She flipped on a row of light switches—flick, flick, flick—and a few stubborn bulbs sizzled to life, casting an uneven ochre glow in the small, gallerylike lobby. The place smelled of age, and dust motes glittered in the yellow light. Something moved in the corner, and Vivien turned just as she heard the rustle of old papers.
“I’d better get a cat,” she said. “We can’t have mice disturbing our show.”
Not that she thought Maxine Took or Juanita Acerita would be the least bit put off if a mouse ran across the stage during rehearsal. She suspected neither of them would bat an eyelash. Hell, Maxine would probably adopt the rodent as her good-luck charm. Or familiar.
Vivien pushed through the double doors that opened into the house. With no windows, it was even darker in here, and only a smattering of light bulbs worked when she flipped the switches. The main aisle projected like a shadowy ribbon straight in front of her, dipping on a gentle incline and ending at the great, dark maw of the stage.
The stage. The empty, open expanse standing proudly and expectantly in a shadowy building that had been abandoned to dust, cases of deteriorating playbills, sagging, creaking seats, and a small cache of rodents.
But the memories—the witty dialogue, the heartbreaking songs, the dramatic soliloquies, the energetic dances—all reverberated in the vast, dark space. For a moment, Vivien fancied she could hear them…
“The hills are alive…”
“To be or not to be…”
“I’m hopelessly devoted…to you…”
“I can do anything better than you can…”
“Consider yourself…at home…!”
She imagined the surrey with the fringe on top, the long table where twelve angry men had debated, the hotel room that was visited the same time every year, the telephone on which M had been dialed for murder…
A sudden chill caught her by surprise, and had her pausing there, halfway down the main aisle. She stilled, the hair prickling along her arms and over the back of her neck, and looked around. But there was nothing to see—no open door, nothing to cause a draft. Yet the chill was there, frosting her breath into a light cloud.
She waited, wondering if the ghosts of shows past recognized a fellow actor…someone who understood them.
“I’m here,” she called out quietly. “I’m here to bring it back.”
The chill remained, buffeting her, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Noticeable, but not unpleasant.
She walked further. The emptiness above the stage loomed high and black before her, melding into the infinite space behind the proscenium, up into the hidden expanse of the catwalk trails, rows of light cans, and a jungle of frayed, looping ropes—all swathed by rows of tattered, faded curtains.
The air was still and quiet. The shadows sat heavy and long, their shapes dark and solid and unending. The scents of mustiness and age filled her nose, reminding her of death and rot.
“How morbid I am,” Vivien said because, suddenly, she needed to hear something besides her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. “There’s hope here, not just death and rot, Liv,” she said, taking another step forward. “There will be laughter and singing and dancing again, and yes, there will be tears and death and drama…but that’s life. That’s the two masks of drama isn’t it? Comedy and Tragedy.”
The air moved, chill and sharp.
The phantoms of the theater were agreeing with her—a gentle nod, a soft affirmation, a nudge.
The slightest of breeze lifted her hair—she swore it lifted her hair, ruffled it—and it was shockingly cold.
And smelled dank.
Felt heavy.
She heard the soft skitter, a little rustle, and caught sight of a bit of crumpled paper as it danced on the floor near one of the dingy footlights by her sandal-bared toes. The floor felt soft under her foot, giving away a little as she stepped forward—
Just then, suddenly, there was light.
It came in a shocking, strident blaze from the empty stage: cold and blue and bright.
The illumination vibrated angrily in a swirl of shadow and light…and then suddenly it was gone.
The theater was silent.
And then she saw the words—green, vibrant, glowing—were emblazoned on the back wall of the stage:
GO OR DIE.
Chapter Three
Vivien didn’t remember leaving the theater. She assumed she ran. She could have stumbled and staggered, tripping over her own two feet. She might have simply turned and walked—very quickly, without breathing—out of the building.
Regardless, she got out.
Quickly and soundlessly. That part she was sure of. She didn’t scream or shriek or even gasp…because she couldn’t catch her breath.
She just got out.
Then she launched herself into her car, locked the doors, and started the engine with an ugly grind—all in one nonstop movement.
She was just about to throw the car into reverse and get the hell out of there when she stopped.
“What the hell was that?” she asked herself. Out loud, of course—she was always talking to herself. It was a habit from when she’d had to learn lines. “What. The. Hell. Was. That?”
Her fingers were shaking, and she gripped the steering wheel in an effort to give them something purposeful to do. Her stomach was tight, and she still felt a little clammy beneath her linen sundress.
“Okay. Deep breath. Calm down, step back, think about what happened, VL.”
Easier said than done, because when she thought about what happened, how suddenly a light burst over the stage and how when the light went out there were words—a warning!—seeming to float in midair, shivering like ghostly words…she wanted to freak out all over again.
Cold sweat still trickled down her spine. That was the creepiest, most unsettling thing she’d ever experienced—other than when thirteen-year-old Tad Hunter had backed her into a corner and tried to shove his hand up her shirt when she was ten.
