She was Maudeville. But this theater had burned before. It could burn again. And this time, it would be destroyed completely.
Without a word, Olive lunged forward and snatched up the burning torch. The others yelled as she sprinted across the stage holding it out like a sword. She slashed at the dry, frayed curtains. In seconds they were engulfed in flames.
“Hurry!” Olive screamed, running toward the stairs as an angry roar boomed like thunder. The others followed her off the stage and past the orchestra pit. The aisles were gone; they scrambled over heaps of broken chairs, slipping over armrests and being scratched by splinters of wood.
“I’m stuck!” Juliana cried suddenly. Olive and the others hurried over to where Felix was crouched, trying to free Juliana’s leg from a jumble of metal rods and ripped-up upholstery. She held the torch as close as she dared so that Felix could see better. No one spoke; there was just the sound of their labored, frightened breathing. Felix clawed at the chair wreckage. Val and Mickey attempted to help, but their hands passed through the rubble.
Val looked dumbfounded. “We could all touch everything before,” they murmured. “Why can’t we now?”
“The only reason you could before was because Maude let you,” Finley replied quietly.
The hairs on the back of Olive’s neck stood up as another sound reached her ears. Something far, far overhead.
Slithering.
Slowly, Olive tilted her head back. Her eyes moved from the balcony above them, to the ceiling, to the dome where Felix had clung to the chipped bronze edge. But Olive couldn’t even see the edge now, just the gigantic black worm slowly uncoiling inside.
“Oh,” Juliana choked, and Olive knew she saw it too. The rest of the cast gathered tightly around them, the dead forming a circle around the living.
A great crash from the stage made them all jump. The curtains had fallen, along with the catwalk. The stage was an inferno.
“There,” Felix said triumphantly, throwing aside a metal rod. He grabbed Juliana, and they all sprinted for the double doors, Finley flying overhead. Olive heard the slimy creature a second before it swung down from the balcony, its toothless mouth like a yawning black hole. Juliana screamed as Felix yanked her around it. He slammed into the doors and cried out in pain.
“They’re locked!” Felix yelled, kicking and shoving. Olive swung the torch at the worm, which recoiled from the flames.
“This way!” She led the others around the back of the hall, heading for the side stage door. The worm slithered along the balcony overhead. And there was new movement, something that nearly caused Olive to skid to a stop.
Throughout the hall, piles of wrecked chairs were shifting. Rising. Pointy shards of wood, sharp metal rods, springs, fabric, stuffing…everything floated. For a few seconds, it was eerily beautiful: the hovering remains of a shattered auditorium against a backdrop of blazing curtains.
Then they began to spin, forming a funnel—a cyclone of wood and steel. And as if in slow motion, Olive watched a crooked metal bar break free of the tornado and speed toward Felix.
Olive threw the torch into the cyclone and ran straight at Felix, shoving him down. The bar smashed the back of her skull. Stars exploded in front of her eyes before everything turned to nothing.
Nothing was lonely.
And then: a single, tiny new star burst to life. Then another. Dozens, hundreds, thousands.
They swam through space, leaving streaks of light that quickly fizzled. Constellations formed, broke apart, reformed into new shapes: birds to fish, hammers to arrows, crowns to crosses. A ship became a man, and a lion became a little girl.
They waltzed, the girl and her father. Neither could speak, but they smiled and smiled. Words didn’t exist anymore, so the girl sang a song without lyrics, and her father laughed at her silliness. They danced circles around the other constellations, faster and faster, until they were nothing but a bright, beautiful blur in the void.
Olive…
Olive?
Olive!
“She’s awake!”
Her eyes opened to a world that churned like thick soup. Faces appeared, their features swirling but recognizable. Felix and Juliana. Finley too, and the rest of the cast: warm and solid and impossibly alive. Olive sat up, touching the back of her head. She vaguely remembered the metal bar. But the throbbing was faint, the pain as distant as the millions of stars streaking across the blackness overhead.
“What happened?” Her words came out slurred and groggy.
