part is tiresome, as most of them merely want to know if I’ll go out with them.”

  “And do you?” Lucas said, not really wanting to know the answer.

  “Of course not, silly. I’m an ‘automaton.’ At least as far as they are concerned. Plunk in a nickel and I’ll reveal your future. Say, what have you been up to, Lucas? You don’t look as if you’ve been missing me very much.”

  Lucas writhed with embarrassment. He didn’t really want to talk to Columbine about Chloë. Why had things suddenly become so complicated?

  “Lucas? What’s happening? Are you losing concentration? I think our connection is breaking up. I’ll see you soon, I hope. And about that dancing girl—”

  How did she know?

  But the crystal fogged over, and the light within no longer glowed.

  “Sorry, kid,” said Miss Price, releasing her grip on Lucas’s hands. “We’ve lost contact. I hope you got your money’s worth.”

  Lucas’s feelings were greatly confused. Although he was elated to have seen Columbine, he had once again failed to find his family. And he felt guilty for seeming to have loved Columbine more than his mom. Had his love for his mom faded in four years? Was he in turn no longer as dear to her? Was there a point at which every boy loves his girlfriend more than his mom? Even a boy who died? Why did this make him feel so sad?

  And likewise he suddenly felt strangely guilty about seeing Chloë that night. It would be the final dance he would attend at Lily Dale, and he had promised to dance every dance with her. He liked her and found her remarkably easy to talk to, but he didn’t want to jeopardize his standing with Columbine. As if he had a standing with Columbine!

  Lucas thanked Miss Price and turned to go.

  Just as he was about to leave the dim spooky world of the candle-lit chamber, Miss Price called to him.

  “Wait, I think you have a message,” she said. She lifted one of the slates to reveal that the other had chalked writing on it. “I’m pretty good at this,” she boasted. Lightly, she ran her fingers over the chalked surface. Her head twisted slowly as her fingertips deciphered the chalk dust.

  “It says, ‘You Will Find Them.’ I don’t know what that means, kid, but I hope it’s good news.”

  Lucas smiled. He didn’t know if the message was a stock fake message that Leota Price had planted ahead of time, or a genuine spirit prophecy that had just appeared in the context of the afternoon’s séance. Either way, for the first time that afternoon, Lucas felt he had received his money’s worth.

  Chapter Seven

  Bowling Night

  As with most facilities that catered to an all-night crowd, the twenty-four-hour Paradise Lanes bowling alley in Teaneck, New Jersey, wasn’t very selective about its clientele. Even so, the wiry cigarette-smoking night manager who manned the desk at 2:00 a.m. of a Wednesday morning looked with suspicion at the assembly herded in by Professor McDuff. His gaze fell in particular on Oliver who appeared to Lucas, in the confusing wealth of pink and green neon that illuminated the desk and snack bar areas, to be even greener than usual.

  “My staff wishes to bowl this evening,” Professor McDuff said. “I believe we are expected.”

  The night manager scrutinized the McClatter boys. They wore hats and raincoats to mask their undernourished appearance, though not very effectively.

  “Some of your boys look a little thin,” the manager said. “They’ll all need shoes. Twenty-five cents a pair, up front.”

  “But of course,” the Professor said. “Size 10 for those boys. And the rest…”

  The Gilbert triplets, in tight pink satin bowling league blouses that read “Blithe Spirits League,” were the first to approach the desk to be fitted. Columbine also wore one of the league jerseys for the occasion, as the girls would be bowling together.

  The manager blatantly appreciated how the Gilbert girls filled out their jerseys. He ogled them as he took a puff on his cigarette. “Blithe Spirits?” he said. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that league.”

  “Oh, we’re what you might call a traveling league,” Alexandra said.

  “You’re a smoker, huh?” said Belinda. “Neat.”

  “I hear that can kill ya,” said Clarice.

