by Michael West
Kim smiled in awe.
This is Paris, and I’m attending the opening night of the symphony in my gorgeous Victorian gown.
Then she saw the large black speakers that had been attached to the sides of the columns, an anachronism that brought the real world knocking. She was wearing an old T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and gawking at a room with a death sentence.
“How can they tear this place down?” she asked as she walked up to the railing. Her forearm itched. She scratched it.
Beside her, Mr. Harvey said, “Tried to get ’er declared a historical landmark.”
She shifted her glance from militant muse’s golden sword. “They wouldn’t do it?”
“Too many bad memories, what with what happened with Delbert and Shelly, and then there was that fire back in the fifties. Killed everyone right where we’re standing.”
Kim’s stomach did a cartwheel.
Harvey shook his head. “I was just a kid, but I still remember hearin’ about the Knickerbocker over in Washington. January of ’22. Three hundred people get out in a blizzard to watch Get Rich Quick Wallingford. Two feet of that heavy, wet, snowman-makin’ snow pressin’ down on that roof. ’Round intermission, the orchestra starts up a tune and the whole damn ceiling falls in. Crushed about a hundred people. They tore that place down right quick after that. Nobody wanted to go see a movie there. Be like walkin’ on somebody’s grave. It’s taken fifty years, but folks around here finally got the same idea about the Woodfield.”
She felt a chill crawl up her back, and the itch that had been biting at her arm moved across her chest, setting the skin ablaze.
There was a blast of light.
Kim turned to see Tashima snapping photos of the balcony and auditorium. The flash threw shadows on the wall, and for a moment, it looked as if there were far more silhouettes than people standing on the terrace.
Kim’s head spun and she reached out for the metal guardrail. Her fingers found it, and she pulled herself closer for support. She looked at the twinkling “starlight” in the ceiling, at the golden teeth in the sculpted heads of the gargoyles, at the blank rectangle of the silver screen, but she saw none of it. What she saw, the one thing her eyes kept drifting back to, were the rows of seats below. Her legs felt like rubber and she wondered just how far and how hard she would fall.
“You okay, Missy?” Harvey was asking.
Kim shook her head. Her stomach twisted and she stood up, a hand clamped over her mouth. She sprinted up the carpeted aisle, hoping she could make it in time.
Her wobbly legs carried her to the women’s restroom as if they knew the path by heart. Inside, flickering bulbs shone through stained glass fixtures on the ceiling, showing her a checkerboard floor of terrazzo tiles that matched the downstairs lobby, and a row of ivory sinks beneath cracked, dingy mirrors. She ran across the room, clawed her way through hanging spiderwebs, and pushed on the stall doors until she found one that gave. Her throat burned and she slammed her eyes shut, hearing the horrid sounds of her retching and a wet slap against the ivory bowl. The smell hit her and she heaved again and again until there was nothing left but air. Blindly, she reached out for the handle and was pleasantly surprised to find the toilet actually flushed.
When fingers touched her shoulder, she flattened herself against the metal partition.
Tashima held up her hands, the Olympus digital camera swinging from a strap around her wrist. “Whoa, it’s me, it’s me.”
The taste of hot bile still burned Kim’s tongue. She wiped her mouth and looked at the back of her hand, bright spots flaring like tiny novas before her eyes. “Ohhhh ... I don’t know what happened.”
Tashima reached out and stroked Kim’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Ye—” Kim swallowed. “Yeah.” She pulled a Kleenex from her pocket; wiped at her eyes, at the corners of her mouth and the back of her hand. “It just hit me when I looked over the edge of the balcony. I don’t know if it was nerves or vertigo or what, but I had to get outta there before I spewed all over everybody.”
They stood there for a moment, an eerie silence broken only by the beat of a dripping faucet or leaking pipe in the distance, each drop like the tick of a clock.
Kim wadded the Kleenex, turned it over and over in her fingers and said, “Thanks for coming to check on me, didn’t mean to worry anybody.”
