Stage Fright

by Gabrielle Holly

  Mike joined her at the railing. “Oh, that is so cool! They’re black light murals. It was a huge thing back when they were building these places in the ‘30s. As the audience was filing in they’d turn on black lights and the murals would glow—almost like 3D. The ones in here are paintings of a park with fountains and gazebos and people having picnics. I had a restoration guy look at them and he said the walls just need a good cleaning. He’s going to have some college kids from the art school come over and do the work. And if you look up, see how the ceiling is coved? It’s painted super dark blue and there are thousands of little dots of phosphorescent paint. The black light makes it look like a starry sky.”

  “Cool,” Toni agreed.

  Mike grabbed her hand and led her up the stairs to the back of the balcony where Bridget was waiting. “Acrophobia,” she explained. “Me and heights just don’t get along.”

  Mike gave her a reassuring peck on the cheek then continued his tour. “To the right we’ve got the projection room. It’s the heart of the theatre.” Toni and Bridget poked their heads inside the olive green room. Mike pushed past them and ran his hand over the huge machine in the centre. “And this, ladies, is the Whisper Reel Deluxe—the big mac-daddy of film projection units. It’s older than the two of you combined, but it’s a workhorse. I ran it through its paces and this kitten purrs! All I need is a new bulb and we’re in business.”

  “And you know this how?” Toni asked, thinking she already knew the answer.

  “I worked in a movie theatre in high school.”

  “Of course you did,” she said, not at all surprised. Mike’s resume was nothing if not varied. He’d worked as an emergency medical technician, a real estate agent, a cameraman, a soda fountain jerk and who knew what else.

  The Jack-of-all-trades finally stopped petting his new toy and crossed to the space opposite the projection room. “And this is the VIP room. Movies were a big deal back in the day and the swells didn’t want to mix with the hoi polloi…”

  “Swells?” Toni whispered to Bridget.

  “Hoi polloi?” the redhead whispered back, “I think he’s been watching too many old films.”

  Mike pretended not to have heard, but Toni was pretty sure he had.

  “Aaaaaanyway,” he continued, “So the theatre owner would set them up in here with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, maybe a record player. They’d party before and after the movie and then during they’d sit on couches and watch through that window.” He pointed to the huge pane of glass covering the wall overlooking the theatre. “This room is wired with a separate set of speakers too. It was also used for stars that came to attend premieres.”

  Toni could feel the entities in the room. She wasn’t uneasy, as she’d been in the secret room downstairs. The emotion in here was joyful and expectant. The warm, positive vibes washed over her and she was almost sorry when Mike asked her to follow him back downstairs.

  “Alright, fearless spirit hunters,” he said. “It’s getting late. Let’s set up the equipment, dim the lights and see if we can get any ghoulies and ghosties to make an appearance!”

  Chapter Two

  Toni and Bridget leaned against the candy counter in the lobby and waited for Mike to return from the screening room with the equipment.

  “I wonder if we got anything,” Bridget said as she traced a pattern in the dusty glass.

  Toni shrugged, “I sure didn’t feel anything. You?”

  Bridget shook her head. “Nope. We’ll grab a pizza then go back to the hotel and review the footage. Never know what it might have recorded.”

  Toni nodded. They’d sat in the old theatre for two hours—each in a different row—inviting unseen presences to make themselves known. The lights on the EMF metre had remained dim. She realised that she’d actually hoped the place was haunted. Before her experiences at the Buckman Inn and at the ice cream parlour, she hadn’t even believed in ghosts, let alone wanted to make contact with them.

  Bridget must have read the disappointment on Toni’s face because she patted her arm and said, “This is what ghost hunting is usually like. We average about ten hours of investigation to put together one show. Then we still have to pad the forty-three minutes of air time with witness interviews, footage of us setting up equipment, reviewing data. Not all of us are ghost magnets, sweetheart!”

  Toni rolled her eyes in response.

  The women turned towards the sound of clattering gear as Mike struggled through the swinging doors lugging a pair of metal equipment cases.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Toni slung her purse over her shoulder and patted her front jeans pocket. It was empty. She stuffed her hands into her coat pockets and found only her keys, gloves and wads of tissue.

