Help for the Haunted(88)

My uncle nodded. “Let’s go see the view from downstairs.” Back in the hall, he led the way to a set of threadbare drapes, the fringe as gray as mop strings. We were about to step through to the staircase just beyond when Howie stopped. “You know what, Sylvie? Why don’t you go on ahead while I grab the blueprints from the office?”

I stared past the drapes at that empty staircase, feeling that tightening in my throat again when I looked back at him. “Why?”

“Because I want to show you the exact plans. So just go on down to the orchestra level. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Missing floorboards, faltering lights, the things my father used to speak of seeing among the seats—all of it left me wary. “I think,” I told Howie, “I should probably go.”

“Go?”

That odd tightening in my throat grew tighter still. When I spoke next, my words came out in awkward clumps. “There’s an appointment I have. In Maryland. At the police station. The detective there—he wants to talk to me. I need to figure out what I’m going to tell him.”

“Tell him about what?”

“I don’t know. But, well, Sam Heekin is waiting for me. I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t worry about that guy, Sylvie. Like I said, you own this place too. Now that you’re here, I want to show it to you. Who knows when Rose will let us see each other again. Now get down there.”

Get in the truck . . .

Unlike that night in Ocala, when I managed to avoid giving into his order, this time I couldn’t see a way out. I turned and stepped through the threadbare drapes, the drab fringe brushing my shoulders like limp fingers when I passed. Had there been a banister at some point during the building’s history, it was long gone; I was left to trail my hand along the wall while descending the steps. When I reached the first floor, I walked through another set of drapes and kept going out among the orchestra seats until I stood in the center aisle.

How many people had filled that place when it was a legitimate movie theater? How many more when it was a vaudeville house before that? I tried to imagine them, holding hands, laughing or crying about the world come to life before their eyes on the screen or stage. Somehow, though, the great yawning maw of that open room felt stronger than the past, making it difficult to envision. Instead of those people, I ended up thinking of their possessions—coins and bills and bracelets and necklaces and wallets—all dropped to the floor, unknowingly, over the years. The thought led me to move in the direction of the stage, where the movie screen was plagued with cracks. At last, I stopped at one aisle in particular.

After so many years, it would seem someone would have repaired the tear in seat E-19, but reaching down, I felt the slit on one side of that cushion. How could I resist slipping my hand inside? How could I not wonder if I might pull out some long-forgotten treasure? But only a few stray puffs of loose foam filled my hand.

I let it fall to the floor, straightening up and waiting for Howie, who had plenty of time to get what he needed by then. When he didn’t show, it occurred to me that I’d not seen any blueprints on his desk or among those makeshift shelves. No sooner did that thought come than I began to wonder why there were no signs of renovations in the place. No tools or extension cords. No sawhorses or paint cans.

“Hello!” I called into the belly of that theater.

The word was tinged with a pleading sound. It was met with only silence before the lights flickered then snapped out, drowning me in darkness once more. As I stood with one hand on the back of my father’s torn seat, at the very place where he must have first seen those otherworldly visions, my own demons came seeping from the shadows:

Dot calling, Hello? Yoo-hoo? Girls? My mother saying, When you feel afraid, I want you to pray. And then there were the strange rumblings from our basement in those early months after our parents were gone—the breaking, the rustling, the shifting about—that led me to plead with Rose in a quivering voice, You’re crazy if you don’t hear those things. They’re pissed off. They’re sad. They want them back. I can tell. . . .

“Howie?” I called in an effort to keep those voices, that darkness, and my own rising panic at bay. “Lloyd? Hello?”

Still no answer. I couldn’t wait any longer. I knew I was at E-19, so I told myself to track my way out to the center row then back toward the exit. I began doing just that when something brushed past the periphery of my vision, leaving me with the same chill I felt when the limp fingers of that fringe brushed my shoulders.

Howie—that was my first thought—he had come to find me in the dark. Then I saw it again: not my uncle after all, but a blur of motion among the seats nearest the stage. The movement stopped, and I watched it, a pulsating shadow that contained no light yet had a presence all its own. I should have realized right away what I was seeing, but like those people who stood on our doorstep wondering why no one answered when they rang the bell, it took a moment to puzzle things out. Once I arrived at the truth, I did not want to be near it any longer.

E-18. E-17. E-16. E-15 . . .

Fast as I could, I moved toward the center aisle, where my hand found the next row of seats. I began tracking the alphabet toward the rear of that theater. F . . . G . . . H . . . I . . . J . . . When I reached K, I came to a stop. That lightless mass was in front of me now, a few rows away. The way its shapeless figure rose and fell, rose and fell, it appeared to be breathing, before skittering off into the darkness again.