“No big thing. What are friends for?” Tashima’s grin was genuine and truly comforting.
Kim lurched over to an ivory sink and turned the tarnished brass knob. The pipes clanged and vibrated, then the faucet gushed brown. She thought she might be sick again, but the flow quickly turned clear. Kim reached her hand into the stream and wiped at her lips. What she really needed was a drink to clean her mouth, but she didn’t trust the water enough for that.
She rose up and nodded at the Olympus tethered to Tashima’s wrist, at the tiny screen in its back, anxious to talk about something else. “So how are the pictures turning out?”
“I know we’re not supposed to talk about this ... make any conclusions and all the rest of the speech ... but damn.” The grin melted from Tashima’s face. She tilted the screen so that Kim could look, her voice purposely falling to a whisper. “I think I see dead people.”
As Kim studied the image for a few seconds, she found her faint curiosity blossom into intense interest. She realized what she was seeing and the color drained from her face. Once more, she became the girl who was afraid to close her eyes at night, the one who woke up screaming with damp sheets and a racing heart.
Bright splotches marred photos of Mr. King’s office and the balcony. Some spots resembled stars, others appeared as floating streams of bright bubbles. In the last photo, they seemed to be swarming around a nauseated Kim.
There were dozens of them.
•••
“You okay, little lady?” Harvey asked when they returned to the balcony, his voice full of concern.
“Better, thanks.” Kim looked around nervously, but saw nothing. “Must’ve been something I ate.”
“For a second there, it looked like you was gonna go right over the railing,” the old man told her. He shook his head and snickered. “We had this one midnight screening here once, that Pink Floyd: The Wall. Some kid got high, thought he could fly or somethin’, and actually took a header.”
“Whoa!” Joss aimed the video camera over the side, the lens following the path the fall might have taken. “That’s a big drop.”
“Is he one of the spirits people have seen here?” Kevin wanted to know.
“Him? Naw,” Harvey told them. “The guy got lucky, had somebody down there to cushion his fall. The girl he landed on messed up her shoulder, the guy had a broken arm, and they both walked away with concussions. Empty, those seats and that concrete floor wouldn’t make for too soft a landing.”
Burke spoke up, “Do log what happened to you, Miss Saunders.”
Tashima glared at him. “You want her to write down that she puked?”
“I want notes on anything you feel, Miss Ishmail. Cold, hot, nauseated ... if you get the sensation that you’re being watched, write it all down.”
Kim reached out and put her hand on Tashima’s arm. “I’ll note it, it’s fine.”
They moved back down the stairs and onto the auditorium floor. Red velvet carpeted the aisles. Once lush and thick, it was now a stained, dust-covered mat. Tivoli track lighting marked the ends of the rows — strings of Christmas bulbs in brass frames screwed to the concrete, but some of these bulbs were dimly lit, others broken entirely.
Harvey pointed to the ceiling. “When this place was an opera house, there used to be some big ol’ crystal chandeliers up there, just like the ones we got out in the lobby, but they had to go when she got turned into a movie house. Had to clear a path for the projector beam.”
Kim glanced around the room. Even without the chandeliers, it was still dressed for opera. With all the painted and chiseled faces, it seemed that wherever she looked
something stared right back at her.
She moved off to the side, where red curtains hung beneath a lit EXIT sign, and found a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls were black-painted stone. Kim took a few cautious steps inside and saw concrete stairs led up to a back door. Heavy chain coiled around the handles like a metal snake, a rusted padlock holding it in place.
Is that to keep people out, or to keep something else in?
Kim backed quickly into the light of the auditorium and made notes about the hall and chain.
When the group had completed logging all the settings on their equipment, Professor Burke called them all back to the lobby and held out his hands.
“Before leaving,” he said, “link hands once more and say a closing prayer of protection according to your own religious beliefs. Ask that any human spirits you may have encountered here today remain here.”
