Providence Place

by Matthew Tait

  Without stopping to lift her torch, Alyssa stepped forward and disappeared into the dark.

  Gone forever, Jason’s mind whispered. The school just swallowed her up.

  But of course their torches revealed no such oddity as they all proceeded through. While the dark was indeed deep, Alyssa could still be discerned as a moving outline forging ahead. Now coming into play: Jason’s memory from the few times he had actually spent in this building. Never one to cotton onto the acting side of things, his brief visits to the theater had been spent as an audience member, more often than not being dragged here by his mother when plays of the religious ilk were being performed. He remembered another small anteroom … and then the beginnings of the audience seating: red chairs raised in the same ascending manner of a church pew. In between, before the stage itself, was a bizarre no-man’s land encompassing perhaps twenty feet of black linoleum – a mote separating the action from the audience. Sometimes, when bored teachers’ curriculums were found wanting, Jason recalled them bustling their students in during rehearsals. He distinctly recalled food being launched from the seats if said students found rehearsals displeasing.

  Traversing the mote, each flashlight beam illuminated debris that was now all too familiar: the severed heads of broken dolls; the somehow forlorn presence of a single boot. What stood out more than any physical item was the clinging smell seemingly pertinent to all theaters: a cozy aroma of chair padding and popcorn. And underneath all that: the subtle whiff of papier-mâché, building blocks for stage props.

  The world of the theater bloomed into light – all of it: the mote, audience seating, and even the stage itself snapping into focus as if a switch had been thrown. Which of course it had. Dillion, idling back, had found the main switchboard housing every light known to man.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Jeff snapped.

  Carolina said, ‘You could have freaking warned us.’

  Ignoring them completely, Dillion made haste for the stage.

  He looks, Jason thought, like a man who knows something we don’t. A man with an ace up his sleeve. And all at once Kristen’s face surfaced in his mind’s eye; Kristen shrill and accusatory. You chose a strange man’s project over my advice to stay away from Providence Place? How could you do that, Jason? How could you choose between an idiot director and the only girl who’s ever gone to bed with you?

  He thought of telling her that by undertaking this pilgrimage, he was committing to an act whereby his nightmares of Father Parrington could potentially cease. But there was no point. Kristen’s voice, in addition to her visage, was becoming as indoctrinated into his thoughts and actions as his late mother’s.

  Switching off his flashlight, Jason looked toward the stage platform. Beside one object, it was entirely empty … and it was the last thing he would have expected to see remaining behind. Or was it? Now that he was staring at it, perhaps it was the only thing.

  The gallows were set back about ten feet from the edge of the raised platform, a triangular wooden edifice with three uprights and three cross beams. Ropes (Jason counted four of them), were still attached to the center beam. Observing the execution device, he didn’t need to ask Alyssa or anybody else if this particular gallows had been used for The Hanging stage play. Nor did he have to wonder what came next.

  ‘The Hanging featured a series of explicit executions,’ Dillion piped into his phone. ‘Not explicit in the act themselves – plays like Shakespeare’s are, after all, steeped in blood. No, what made these ones a form of contention among the faculty were having children at the mercy of the gallows, teenagers for the most part, who were strung up for crimes pertaining to lascivious acts in the fictitious world the author had presented in The Hanging.’

  This was Alyssa’s story being told, Jason realized. But told with a different kind of theatrics. Gone were the evenly spaced stuttering candles; gone too an ushering into the narrative. Instead there was an addled girl who was having her tale belligerently thrust upon her. Still exuding that trace-like state, Alyssa walked to the small wooden block that would see her take the stage. Her expression (the look of a woman who sees an accident and can’t look away) was reserved wholly for the gallows and the three pieces of rope fostered to the center beam.

  Treading softly, Dillion loitered behind her. He said, ‘Spread by word of mouth, The Hanging played to packed audiences two, sometimes three times in a week – unheard of at the time for a play penned by one of the students. Already an established drawcard for those seeking the mysterious or the occult, the play’s subject matter and Alyssa’s performance all added to the circus that was Providence Place. It was during one of these runs when things went horribly wrong for one member of the cast.’