  The Professor had suggested Bowling Night, always popular with most of his crew, as a means for a little bonding and to just forget how things had been going with the show. The first few shows after break were always a little rough, and so it had been this year for the New Jersey swing through Cherry Hill, New Brunswick, and Perth Amboy.

  The first problem had been a matter of focus. Lucas had trouble directing the efforts of actors who had just come off what they considered to be the two best weeks of their afterlives. The McClatter boys had hobnobbed in Beverly Hills with Dodgers baseball pitcher Sandy Koufax. Yorick, who swore he had not used his mind-reading powers to his advantage, had played poker with horror movie icons Boris Karloff, Peter Lorre, and Vincent Price. Eddie had shot a movie with director Roger Corman. The Gilbert girls had been seen at Sunset Strip nightclubs with movie star Anthony Perkins. Oliver had dined at the Algonquin Hotel with New Yorker big shots John O’Hara, S. J. Perelman, and Charles Addams.

  In contrast, Lucas’s own two weeks had left him in a funk. Partly, returning to the show reminded him of how little he had to contribute to the entertainment side of things, given that he had no discernible ghostly powers whatsoever. Partly, his failure to contact his mother meant that he had to carry on as an orphan, unable to speak to his parents when they were almost assuredly still alive and would love to hear from him. Finally, he felt confused about Columbine and her awareness of his dancing with Chloë. She seemed to know everything. Why did that make him feel guilty? Being fourteen didn’t seem to provide any more answers than being ten.

  The second problem with the show had been a distraction caused by a magazine. Oliver had arrived at the first show after the break with a shopping bag full of them.

  “Issue number 3 is at hand!” he’d cried.

  He was referring to the latest issue of a magazine called Famous Monsters of Filmland. Lovingly edited by one Forrest Ackerman, the magazine bulged with black and white photographs of some of the scariest monsters ever to make it to the movies. Everyone, even Professor McDuff, had praised it as thirty-five cents well spent.

  “It’s Mr. Chaney!” Lucas had said happily. A colorful image of Lon Chaney, in his Phantom of the Opera makeup, decorated the cover of the latest issue. Further inspection of the issue had revealed a scary full-page photo of Mr. Chaney within, in his role from London After Midnight.

  Unfortunately, fascination with the magazine had continued during the first few shows as well as during breaks. This led to problems.

  One page featured a terrific photo of a McClatter boy in a swordfight with Sinbad. This had given the boys an irresistible idea: instead of dancing during their blackout bi
t in the show, they could burst onto the scene with luminous sabers and stage a mock battle. Alas, with the swishing and the slashing and the lights out, one of the teenagers in the audience had sustained a nasty gash that the Gilbert girls in their nurse uniforms had to treat for real.

  The Gilbert girls themselves had squealed with delight at an old photo of Bela Lugosi about to sink his fangs into the neck of the actress playing Mina. “Ooh, that’s me!” Clarice had said. “The real actress couldn’t throw her head that far back, and Bela could stick his fangs right into my throat without causing any damage. Bela was a real sweetie.” The girls missed working with Bela in Hollywood and began performing listlessly, sailing slowly over the heads of the audience like helium balloons adrift. They didn’t bother to terrorize their audiences, just bobbed about in the dark.

  Yorick praised Forrest Ackerman’s penchant for puns, especially such sections in the magazine as “You Axed For It” and “Take Me to Your Letter.” He became obsessed with puns and began using them nightly in the act. Audiences groaned in agony.

  By the time the crew arrived at the bowling alley, their individual copies of the magazine showed the wear and tear of numerous re-readings. Few still had covers, and bent corners identified favorite pages. Lucas’s copy was in the best shape, and he brought it along to the bowling alley rolled up in the back pocket of his jeans. He and his friends would pass the magazine around between turns.

  “Forry is so cool,” Lucas said of the esteemed editor.