Joss snickered. “What ... are they stray puppies? Will they follow us home?”
Kim’s arms turned to gooseflesh and the dead girl from the bridge hung over her eyes like a dark blanket; blue, wrinkled lips parting to say, “Ready to go home now.”
Burke gave Joss a level stare. “They might.”
Kim shuddered, her arm tingling. “Professor ... say we did have some kind of ... some kind of contact. If we don’t say the prayer, what would happen?”
Burke gave her a curious glance. “Well, Miss Saunders, the common theory is that, under certain circumstances, a spirit can attach themselves to a person in the same way they do an object.”
Tashima’s eyes widened. “Hold up. We’re talkin’ possession now?”
“Nothing that extreme, Miss Ishmail. It would be more akin to what we see with poltergeist activity. After leaving, you might experience disturbances in your own home — moving objects ... loud noises ... apparitions ...”
“But that’s just a theory,” Kim said. “You don’t really know it would happen.”
Burke nodded. “True enough, but do you really want to put it to the test?”
Tashima’s hands shot up and Kim joined her. Finally, Kevin and Joss closed the circle.
“Silently ask those who were once human not to leave with us,” the professor instructed. “Be polite, but forceful. Usually, I say something along the lines of ‘In the name of God, I command all human spirits to be bound to the confines of this building. Do not follow us,’ but feel free to use the name of whatever good deity you normally worship.
“Then, you will want to tell any non-human entities, or demons if you prefer, to do the same.”
“Have you ever run into a real demon, Professor?” Kevin asked.
Burke stared at him a moment, then he simply said, “Once.”
18
Tyler’s stint in the ER was uneventful, and it ended just after ten. He slowly made his way across the parking lot. The air was cool, free of insects, perfect for a walk. He couldn’t help but smile as he recalled his stroll through the park with Kim a few nights before, the feel of her, the smell of her hair. His thoughts had drifted to her again and again throughout his shift and it had helped him keep the nightmare image from the morgue at bay.
Billy’s body on the floor, scalpels jutting from his chest and neck like pins from a voodoo doll.
El Diablo hit him.
Tyler remembered how shaken Jesus Mendez had been after the death of his friend, recalled his crazy story.
It come for him, but it ... it was not all there.
But if he wanted his friend’s body so badly, why would he leave it behind? And why tear up the morgue like that? Why kill Billy Friesen? It didn’t make any sense.
Free us from the demon!
“Doctor!”
Startled, Tyler spun in the direction of the voice, thinking for a moment he might find Jesus Mendez stalking toward him, a fresh scalpel clutched in his bloody hands.
Instead, a man leaned innocently against the side of a bright red Ford pickup. He appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties, his hands hidden in the pockets of a blue jean jacket. His camouflage pants were tucked into a pair of black fireman’s boots, and a red ball cap crowned his head — Harmony Volunteer Fire Department stitched across the front in yellow thread.
Tyler didn’t respond immediately. It took him a moment to recognize the face. “You were in the morgue this morning, one of the EMTs?”
The man nodded. He stepped forward; removed his empty right hand from his pocket and held it out. “Robby Miller.”
Tyler shook it. “Tyler Bachman.”
“I know who you are, Doc,” Robby said with a smirk. “You’re the hot shot I keep hearing about.”
Tyler chuckled nervously. “Well, I don’t know anything about that.”
“I need to talk to you about the dead Mexican, the one the ME was working on when he got killed.”
“What about him?”
“He died at the old Woodfield Movie Palace, right?”
“No, he died on my table.”
“But he was there.”
“Yeah, they said he was there.” Tyler thought back to the Spanish words on the tape, the ones Billy had recorded before being attacked, and he remembered Robby’s face when he translated them. “‘The theater is cursed ... Free us from the demon.’ I saw the way you reacted. That means something to you.”
“Maybe. The Mexican had scratches on his arm, right — three scratches?”