  Having reached the stage, Alyssa proceeded to walk to the gallows, never once diverting her gaze. Jason looked at the others, expecting one of them to chime in. But Jeff and Carolina also appeared strung-out, their listless stares following Alyssa’s trajectory as if they were audience members waiting for some kind of punchline.

  ‘Sadie Whitmore was only thirteen years of age during The Hanging’s run,’ Dillion said. ‘She would have been fourteen in November of that year. Besides drama, she liked badminton and her fellow students remember her as a fine drawer who often joked about going into the tattoo business. Sadie played the character of Elise Wilmus, a protestant of the new world who would be put on trial for crimes of witchcraft and ultimately executed. Her character’s death took place in the third act during the climax of the narrative. Though a thin noose was placed around the neck of all the condemned before the floor gave way beneath them, a small Velcro clasp ensured it came undone. Not exactly standard practice as an effect, but if the actor kept their chin firmly wedged to their neck, it was often visually effective. On the night of the twenty-third of September, with the entire cast and a few hundred audience members looking on expectantly, Sadie Whitmore had a real noose secured around her neck before her sentence was carried out. When the bottom gave way underneath, she began choking to death.’

  Now facing the nooses, Alyssa reached out a hand and touched the one closest to her. She began to caress it … then lifted the lower portion toward her face. That broke Jason’s paralysis, and he called out her name. Of course, he had no real idea what her motivation was, but that didn’t warrant some kind of intrusion here. Dillion’s monotone drawl had her in a state akin to sleepwalking. Like a pied-piper of gallows humor.

  Deigning not even a blink, Alyssa ignored him.

  Dillion had now reached the stage. He said, ‘Giddy moments went by when the audience assumed it was all part of the performance, of course. A common occurrence during all kinds of real life tragedies. People simply refuse to believe the tragedy is real. Clearly seen on the two cameras that filmed it, and according to eye-witness police reports, Sadie’s feet kicked and her eyes bulged. Still no one moved. Then, the front of her dress flowered with urine. Still jerking, her movements were convulsive enough to finally tear the noose free from its moorings. Then she spilled onto the floorboards. With the first screams came the first responders from the sides, while some of the front row audience also rushed the platform. But it’s all too late. Sadie’s trachea has undergone the blunt force of major trauma. Despite efforts to revive her, Sadie Whitmore was dead.’

  Dillion stood close to Alyssa, his breath only inches from her neck. Oblivious, Alyssa stopped caressing the noose and made a languid effort to place it over her head. Then all at once everybody was calling her name, Jeff breaking his own fugue state and galloping up the wooden balustrade in massive strides. At the sound of his feet, Jason noticed Alyssa’s eyes clear all at once, and she turned around to stare at their director as if just awakening. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and Jason was relieved to see a glint of her old mischievousness return. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  Despite his small stature, Jeff casually manhandled Dillion aside. For the moment, his narration had ceased.

  ‘The dressing rooms,’ Alyssa sai
d. Having discarded the noose, she peered at her would-be rescuer with a new-found zeal. ‘I told Dillion I wouldn’t go in there … that I couldn’t. Oh, God. Sadie. She came to me afterward – came to see me in the dressing rooms.’

  Jeff placed a hand on her back and motioned her to the left, guiding her away from the gallows. Alyssa went obligingly enough, now staring at the spot where a girl name Sadie Whitmore had breathed her last.

  ‘The dressing rooms are through here, down the corridor,’ said Dillion.

  His strange look of appetite never waned.

  Away from the gallows, Jason felt better already. Just being in its general proximity had instilled a feeling of dread. Backstage, they traversed a thin corridor painted a bilious green.

  ‘I don’t remember hearing about Sadie at all,’ Carolina said. ‘What happened? Was it just an accident? Or was she … set up to fall?’

  ‘I’ve got a better question,’ Jeff said. ‘What are the gallows still doing in here? Why weren’t they removed?’

  ‘They were removed,’ Alyssa replied absently.

