Acts of Violet(73)
Down the hall, another light appears as a dark figure wearing a headlamp approaches. “Hang on, I think I know her.”
Using the wall for support, I finally stand, craning my neck at the man coming toward me. I’m more familiar with the smarmy voice than the face, but I’m pretty sure of who this is. “Cameron?”
“Sasha? How did you get here?”
As my eyes adjust, I get a better sense of my surroundings. The boxy object with the red dot is a video camera. The stick dangling above me is a boom mic. Some of my fear dissipates as I register the film crew around me.
“Are we…” But I’m still too disoriented to speculate. “Where the hell are we?” Wherever it is, it’s freezing. There’s a tingling in my toes and grit digs into my heels. Oh god. A quick feel of my arms and legs—yep, flannel. I’m barefoot in my pajamas again. And this time, I have an audience. With recording equipment. Fantastic.
Cameron stops a few feet away from me and his expression mirrors my own confusion and dread. “We’re in the lower level of the Witkin Theater. What are you doing down here?”
They’re all looking at me. Waiting for me to answer this very legitimate question. What am I doing down here?
I don’t have a good answer.
Cameron cocks his head, frowns down at me. “Are you okay?”
I don’t have a good answer for that, either.
“What’s happening over here? Why did we stop filming?” A stocky woman in a puffy green vest pushes past the men, using her clipboard to swat them aside. She stops short when she sees me, her hand flying up to her throat. “Jesus Christmas, I thought you were a ghost.” Before I can assure her that I am indeed corporeal, she fires off a series of questions, asking my name, what happened to me, whether I need medical attention.
At this point, my entire body is trembling. Hard to say whether it’s nerves, the frigid temperature, or a bit from column A and column B. “I’m not hurt or anything,” I say, using the stone wall behind me to help me get to my feet. “Just a little cold.”
The woman raises exasperated hands at the film crew. “Have you all just been standing around watching her freeze to death? For the love of Pete, get her a blanket, socks, something.” Turning back to me, she unzips her vest, slips out of it, and drapes it over my shoulders, ignoring my halfhearted protests.
“Do you need us to call the police?” she asks me.
“Oh, no. Definitely not.” Someone hands me a thick pair of socks and I nod my gratitude.
“Then how did you get in here? This place is locked up and we’ve had cameras monitoring this hall for hours. You appeared out of nowhere.”
“Oh. Um…” I balance on one foot and struggle to pull on a sock with fingers stiff from the cold. “That’s strange.” Everyone around me has gone silent and still, waiting for more of an explanation. There’s a dropping sensation in my stomach, like the moment you trip over an uneven sidewalk and aren’t sure if you’ll catch yourself before you fall. I brace my back against the wall, and a few small stones come loose with a clatter. I lurch forward as a few more give way, first from the wall, then the ceiling.
“All right, grab the equipment and let’s get out,” says the woman. “Right now.” The percussion of more loose stones tumbling down makes everyone move quickly. Everyone but me.
Abject fright immobilizes me, triggers my worst childhood memory. Trapped underground, alone, my surroundings crumbling all around me. No way out. I will be buried alive. I will die here.
“We need to go,” Cameron says, pulling me away. “No telling how unstable the rest of the structure is down here.”
I snap back to the present, taking short jagged breaths. I’m not in a mining tunnel. Not alone, not trapped. There is a way out, right through here, up these steps. I steady my breathing and follow the others.
As we head upstairs, the woman continues interrogating me. “What just happened? Were you pushed? Did you see or hear anything?”
“Not that I know of,” I say. “Why were you filming me?”
“We’ve been monitoring some unusual activity at the theater these last few nights,” she says. “Where did you even come from?”
I have zero good answers tonight, so I stay quiet.
“Hey, let’s get you cleaned up,” Cameron says when we’re one flight up. To my left, twenty feet away, is the exit.
“I can find my way out from here,” I say.
“Let’s have a little chat first. Maybe find you some shoes.” He gestures down the hall in the opposite direction of the exit.
Part of me is tempted to make a break for it, but there are various ways the situation could get more embarrassing. This time the exit door could be locked or set with an alarm. There could be a second film crew or additional cameras ready to capture my hasty escape. Or local police on their way to check out the disturbance I caused. And even if I get away, there’s no telling what Cameron might say about the incident on his podcast. Not that I care what the majority of his listeners think, but I know Quinn is one of them. Better to smooth things over with Cameron now than deal with my daughter’s inquisition later. “Sure, a chat sounds great.” I can’t quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“They haven’t set up any cameras on this floor yet.” It takes a few tries until he finds an unlocked door. “We should be okay in here.” He ushers me into a narrow dressing room crammed with empty wardrobe racks, its walls plastered with old playbills. It smells of stale cigarette smoke and some kind of varnish.