  Although the night manager had told Professor McDuff that the Night Owl League, a group of ladies from a Teaneck shoe factory, was due in at three, the facility remained sparsely populated as the troupe began play. The McClatter boys took lane 1 at the far left side of the building, away from those who might get inquisitive as to the boys’ lean looks. Oliver, Lucas, and Eddie took lane 6. Oliver opened his bowling ball bag, and Yorick floated out. He was wearing a derby, and, thanks to the brim in front being mashed against his head, he looked like a street tough character from the Bowery Boys movies. The girls, in their shiny league jerseys, all took lane 8. Four strangers in Bradbury College sweatshirts were bowling in lane 10. Professor McDuff elected to sit in the snack area and compare recent show receipts with those from the previous year. The nervous lady who ran the snack bar gave him a funny look when he refused coffee but seemed to be mollified when he said, “Maybe later.”

  The boys began to don their red and green bowling shoes. As Oliver received special dispensation from the manager to bowl in his socks—his feet were far too large for rental shoes—he was the first to bowl. The building seemed to quake as he shuffled forward, the bowling ball swinging out behind him as if part of a monstrous pendulum. The ball paused a split-second and then reversed direction. With incredible force, Oliver let it go. The ball flew over halfway down the lane, bounced once, then rose and smashed into the pin-setting mechanism, which would set pins no longer. Oliver, Eddie, Yorick, and Lucas spun about to see if the manager had noticed the sickening sound of scrunched metal. He hadn’t. Time to change lanes.

  Eddie was up next as the boys slipped quietly over to lane 7. Eddie frequently boasted that he had averaged 175 in a Knights of Columbus league in his former life in New Orleans. “Drat,” he said as his first ball left one pin standing. He easily eliminated it on his next roll to pick up his spare.

  Lucas selected a ten-pound ball.

  “Okay, Squirt, remember how I always tell you,” Eddie said. “Aim for that first spot down the lane and let the ball curve into the pins. Your ball’s kinda light, so don’t expect too much.”

  Lucas executed a respectable approach and let the ball glide out of his hand. It seemed to pick up speed as it shot down the alley and then kablooey! Pins flew everywhere. A strike!

  Eddie blinked and then said, “Okay, Squirt! Way to go! Am I a great coach or what?”

  “Yes!” Lucas said when he repeated the performance on his next turn.

  “I think you’ve got it, Squirt,” said Eddie, looking somewhat mystified that Lucas had bowled two strikes in a row. “Attaboy. Just keep it up.”

  But by his third strike in three turns, Lucas concluded that he was in the midst of a run of dumb luck, and he turned his attention to his rolled-up copy of Famous Monsters.

  Lacking the necessary appendages, Yorick of course sat out of the action.

  “I could use you as the ball,” Oliver said.

  “That wasn’t funny when you first said it in 1942, or again in 1943, or in all the times you have said it since, up to and including tonight,” Yorick said. He famously hated Bowling Night.

  Lucas changed the subject. “Look at this stuff,” he said. “Famous Monsters offers more neat stuff to buy than Popular Mechanics and DC Comics combined. Listen. Here’s a book on how to throw a spook show in your own home. You get ten great tricks for only a dollar.”

  “We could start our own circuit,” Eddie said. “We wouldn’t even need the Professor.”

  “Except who would protect us from, oh, vampires on motorcycles?” Lucas said.

  “There is that,” Eddie conceded. “That’s a very useful skill. A boss who can do that is worth having around.”

  “Yep, yep,” the others chimed in.

  “Here’s one,” Lucas said. “You could bowl in these, Oliver. Listen. Monster feet! Gruesome latex rubber feet that fit over your shoes.”

  Eddie glanced at the page. “Wow, Dracula teeth,” he said. “Plastic fangs that glow in the dark. These are swell! I could scare Little Miss You-Know-Who out of her socks with these.”

  That Eddie could even think of scaring Columbine was ridiculous, thought Lucas. Fortunately the ads continued to demand his attention.

  “Oh, this is the best,” Lucas said. “A talking skull. It’s made of plastic and you wind it up. It makes a yackety-yak sound as if it’s talking. Only two bucks! Yorick, we could replace your entire act for two dollars.”