“We got out,” Felix said. She had never seen him so happy. “Look at the theater, Olive. Really look.”
Olive looked. Maudeville was a bonfire, the flames spitting and crackling in an almost comforting way. The cast cheered as the last remaining bit of the skeleton collapsed, sending yellow-orange sparks into the sky.
Beaming, Olive stood and gazed around. The city had never looked more beautiful. The sidewalks were clean, and the surrounding skyscrapers glistened in the moonlight. White lilies sprang up from every crack and crevice; the air smelled sweet and spicy and comforting.
“Olive?”
Slowly, Olive turned around. Her mother loomed over her, tall and elegant and beautiful. She opened her arms, and Olive hesitated only a moment before stepping forward.
She hugged her mother tightly around the waist, and Mrs. Preiss stroked her back. Olive apologized for the frizzies, and they both laughed. She hadn’t heard her mother laugh like that in ages.
Mrs. Preiss pulled back and wiped makeup streaks from her cheeks, all black and bluish-greenish. The shade matched her dress, a very elegant dress Olive had never seen her wear before, with a full skirt and black pearl buttons. “Are those your friends?”
Olive glanced back at the cast, and her heart swelled.
“Family,” she told her mother. “Can they be our family now?”
It was an absurd question to ask. Mrs. Preiss wouldn’t let Olive drop a nickel into a busker’s hat, much less invite a group of vagabonds into the penthouse. But to Olive’s amazement, she smiled.
“Of course, sweetheart. Of course.” Her voice dripped with syrupy sweetness.
Fresh tears of relief and gratitude sprang to Olive’s eyes. Her mother’s smile grew wider. Her eyes glinted with hunger. Olive took a step back.
Imagine the delicious wickedness Laurel Preiss would unleash as a villain.
“Mom?” she whispered.
“Yes, darling?”
Olive began to shake. But her mother kept smiling.
“Olive…”
“Olive?”
“Olive!”
The stars were back. But these stars weren’t waltzing in the night sky. They were rattling around in Olive’s skull, a hailstorm of bright, jagged stars piercing her brain, blinding her. The ringing in her ears was somehow ascending and descending in pitch at the same time. She tried to inhale, but her lungs were stuffed with damp dustrags.
Panicked, Olive sat upright and gasped for air. There was a cry of relief, and she caught a glimpse of Juliana’s tear-streaked face before her friend tackled her in a hug.
“Let her breathe, Jules,” said Felix, but he sounded intensely relieved. Olive blinked rapidly, wiping her eyes as Juliana pulled away. The back of Olive’s skull throbbed terribly. She tried to ignore it. This was real. It was agonizing and nauseating, but it was real.
“Where are we?” Her voice sounded thick and warbled in her head.
“Rehearsal room.” Val appeared at her side. Olive craned her neck to look around and was rewarded with a fresh wave of nausea. But through the haze of pain, she counted the others. Finley floated quietly next to his brother and sister, while Knuckles and his hands—still and solemn—hovered near the door with the seamstresses. Astaire huddled next to them, real tears smearing the painted one in a black streak down his cheek. Mickey, Val, Eli, and Tanisha stood close together too.
Olive could see straight through them all. She wasn’t sure if it was because now she knew they
were ghosts, or because they knew. But either way, her heart ached at the sight.
Aidan stood apart from them. He clung to Nadia and carefully avoided looking at his fellow cast members, his expression a mix of confusion and fear. And he was solid.
Because he was alive, Olive realized. Like her, Aidan had never had his first finale. He’d never been taken by the worm.
Aidan was alive, and so were Olive and Felix and Juliana. But not for long, not unless they escaped.
“The theater’s on fire,” Olive said thickly. She could still taste the smoke in her mouth. “We have to get out.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want, darling?”
Olive shot to her feet, ignoring fresh stabs of pain in her head. Aidan whimpered and buried his face in Nadia’s hair.
Dozens of Maudes smiled at them from the mirrors. But there was no Maude in the room. Just reflections. Her deep voice came from all around them.