  Bridget noticed her fidgeting. “Lose something?”

  “My cell,” Toni answered, then plopped her purse back on the counter and methodically searched through each zippered compartment. “I must have left it in the theatre. I’ll run back in and get it. Give me a minute to get inside then call my number, would you?”

  “Sure. We’ll go load the van.”

  * * * *

  Toni let the theatre door swing shut behind her then flicked on the house lights. I was sitting near the centre, she thought as she headed down the sloping aisle. Turning into one of the middle aisles she eased her way across the row, shuffling her feet to avoid stepping on her phone in case it had fallen to the floor. The space between the upturned seats was cast in inky black shadows. When she’d travelled to the halfway point, she heard her cell ring. It was close. Following the sound, she pivoted towards the front of the room and saw the glowing screen nestled in a cup holder in the next row up. She stretched to grab it then swept her thumb across the glass. “Found it, Bridge. Thanks. I’ll be right out.”

  Toni ended the connection and dropped the phone into the deep side pocket of her coat. Resting her hands on the chair back, she paused a moment to look out over the theatre. The renovation would be hard work, but the place definitely had potential. Squinting, she tried to imagine what it would look like with new paint, carpet and fabrics. A rumbling growl from her stomach reminded Toni of the pizza Bridget had promised. Before she could turn to leave, her knees were buckled by a soft blow from behind. Glancing over her shoulder, Toni saw that the cushioned seat had flopped down. She reached out to right it, but was overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness and was forced to turn and clutch the chair in front of her again, this time for support. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears and her head felt like a helium balloon on a string. She let her head drop forward and inhaled deeply—in through the nose, out through the mouth—while trying to bring the texture of her wool overcoat into focus.

  Just breathe, Toni. In through the nose…

  She’d almost convinced herself that the wooziness that washed over her was due to low blood sugar when she felt a tug across her chest. Digging her fingers into the rough upholstery, she watched her coat’s buttons slip free of their holes. The wool was pulled aside like the opening of a curtain and she felt a pair of invisible hands cup her breasts. When her nipples were cruelly pinched, she forgot her breathing exercises and sucked in a sharp breath through her mouth.

  Here we go again!

  Though her mind protested, her body had an entirely different response. The sensitive flesh puckered and hardened under expert ministrations from unseen hands. Toni couldn’t help but roll back her shoulders and shamelessly offer her tits to her tormentor.

  The ringing in her ears subsided and every sense sharpened. She shut her eyes and an orchestral strain filled her ears. She could pick out every instrument—every note. The cushioned roll of a timpani drum started as a distant beat then built to a thrilling crescendo.

  The show’s about to start.

  When Toni lifted her head and set her gaze to the front of the room, it was a conditioned response to the musical cue. She let out a gasp at the transformed theatre. Every nuance of the room invited fantasy. The detailed m
urals on the side walls glowed to life. The coved ceiling twinkled like thousands of tiny stars. The décor gave the illusion of sitting outdoors.

  Blood-red velvet curtains were drawn across the stage. Their weight was obvious when they slid open and revealed a snow white movie screen. A thrill of anticipation zipped up Toni’s spine.

  The sensation of a heavy body pressing against her back electrified her skin from shoulders to ass. Though the ghostly fondling never moved from her chest, she felt her hair brushed back from her neck, at the same instant each of her hips was squeezed. She was yanked back hard and registered a steely erection pressing against her butt. Toni felt somehow sure that this was a single entity, but it seemed to have many pairs of hands.

  Well, that’s new! An involuntary chuckle bubbled out of her at the thought. The dizziness had passed and was replaced with the hyperawareness that Toni had experienced in her previous ghost encounters.

  A puff of warm air stirred a loose curl near her jaw an instant before the sensation of lips sucking at her neck sent shivers through her. She tilted her head to the other side to afford better access to the invisible mouth.

  “Ah,” she cried out.