  “It can’t talk and it can’t float,” Yorick insisted. “The finer points of theater are wasted on youse guys. My audiences demand sophisticated repartee. They would never stand for a substitute.”

  The other three erupted in laughter.

  “Our audiences are teenagers kept awake past their bedtimes by candy bars and Coca-Cola,” said Oliver. “What do they know of sophisticated repartee?”

  “Candy bars?” said Eddie. “Coca-Cola? Yorick, if you aren’t going to bowl, howsabout ordering me a milkshake and some cheese fries and a couple of slices of pizza from that snack bar over there?”

  Although ghosts never dined, Eddie still demanded his calories. Lucas considered it a zombie thing.

  “I remember popcorn,” Oliver said. “See if they have popcorn, won’t you?”

  Yorick vibrated like a bomb about to go off.

  “Get your own popcorn, you big lummox,” he sputtered. “I’m not your errand boy. I’m going to the powder room. I may just hover over the urinals and frighten the regulars. It’s funny when they wet their jeans.”

  And he sailed off toward the restrooms. The gurgling Wurlitzer jukebox was playing a song called “Stagger Lee,” a nice little song of murder.

  “Hey, what about my pizza?” Eddie shouted.

  “I’ll get it,” said Lucas after nonchalantly posting another strike. Because his turns were taking less time than those of the others, Lucas was getting bored waiting around.

  As he walked over to the snack bar, he paused to see how the Professor was doing. Professor McDuff had littered his entire tabletop with papers and was bent over his adding machine, his smooth head reflecting the carnival midway lighting.

  “Ah, Lucas,” the Professor said, looking up from his paperwork. “Nice night?”

  “I seem to be having a lucky streak,” Lucas said. “And bowling isn’t Yorick’s favorite pastime.”

  “I don’t much believe in luck,” the Professor said. “And don’t worry about Yorick. He’ll be fine.”

  It
was then that Lucas and the Professor were approached, quite by surprise, by two men that they hadn’t seen enter the building. The men wore matching gray suits and produced wallets that contained badges like the ones characters flash in movies.

  “Howdy, Mac,” one of them said. “Howdy, son. We’re FBI. Agents Platt and Skinner. I’m Platt, that is, and he’s Skinner. We’ve been trailing a fellow named Scar Hoffman. Former jewel thief, calls himself the Phantom, escaped from Sing Sing and still on the run. J. Edgar wants him in the worst way. He’s got a brother in these parts and a sweetie way over in southern Illinois. Seen anyone unusual here tonight?”

  “Unusual?” said Professor McDuff. “Why no, gentlemen. Certainly not. See for yourselves.” And he made a little gesture in the air with his right hand.

  Lucas’s eyes bulged as the FBI agents looked about. What in the world would they make of this scene? In lane 1, six adult-scale human skeletons were bowling. In lane 7, a green giant of a fellow bowled along with a pale young man, neither of whom looked any too healthy. Next to them bowled three beautiful young ladies who all seemed to be the same young lady, plus a tall teenage girl who moved with such giraffe-like grace that it melted Lucas’s heart. A human skull wearing a derby floated through space in the general direction of the restrooms. Four men in college sweatshirts bowled in lane 10. Something about them caused the hairs on the back of Lucas’s neck to rise, but he let the feeling pass.

  A dazed look passed over the agents’ faces.

  “Nope,” said Agent Platt. “Nothing unusual here. Sorry to have bothered you, Mac. We’ll be moving on. Maybe we’ll pick up that fellow’s scent in Illinois. Thanks for your time.”

  “My pleasure,” said Professor McDuff.

  “What just happened?” Lucas asked as the men departed.

  The Professor seemed pleased that Lucas had witnessed this small feat of mental magic. “That little hand movement,” he said. “It was a potent hypnotic gesture that still seems to work, yes? It was a little something I picked up from Franz Mesmer in 1804.”