Nothing like that had happened during any of the other visits.
But she’d never been inside alone, either. Had the ghost—or whatever it was—simply waited for her (or someone) to be in there alone?
Vivien sighed and turned off the ignition with a frustrated snap. If she was going to reopen the theater and make it a success, she had to actually go inside the freaking building.
After all, as of today, she was on the hook for a six-figure loan. Her stomach wobbled a little at the thought. She had savings, and had kept a good number of her actor clients, but still…
Vivien was determined, but she wasn’t a fool—so she dug out the can of pepper spray she used to carry when she took the subway but didn’t think she’d need in Wicks Hollow, and primed it for use.
After all, GO OR DIE was a clear threat, wasn’t it?
A shiver skittered over her shoulders. Maybe she should call Helga.
But it wasn’t even noon; she’d only just got the keys herself. No one else had been in the theater at the time—she was sure of it.
She hadn’t sensed anyone, hadn’t heard anyone, and there weren’t any cars around. The building, located on a dead-end road with a cul-de-sac, had its own parking lot—which was bordered on three sides by a butt-ugly chain-link fence. Beyond that were trees and bushes lining the perimeter, offering some privacy for the residences that abutted the stage’s property, and above was the bluff with the row of homes, including the Brady Bunch house and its to-die-for view.
If someone had been inside the theater, they would have had to have walked or come from one of the few houses nearby—climbing over the fence.
Still holding the pepper spray, Vivien got out of her car. It was a sunny day, and even from several miles away, the breeze from Lake Michigan stirred the air. She considered whether she wanted to lock the door of her Accord—if she didn’t, it would be easier to dive into if she had to leave in a hurry; but that would also leave the vehicle open and unsecured, which made her nervous as well.
She locked
the car.
Then, holding the spray canister in one hand and her phone in the other, she decided to walk around the outside of the building to see if there was any sign of disturbance. Maybe someone had broken in and painted graffiti on the wall.
Besides the south-facing front doors that led into the lobby where the ticket windows and a small refreshment counter were located, there was an entrance on the west side for the cast and crew and a huge, roll-up door next to it in order to accommodate the delivery of large set pieces or props. There was also an emergency exit on the east side, and two more doors in the rear.
The west side and back of the building were shady from the thick growth of trees on the other side of the fence, but there were no vehicles or bicycles parked back there. Nor did Vivien see any indication of recent tire tracks—although it had rained lightly last night, so if there had been any, they’d probably be gone.
She wasn’t a detective by any stretch, but she felt better after having walked around the entire perimeter and finding nothing to indicate someone was lurking about inside.
At the same time, however, that left her with the knowledge that if no one had been inside…then…
Well.
Yeah, sure, theater people were wildly suspicious and believed the strangest things…
And yes, she conversed with her own dead sister on a regular basis, but…
No, she wasn’t going to go down that path yet.
First, she was walking right back inside. Yes, she was. As soon as she calmed down a little more.
This time, though, she was going to enter through the side door. A less obvious way…just in case someone or something was lurking.
Vivien was just fitting her key into the cast and crew door’s lock when a shadow fell over her from behind.
She managed to swallow a shriek—just barely—and swung around, pepper spray at the ready.
“What—” The words died in her throat when she recognized the man standing there, and for a moment she simply couldn’t get her mind to work properly.
“V-Vivien?” The man standing there—the very familiar, selfish, immature dickwad she’d known eleven years ago at NYU—sounded just as gobsmacked as she felt.
“Jake.” In her shock, she’d dropped the stupid key, but the can of pepper spray felt damned solid in her hand. She didn’t bother to lower it as she lifted her chin and sneered. “I, uh, didn’t know you were in town.”
Understatement of the year. Like, what was he even doing in the state, let alone Wicks Hollow?
“Likewise.” He looked pointedly at the metal canister in her hand. “You, uh, going to use that?”
“I’m thinking about it,” she replied, but lowered her hand.
“Still holding a grudge eleven years later, are you?” he said in that maddeningly calm voice that she used to find wildly sexy on the telephone. Back when she was young and foolish and easily swayed by such things.
“Still lurking about trying to get lucky, are you?” she retorted, itching to raise the canister again. Why oh why did he of all people have to be here? Right now?
And how?
He snorted and planted his hands on his hips. “I don’t have to slink around to—as you put it—get lucky.”
His words were offhand and filled with bravado, but he was definitely checking her out, sweeping over her with his dark eyes.
She couldn’t help but do the same. Elwood DeRiccio, the bastard, looked just as good—better, dammit—than he had the last time she’d seen him. He was dressed in tight black running shorts (just kill me now) and his dusky olive skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, indicating he’d been in the process of actually putting the shorts and his Nikes to use. Fortunately for her hormones and their apparently eidetic memory, he wasn’t shirtless but was wearing an athletic top—but that modesty didn’t matter all that much, because its stretchy, shiny material clung to shoulders that seemed to have grown broader in the last decade. His walnut-colored hair was just long enough that he’d pulled it back into a ponytail to keep it out of his face, and his legs…well, it was obvious he was no stranger to regular exercise.