  That single syllable must have constituted acceptance, because in an instant the number of ghostly hands multiplied. Her attention was divided between the rough tugs at her hips and the sensual caresses pleasuring her breasts and thighs. Hot juices dampened her panties and she longed for that spot to be massaged. The back of the chair was no longer a support—it was a brace that she used for leverage to push her ass backwards. She ground against her unseen lover, urging him on. When finally he groped at her aching mound she begged, “More!”

  “Soon,” he whispered. “Come back tonight. Alone.”

  Then he was gone.

  “Toni! What’s the hold up?” Bridget’s voice shocked Toni back to the present. She straightened and scanned the room. It was back to being a wreck. “Sorry. Just daydreaming.”

  “Well quit screwing around. We’re starving!”

  * * * *

  Thomas Becker flexed his fingers and stole a peek at the clock over the cash register. The store was on holiday hours and didn’t close until ten. He’d been signing books for nearly three hours and his hand was cramping. The stacks of ‘Confessions of a TV Ghost Hunter’, had dwindled to just two books. They’d sell out just before closing time. A young woman snatched up the last copies, paid for them then took her place at the back of the line. When it was her turn, Thomas glanced up and found her staring at him with an unsubtle ‘come-fuck-me’ look plastered on her pretty face. His nose was assaulted by a cloud of too-sweet perfume. She wore heavy makeup and her long, straight hair was striped with unnatural shades of blonde. Clutching the books in front of her body, she leant forward to showcase the pair of surgically enhanced breasts that spilled out of her plunging sweater. Thomas held out his hand to accept the books, but she continued to use them to buttress her considerable assets.

  “I’m mad at you,” she purred.

  Thomas forced a smile. He dreaded the inevitable pickup line that was to follow and was almost certain she was waiting for him to ask why. Trying to avoid what was no doubt a well-rehearsed come-on, he said, “Sorry to hear that.”

  A look of confusion passed over her face and Thomas had to stifle a laugh. After taking a moment to regroup, the fan seemed to edit her scripted response and said, “I’m mad at you because you keep me up at night—all night. Every time I watch your show, I just can’t get to sleep. Sometimes I get so wound up I just don’t know what to do with myself.” She concluded with an upward twitch of her perfectly-plucked eyebrow.

  It took all of Thomas’ willpower not to shake his head. He reached out for the books again. “Well, let’s get these books signed so you’ll have something to read. That should put you to sleep.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said.

  Thomas stacked the books in front of him and flipped the top copy to the title page. “Who should I make it out to?”

  “Alex. That’s my ex-boyfriend. We broke up, but we’re still friends.”

  He scrawled an inscription to Alex and passed the book back to the woman. “And this one?”

  “Make that one out to Lindsay. That’s me.”

  Thomas opened the book and found a hotel key card tucked inside the front cover. A room number was written on the plastic in permanent marker. The zero was in the shape of a heart with an arrow through it. He set the key aside and wrote. “To Lindsay, Get some sleep. Thomas Becker.”

  Lindsay took the book and squeezed it to her chest, giving Thomas one more shot of her bulbous boobs. She winked then puckered her glossy lips in an air kiss. As she turned to leave, Thomas stopped her. “Lindsay, I think you forgot something.” She swung back around, giving her hair an exaggerated shampoo-commercial toss. He held out the key card. She stared dumbly for a moment then snatched it from his hand. Her high-heeled boots clacked against the floor as she stomped away. She paused at the trash can near the front door, dumped the books then turned and scowled at him. Thomas gave her a fingertip wave then chuckled as she stormed out of the store.

  Thomas rose and stretched then began breaking down the display. The three-piece backdrop featured images of himself and the other cast members, the Paranormal Research Team van, and the cover of his book. The whole thing could be rolled up and collapsed to fit into a carryon-sized bag. Thomas was just zipping the pack shut when the store manager, a plump man with a receding hairline and a ponytail, joined him.

  “Thanks for coming Mr Becker—great turnout. Can I get you anything?”

  “It’s Thomas, please. And no thanks, I’ve got a flight to catch.”

  “How about a coffee to go and one of our famous turtle brownies?”

  Thomas nodded. “Sounds great. Thanks.”