Tyler’s stomach sank. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody.” There was fear in Robby’s face, something horrible playing out behind his eyes. “Look ...” He opened the passenger door of his truck. “Before more people end up hurt or dead, we should talk.”
“We can talk right here.”
Robby shook his head. “Not about this shit we can’t. Maybe you don’t mind people thinking you’re nuts, but I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Tyler gazed around the parking lot; toyed with his keys. “How ’bout I just follow you.”
Robby sighed and pointed to the light post next to them. “See that camera?”
Tyler looked up; saw the small black dome attached to the metal pole. “Yeah, I see it.”
“If anything happens to you now, I’d be royally fucked. Pictures of us talking here would be on every station.” Robby waved and smiled, then he turned back to Tyler. “So relax, Doc, it’s not me you need to be scared of.”
19
Hannigan’s Tavern was packed, every chair, stool, and booth occupied. The overflow of patrons moved around the bar like stray satellites orbiting the larger seated groups, cold drops of condensation raining from their bottles and mugs as they walked by Kim’s table.
Their waitress squeezed through this crowd to bring another round — three beers and a Diet Coke. Kim didn’t like to drink if she knew she’d be driving. She took the soda and returned her eyes to Joss, listening as he continued his tale.
“So we’ve got one night to shoot the whole commercial,” he told them. “This is like a fourth of our grade, and it just happens to be the night of my twenty-first birthday, so everybody wanted to celebrate.”
Tashima giggled. “Everybody wanted to drink.”
“Well, yeah,” Joss agreed with a grin, then lifted his mug, “but the celebration of my birth gave them an excuse to drink.”
Kevin tapped Joss’ mug with his own, spilling some draft onto the table. They laughed and Joss went on.
“Anyway, on the way out to the location we stopped off at a liquor store and got beer, wine coolers, Mike’s Hard Lemonade, you name it and we got it. Then we got on the set, got everything all set up, and then everybody just started drinkin’. I mean, between every take, every shot, we’re knockin’ stuff back. We ... got ... toasted!
“So the next day, I’ve got this hangover like you would not believe —”
“Wanna bet?” Tashima challenged, giggling again as she lifted a mug to her lips.
“Anyway, I go into the edit bay to put the shit together, thinking we’ve just filmed the g
reatest, most artistic thing man has ever known, and it’s just this total, complete, and utter crap. I mean, our eyes are all bloodshot as hell, we’re slurring our lines ... one of the girls couldn’t even sit up straight in her chair by the end of the night!”
Kevin laughed and pried another meaty slice of pizza from the pan at the center of the table. “So you had to reshoot the whole thing?”
“There wasn’t time. We had to have it edited and ready to roll for class the next morning.”
Tashima rolled her eyes at him and smiled. “Serves you right, you dumb ass.”
“But editing genius that I am, I saved our dumb asses.”
“How’d you manage that?” Kim asked.
Joss smiled with pride. “I just cut the thing together the way we were supposed to, had everybody talking about this bread, how great it was, how they all just loved it toasted with butter and jelly and shit, and everybody’s all red-eyed, slurring, fallin’ down, and then at the end, at the very end, instead of a sign for the bread, I put up the MADD logo, you know, Mothers Against Drunk Driving, and I recorded this voice over,” his voice went down an octave, “Is alcohol affecting the life of someone you love? Call 1-800-555-”
The table erupted in laughter. Tashima rocked in her chair, her beaded braids swinging like whips, smacking Kim’s shoulder. Kim tried to say “ow.” Tashima tried to say “sorry.” Both only laughed harder. A few patrons turned their heads, trying to see what was so hilarious, then went back to their own conversations.
When she was able, Tashima asked, “And what kinda grade did you get on that?”
Joss shrugged. “Well, the professor did mark us down a notch for ‘not strictly adhering to the assignment,’ but it was a helluva lot better than turning in nothing at all.”