Though he didn’t have overtly handsome features—his nose was a little too big and his jaw a tad too square—Jake was still attractive to women, as Vivien well knew—and not just because he was a doctor. At least, she assumed he was a doctor, since the last time they spoke they’d broken up because he’d decided to do his residency five hundred miles away from New York.
She still couldn’t believe he was standing there in front of her. It was just so completely random. And shocking. Maybe whatever happened in the theater was still happening…some weird, surreal anxiety attack…?
But why would she imagine Jake DeRiccio, of all people?
Maybe a vacation? His parents lived in Grand Rapids, after all…but that was over an hour away.
“Is everything all right?” he asked once he’d finished that arrogant sweep of eyes over her.
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” If she asked what he was doing here, it might sound like she cared. Which she didn’t.
He tilted his head and looked at her. “Because when I was going by, I saw you running to your car like a bat out of hell was chasing you, and then you sat there for a few minutes, and now you seem to be…uh…having trouble getting inside this building.”
Oh, great. Not only had there been a witness to her flight, but it just had to be an old flame. Wow. Thanks a lot, Universe.
“You just happened to be standing around watching me while I sat in my car?” she snapped. “Really?”
“No, Vivien,” he replied ever so reasonably. “I was running by and saw you tear out the door here and practically leap into your car, and then on my way back from the end of the road just now, I saw that you hadn’t left and instead were getting out of the car and seemed to be trying to find a way inside the theater here.”
By now, any normal person would have taken the hint that everything was fine and that he should move on. Especially since he’d moved on eleven years ago and left her—well, not completely heartbroken, but definitely scarred. The lying, cheating bastard.
“Everything’s fine,” she said. “I was just trying all the doors to make sure the key worked. I’m the new owner of the theater.”
The corner of his mouth tightened. It was a familiar expression. He knew she was lying, dammit. “All right, then. Nice running into you.”
“Same here,” she lied again, and stooped to pick up the dropped key ring. “Bye, Jake.”
He started to take off, but turned around, jogging lightly backward as he said, “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Vivien Leigh.”
“Not if I can help it,” she muttered, turning to fit the key back into the lock.
“I heard that,” he called, then, pivoting away to run off, added over his shoulder, “See you at rehearsal!”
Wait, what?
She spun around, but he was already halfway across the parking lot. What the hell was he talking about, seeing her at rehearsal?
Whatever. He was probably just yanking her chain. Jerk. Some things never changed. She shook her head, blew out a frustrated breath, and put Elwood “Jake” DeRiccio out of her mind.
This time, she got the key properly inserted into the lock and opened the side door. At least there was one benefit to that unexpected encounter—her thoughts had gone from jittery and scattered about the creepy light on the stage to annoyed and disarrayed at seeing Jake again. It was too bad he still had the ability to affect her that way; you’d think after eleven years she’d be past that.
Over him.
She was over him.
It was just so unexpected, seeing him again—and here, in Wicks Hollow. What was he even doing here? Probably on vacation—the doctor with his lovely wife and maybe a kid or two. She’d be happy for him if he was. She really would.
Inside, the theater seemed darker than before—mainly because there were no windows in the backstage area. Vivi
en turned on her cell phone’s flashlight and used it to scan the space until she found the light switch. The ceiling back here was two and a half stories high to accommodate large set pieces, all of the flies—the scenery backdrops—and the rows of spotlights.
Everything was still and quiet and dark. There was no indication that anything crazy had happened only a few minutes ago—maybe ten? Only ten? It felt like hours.
Just a few light bulbs in the wings and back area were working, of course, but it was enough illumination for her to make her way onto the stage without bumping into or tripping over anything. Her heart was beating faster and her hands felt clammy as she gripped the phone/flashlight and her pepper spray.
As she stood in the wings, the stage yawned before her: a large, open space ahead—empty and ready for anything; filled with promise and expectation.
To the left was the back wall, deep and dark in shadow, and to the right was the house with its rows of empty seats, almost equally as dark. Her small flashlight and the meager spill of illumination from backstage offered little in the way of light in comparison to the generous expanse of the void in front of her.
When she walked out onto the stage—something she’d done countless times when she was young, and yet not for a long time—her heart was in her throat, her stomach in knots as she waited to see if anything would happen.
She stood there near the edge, just out from the wings: silent, still, her breath rasping a little with nerves.
She thought of Liv, of course, as she stood there. The two of them had rarely been onstage at the same time, but usually whenever one of them was, the other would be in the wings watching. Silently rooting.
Everything remained dark and silent, but the ambience she’d experienced earlier—that sense of the theater itself, the spirit of the building, the memories of the words and songs and actions that had lived here—lingered.
Sinister Stage: A Ghost Story Romance and Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 5) Page 3