  While Thomas waited for his snack, he hoped that Lindsay had had time to leave the parking lot. He had fans like her—beautiful, willing fans—around the world. They sent him letters and emails and digital images of their naked bodies, and he’d enjoyed the company of a number of them over the years. But from the moment he’d kissed Toni Bianchi, he’d been a goner. That smart-mouthed little Italian was the best—and worst—thing that had ever happened to him.

  * * * *

  The bookstore parking lot was empty except for the employees’ vehicles and Thomas’ rental car. He tossed the display bag into the backseat, nestled the coffee cup in the holder and set the bakery bag on the dashboard. He flipped down the visor and checked his reflection in the mirror. He looked as tired as he felt. The past couple of weeks had been rough. He hated book signings and he’d been to a dozen in as many days. In between he’d stopped by local radio stations to promote the events on air.

  The book, like the TV series it was based on, had been a huge success. Thomas was grateful, but he’d about had his fill of obnoxious deejays and the occasional weird fan, like the horny Miss Lindsay. Worst of all, he felt like a fraud. When he’d left college with a degree in journalism, he’d envisioned a very different career path. He’d thought that he’d be a television news anchor in a major market or maybe a globe-hopping foreign correspondent. Instead he’d wound up travelling to small towns across the country investigating unlikely claims of paranormal activity.

  He’d never dreamt the show would become an international hit. It had started with the noblest of intentions. In the beginning he’d wanted to believe that there was something to the stories. He knew that millions had questions about the supernatural and wanted to give them answers. He was looking for some answers himself. He’d been haunted for most of his life by one of the people he loved most. Thomas’ grandmother, Claudette. She had died when he was twelve, and she’d been visiting him regularly ever since.

  Claudette had been a force of nature, so Thomas wasn’t too surprised that her spirit couldn’t be contained after she’d crossed over. The four-time divorcee drank like a fish, dressed like a Bohemian and swore like a sailo
r. Anyone who met her was regaled with anecdotes of her brief stint as a bit player in Bijou films. She had delighted in reciting her one spoken line, ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ from her role as a cigarette girl in ‘The Gentleman’s Wish’. Thomas had never tired of hearing the stories and had come to share her love of the movies.

  The two would spend whole afternoons at the multiplex. They’d pay for one feature then sneak in to see two more. The method was brilliant. They’d hole up in the restrooms while the end credits rolled on the first show, then meet at the concession stand. From there it was easy enough to feign impatience at the long lines then slip into another screening room. More often than not they’d miss the opening minutes of the next film, but the thrill of the adventure was always worth it.

  The night of her funeral Thomas had been inconsolable. When sleep had finally overtook him, he had dreamed of Claudette. It had been so real that he’d heard the jangling of her charm bracelet and smelt her rosewater cologne. He was certain that if he’d have reached out he would have been able to feel the warmth of her delicate wrist. In his dream he asked his grandmother to take him to the movies. Her face softened and she replied without moving her lips, “Oh, darling, you know it’s too late for that.”

  Thomas hadn’t set foot in a theatre since that night, but Claudette continued to haunt his dreams, appearing to the music of tinkling jewellery and in a cloud of sweet perfume. After the encounter at the Buckman Inn, he’d even felt her presence while awake. He’d never told anyone—not even Toni, and if anyone would understand, it would be her.

  His book was titled, ‘Confessions of a TV Ghost Hunter’, but it was far from a tell-all. Thomas didn’t write about the contact with the ghost of his dead grandmother, and he certainly didn’t share his love affair with a psychic medium. He left all of the good stuff out while he travelled the country pimping the show and his book. The whole exercise made him fret about being found out. Every time he did an interview or made an appearance he was sure someone was going to call him out for being a phony. As glad as he was that this leg of the tour was over, he was dreading his next stop. The flight was a puddle-jumper—he’d only be in the air for half an hour before arriving at the tiny Travois, Wisconsin airport. It would take him three times as long to drive to Minneapolis International, return the rental car and check in for his flight. It was the uncertainty of what would be waiting for him when he landed that had him in knots.