“The theater has burned before,” the Maudes told Olive. “And yet I’m still here. If you don’t want to be my star, I’ll find another. This city is filled with desperate people who need to escape.”
Val turned away from the mirrors, eyes blazing. “Enough,” they said. “Let’s go. Olive’s right—we can leave if we want to. Living or dead.”
The Maudes laughed. “Be my guest.” Then the reflections vanished.
Shaking, Olive took a few steps back. There was a sharp snap, then another, and another. The mirrors were fracturing, great cracks rippling out from the center like a jagged spiderweb.
No one wasted any time. They sprinted to the doors a split second before the mirrors exploded. Shards of glass sliced the backs of Olive’s arms and legs as she fled the rehearsal room with the others, heading back to the hall.
The ghosts led the way, streaming past the dorm. There was a series of thuds, and a headboard flew out, passing through Mickey and aiming straight for Olive. She ducked, and it smashed into the wall. Bedposts and blankets followed, swinging at heads, attempting to strangle necks. The kitchen launched an attack of forks and knives and rotten food that splattered and clattered all over the hall, and Olive barely had time to wonder about the deafening crunch that followed when the oven smashed through the wall, mangled pipes dragging behind it. The entire thing hovered briefly over their heads before the oven door fell open, raining down dead, partially roasted rats and maggots.
Bile rose in Olive’s throat, and she choked back a scream. Grabbing Aidan—who was paralyzed with fear—by the shirt, she dragged him into the stairwell. The others followed, no one uttering a word as they headed to the side entrance Olive had propped open for Felix just hours earlier. Finding it closed, they pushed and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge.
“The lobby,” Olive said hoarsely, already heading back down the hall. Behind her, Juliana groaned.
“What’s the point?” she wailed. “You know she won’t let us out those doors either.” But she followed, clinging to Felix’s hand.
Wisps of smoke curled up from under the double doors. The crackling roar of the fire raging in the auditorium was muffled, but the lobby itself was eerily calm. It looked as it had the night Olive had run away, only worse: thick cobwebs all but obscuring the chandeliers, black spiders skittering across the ceiling and down the cracked columns. Everything was coated in dust and ash, even the portraits. The painted Maudes wore ravenous grins.
Aidan, Felix, Juliana, and Olive huddled together, staring at the doors. The lobby suddenly seemed very, very long.
“Oh,” Finley said suddenly, and they turned, startled. Olive’s breath caught in her throat. Finley was fainter, much fainter. All the ghosts were, including the cast. Two examined her hands, which were barely visible. She smiled. It was the first time Olive had seen her look calm.
“What’s going on?” Juliana whispered.
Slam.
Everyone spun around and stared at the auditorium doors.
Slam. Slam.
Crash!
Flames shot out into the lobby, surrounding what looked like a black hole. It was as if the auditorium was now the very pit of hell. Then the hole lunged forward, and Olive felt the worm’s hot breath.
“Run!” she cried. They sprinted across the lobby, the great worm thrashing blindly behind them. One by one, the marble columns splintered and began to fall with an earsplitting, teeth-rattling crash. The Maude portraits were no longer smiling, their faces twisted in silent screams as the cobweb-covered chandeliers ripped out of the ceiling and launched themselves at the children. Olive and the others had nearly reached the doors when the final column began to fall. Olive’s heart plummeted—they couldn’t all clear it. Someone would surely be crushed—
But Finley soared high overhead, straight at the column. He didn’t pass through it. He caught it, held it effortlessly, his expression of surprise mirroring those below him. He smiled, looking rather delighted at his own cleverness and skill.
And then he threw the column at the doors.
They splintered open as if made of matchsticks. Olive scrambled over the column and practically threw Aidan and Nadia outside before helping the others through. They hurried down the steps and stopped on the street.
The theater was crumbling in on itself, black smoke drifting up into the night sky. The ghosts hovered over the last step.
“How did you do that with the column?” Juliana asked, her voice cracking as she gazed at Finley. He beamed.
“Maude isn’t the only person buried at the theater,” he said. “I’m down there too. Everyone else died in Eidola during their first finale, but I didn’t. Because I saw you, Felix. I’m a part of the theater, just like Maude.”