  No one responded. But Jason knew what they were all thinking. Providence Place brought them back. Returned the gallows just special for the returning pilgrims.

  A ridiculous notion. But was it anymore ridiculous than a wraithlike dog or a writhing cloud of faces? For the first time, Jason reflected on everything they had witnessed thus far, everything that Dillion had bottled away. What would happen when this was all over? Would they all become famous, as their director had obviously envisioned? Or would they be ridiculed and mocked, loathed as clever hoaxers and regulated to the shadows? It probably happened all the time, even to genuine cases.

  Will you even survive the night? a voice (Kristen’s again) whispered, and Jason tuned it down before it could say anything else.

  With still no need for their flashlights (banks of bulbs were lit up everywhere) the end of the corridor came into view. Surrounding it like watchmen were two doors. One on the left, and one on the right. Both of them inscribed with something. Alyssa, second in the marching parade, slowed to a crawl. Then she stopped completely. Jason didn’t need to look at her eyes to ascertain they would be bugging out again.

  ‘Alyssa,’ Carolina said. ‘I take back what I said before. You don’t have to do this. It doesn’t matter what you signed. Screw what you signed. If you don’t want to go inside those dressing rooms, you don’t have to.’

  Hearing the voice of her one-time victim (a voice now riddled with a species of compassion) seemed to waylay any impending regression. Dropping her hand, Alyssa looked at each of them in turn, even managing to tip Jason a small smile. He smiled back. Perhaps the soldiers of the world were right, after all. Perhaps calamity, even of the otherworldly kind, really did strengthen bonds.

  ‘It’s like Jason said. I know I don’t have to, but unless I do, a part of me will be always here, coming in to audition every day. Another part will be hearing Sadie drop to the gallows floor like a sack of cement. And yet another part …’ Her eyes moved toward the door on the left. ‘Let’s just get this part over with, then we can all get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘Amen,’ Jason said.

  Having already moved ahead, Dillion tested the strength of the left door. Satisfied, he teased it open, all the while filming and groping on the other side for a light switch. Now close enough to discern the type, Jason was pleased to discover it was nothing more arbitrary than GIRLS written in black and embossed with glitter. The one on the right proclaimed BOYS, and there wasn’t a smattering of graffiti – lewd or otherwise – to be seen.

  ‘Sadie Whitmore’s death was eventually ruled an accident,’ Dillion mumbled into his palm, pushing his way into the now well-lit room. ‘Although an attempt was made by her parents to be compensated for neglect. It would be The Hanging’s last performance, of course, with its detractors getting the final say and some opining the theater should be bulldozed into the ground. They wanted the site as a memorial for Sadie. Eventually, the school board would cave partly to the request, though it seemed the theater had one final show to perform.’

  With the door ajar they filed in, and the first thing to jump out at Jason was his own reflection staring back. Mirrors, some of them large enough to run from floor to ceiling, flanked an entire room bereft of any windows. Chairs, desks, and even make-up products sat in front of these. Not for the first time, Jason was reminded of Chernobyl, a metropolis whose citizens had evacuated at the drop of a hat. Here, the same kind of tableaus were in evidence. There were wigs still attached to dummies; there were costumes adorning them. In addition to the splayed bags of makeup, Jason spied what could only be the remnants of a half-finished doughnut, its once glazed face encrusted with dust. Dozens of additional posters plastered wall-space that wasn’t gilded with a mirror. Some, he saw, were even advertisements for The Hanging itself.

  From his left, the sound of small sobs. The star of The Hanging had also found the posters.

  Dillion said, ‘Tell us what happened to you in here, Alyssa. Tell us what you saw.’

  Mascara running freely down both cheeks, Alyssa walked over to the closest mirror. She reached out and absently cut a streak through twelve years of accumulated dust.

  ‘Carolina’s right,’ said Jeff. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’

  Perhaps for the first time this night, Dillion lowered his phone. He didn’t say anything, merely kept an accusatory stare trained on Jeff. Then, with no retort coming from the former janitor, he lifted it up again. Instead of homing in on Alyssa this time, he trained it on her reflection.