“Did you all know?” Olive looked pleadingly from one cast member to another. “Did you know what would happen to me and Aidan during the finale?”
“No!” Tanisha cried immediately. “No, Olive, I swear….It was a butterfly. None of us saw the worm during our first finales. We saw…”
“We saw what we wanted to see,” Eli finished. “Just like we saw Eidola.” He turned to Felix, lips quivering. “That’s why we tried so hard to keep you out. You didn’t just remind Finley of what was real. You reminded all of us.”
“We’re all so sorry,” Val added softly. Mickey nodded in agreement, his eyes red-rimmed.
Felix took a deep breath. “It’s okay. I understand. But now…” His desperate gaze fell on his brother’s ghost. “You aren’t trapped here, are you?”
Finley shook his head. “I was never trapped. I stayed here after I died because I wanted to be with you and Juliana.”
“None of us is trapped.” Knuckles floated forward, his hands hovering at his wrists. “Quite the opposite. The theater is almost gone. We have to leave too.”
Tanisha let out a choked sob, and Val placed a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay. We can let go,” they said, looking around at the others. “We can all let go.”
Finley smiled at his brother and sister. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ll be okay.” Juliana let out a whimper, and Felix grabbed her hand. A distant roar sounded from the theater as the flames shot higher, smoke billowing out in all directions.
The group gathered one last time: the Morellas, the cast, Knuckles, the seamstresses. Olive wiped her eyes, listening to the sniffles and sobs and whispered words of comfort as everyone said their goodbyes. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to—it would be too final. Olive preferred to hope she would see them again. After all, a lowered curtain was not content to remain that way forever. It was just waiting to rise again.
Then it happened: the theater collapsed with a final roar, and the resulting gust of hot wind scattered the ghosts like dust in the air.
Tears streamed freely down Olive’s face. She wanted to say something, offer some comfort to Felix and Juliana. But no words were adequate, and so she stood there in silence as they hugged and cried.
They had each other, Olive told herself. They’d suffered a terrible l
oss, but they were still a family, the two of them. She placed a hand on Aidan’s shoulder as he wept into Nadia’s hair.
Four children and one puppet huddled close together, watching in silence as the remains of Maudeville burned. There was no sign of the worm. No sign of Maude. Just an old theater that had been their home when they had no other place to go.
“The carnival,” Felix told Olive and Aidan, his voice tired and hoarse. He wrapped his arm protectively around his sister’s shoulders. “That’s where we’re going. You could come with us, both of you. I’m sure they’d be interested in a ventriloquist and a singer.”
In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder and louder. Olive clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap. She could stay with Felix and Juliana, Aidan and Nadia. She could be a part of this family. It was sorely tempting.
But Olive wasn’t sure it was what she really wanted. Overhead, endless constellations twinkled through the smoke. She stared up at them and found a messy heart.
A fire truck screeched to a halt down the street, followed by several police cars. Olive wiped her face and squinted. There was another car too. A familiar car.
“You called,” she remembered suddenly. “You called the number on that flyer.”
Felix nodded. “I told her you were here.”
Olive drew a deep, shaky breath. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.
She stood, smoothing her hair and brushing off her nightgown. Memories of a life that seemed longer ago than it should resurfaced, sharp and real: harsh criticism and disapproving looks; stargazing and secret paychecks; pink callused fingers, one with the imprint of a ring still pressed into the skin. The hole in Olive’s chest was raw and open once more, but she was glad. She had tried to stitch it up too soon, and all by herself. She would not make that mistake again. A car door slammed. A familiar, frantic voice called her name, and Olive ran toward her mother as fast as she could.
In the heart of a monstrous city, firefighters hurried toward the blazing ruins of a theater. A crowd began to gather, some to gawk, others offering help and comfort to the survivors. And for the first time in more than a year, a girl and her mother embraced, laughing and crying beneath a night sky filled with infinite stars.
Olive and the Backstage Ghost Page 14