  ‘There isn’t really much to the story at all,’ Alyssa said. ‘You guys probably have me beat in the entertainment department. One Friday night after school I came in here by myself. Nothing was in production, of course – and nothing would be ever again. I’m not really sure what compelled me to come in that night. To say goodbye, I suppose. This was once a magical place for me. For everyone who worked in drama. But they were going to tear it down. I sat right there, in that seat, for God-knows how long. At least until I started to nod off a little, anyway. When I came to, I had no idea what time it was or how long I had been napping for. Cell phones were still a thing of the future. When I got up to leave, I discovered the door had been locked shut.’

  Jason looked at said door … and noticed something he hadn’t before – something besides the word GIRLS all glittered up. Underneath the doorknob was a wide array of dirty markings and indentations. The kind produced by fingernails, perhaps. A sudden queasy feeling began to unfurl in his stomach.

  ‘I called out but knew it wasn’t going to do any good. Everyone in the quadrant outside had packed up and left for the weekend. And there was nobody in the building besides me.’

  Jeff was also staring at her reflection when he spoke. ‘You didn’t think someone on the other side might have locked you in?’

  The reflection shook its head. ‘No, I didn’t. Strangely enough, the thought didn’t really enter my head. I just … knew it was something else.’

  Again Jason wanted to scream. Why doesn’t anyone just say it this time? The unseen world …

  ‘I didn’t panic at first, just checked the room for something that might help me. Looked for nail files to pick the lock or maybe a hidden grate to crawl through.’ Wiping away more dust with side of her palm, Alyssa barked out a short cackle. ‘As you can see there aren’t any.

  ‘Then I did the typical things – started banging on the door and pushing my weight against it. Then I stared hollering. After a while I guess I started to scream a little. Not long after that, the lights went out for the first time, and when they did, I knew I wasn’t the only one standing in the girls’ dressing room.’

  Alyssa turned around and faced the camera. Jason noted her odd disjointed look had returned. ‘Because I could hear her breathing, you see. Sadie, I could hear her.’

  Impeccable delivery, Kristen’s ghost voice whispered. Don’t forget she’s still an actr
ess.

  ‘Even then I didn’t totally lose it – just tried to keep calm as the breathing became louder and heavier and closer. Finally, when it was close enough to reach out and touch me, I did lose it. Screamed like a girl who was auditioning for a slasher role. By the time I was done my voice was hoarse. Then the lights came back on.’

  Dillion said, ‘This continued, didn’t it Alyssa? The lights kept going off and on like somebody was flicking a breaker switch?’

  Alyssa nodded. For a brief second, her eyes found the floor. ‘I was down there, in a fetal position with my back against the wall. The lights came on for about three minutes, then went dark for about five. And each time, I could hear the breathing getting louder and louder. I think she was … using the dark somehow, you know? Using it like stepping through a window. Somehow it was making her stronger. Finally she appeared.’

  Jason stared at the floor. It was hard not to picture the entire room as a kind of memorial to time; all of it bulging with infamy. All across the globe, houses continued to stand where momentous things had transpired – places like the mansion where Sharon Tate and her offspring were butchered; places like the Amityville house in Long Island where a family was murdered and ghosts purportedly reigned. Despite their history, people still walked around that very air as if the events themselves had never occurred. Yet Jason had little doubt they felt something. Because he was feeling it right now. As if the present moment was fragile and history itself was attempting to break through.

  ‘It was like all the horror movies I’d ever seen. At first she didn’t appear in the room, only in the mirror. And the time when the lights went out until they came back on got shorter and shorter. When they came back on, it was just like the breathing. She kept creeping closer and closer. I could see her hair, black like floating kelp or seaweed. Then her face. The movies have one thing right, and that’s that ghosts mostly keep the form they die in. Sadie’s left eye hung partway over her cheek, bulging. Her skin was a web work of purple veins crisscrossing each other. Her forehead was black. She wasn’t quite standing, wasn’t quite crawling. Just slinking toward me. And her right eye worked perfectly, let me tell you that. What I saw in that one eye … she was mad. She was angry at me for letting her die.’