The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Willis slapped one into her hand. Its beam was pale from use and didn’t reach far, but she saw a man-sized shape dangling ominously over stage center.

  “Oh, my God. Is that for real? Someone get up there and find out.”

  Willis himself saw to it, scrambling up the metal ladder affixed to the backstage wall. He reached the grid and gingerly stepped onto it. The hanging figure swung heavily. Several of the people around her gasped.

  “Everyone back out of the way!” she snapped. Still staring up, they reluctantly moved clear. And only just in time. Willis yelled, “Look out!”

  The thing high above suddenly plummeted. The body smacked into the stage with a resounding thud, inspiring screams. Cassie jumped in reaction, but held her place. She became aware of someone looming behind her. Quentin. Generating a lot of heat. He stared over her shoulder at the body.

  It was only a dummy from props—for which Cassie heaved a great sigh of relief—but its appearance sent a chill up her spine. With a hangman’s noose around the neck, it was dressed in her own distinctive working uniform of jeans, cowboy boots, and her best blue work shirt, which had gone missing yesterday. Topping all was a red wig, the color matching her own mane. Most disturbing was a huge prop butcher knife, smeared with dark red paint, sticking out of the thing’s chest.

  She felt Quentin’s warm hand on her shoulder, gripping tight.

  “Good God. . .that’s supposed to be you.”

  She recoiled at the suggestion. “I hope not.”

  “That’s sick!” Nell all but shrieked. “Absolutely sick! Who did this?”

  No one stepped forward; no one looked the least bit guilty or smug, but then, most of them were actors.

  No. I’m not going to go there, Cassie thought. These are my friends, they’re family!

  An unfamiliar hollowness invaded her guts. Fear. Real fear. That fake knife had been buried right to the hilt in her effigy’s chest. Like it or not, she had to deal with it. She steeled herself, went over, and pulled it out. All eyes were on her as she held it up like a trophy.

  She fully milked the moment, making a slow turn to take them all in, keeping her voice rock-steady. “All right. Listen up. I am not amused. Somebody could have been killed if this thing had fallen at the wrong time. There’s no harm done, but no more tricks. I’m talking zero tolerance, folks. I find anyone, absolutely anyone, screwing around and I will personally bury them. Is that clear?”

  Nods of comprehension and sober looks. She tried to read their expressions and body language for any clue as to who might be the guilty party, but it was impossible, so she concentrated on not trembling from the adrenaline rush. Rule One for any good dramatic scene: never let them see you sweat.

  “Cassie? What’s going on here?”

  She turned to face Isabel Graham, the show’s patron, producer, and leading lady. Though known as a brilliant comedic star by means of her hit TV series, at the moment Isabel truly resembled Lady Macbeth. Her blue eyes were wide with shock, her mouth set in a grim downward turn. She looked at the bloody knife, then at the dummy.

  “Just a sick joke, Isabel,” Cassie wearily explained, wishing she could lose the knife.

  “Another one?” This came from Isabel’s manager, James Keating, also her most recent fiancé. Like Nell, Isabel fell in love a lot, but had been careful not to follow through to marriage just yet. According to the tabloids, though, Keating just might be the one to break the rule. He was movie-star handsome, had a shark’s attitude when it came to business, and was totally devoted to Isabel. He was shocked enough to put away his ever-present cell phone to stare at the dummy sprawled over center stage. Quentin was on one knee, his back to them, examining the “remains.”

  “That’s supposed to be you?” asked Isabel, horrified.

  “It’s a rotten likeness. I have a much better figure.”

  Isabel puffed out a short, mirthless laugh. “Not funny.”

  “Absolutely not,” agreed James. “This is a deliberate and cold-blooded. Bel you—”

  “Quentin!” Isabel squealed, suddenly noticing her new co-star. Cassie dodged clear just as Isabel launched herself at him. He rose with a grin and obligingly grabbed her up in a full body hug and spun her slender form around.

  Short attention span, thought Cassie. Isabel had loads of talent, but when she wasn’t performing she was as easily distracted as a kitten was by a new piece of string.

  “You’ve grown!” crowed Isabel when Quentin set her down.

  “Nope, you just got shorter.”

  “Did not! You get those big muscles in the navy?”

  “They’re rented, but if they work out, I might buy them.”

  James Keating watched the exchange between the two old friends with thin-lipped tolerance. Cassie knew how he felt. Her last—completely last—actor-boyfriend had thrown her over for someone else. He’d been just as public about it, too. Was James worried about a rival?

  Willis came up then, or rather down, having just quit the metal ladder. He also inspected the “body,” especially the noose rope. His focus served to draw Isabel back to the immediate problem.

  “What is it, Will?” Cassie asked.

  He shook his head. “This was set like a booby trap. I found fishing line leading from the dummy’s noose to the ladder and down the rungs on the inside. The noose was just barely snagged on a hook up there with a loose loop knot; one good pull on the line and it’s off and dropping. I accidentally tripped the gag when I got to the top. Whoever set it wanted to pull it down from a distance. It would have worked, but the setup was clumsy. If there’d been a good draft it might have come tumbling down beforetime and killed someone.”

  She went cold. All over.

  “Cassie, you should call the cops on this. James is right, this isn’t a joke anymore. Maybe the rest of the stuff you can fob off on the poltergeist, but somebody put work into this thing—and it had to be somebody with free access to the building. This came from the basement props and costume storage.”

  “Not the clothes,” she said.

  “Those are yours, aren’t they?” asked Isabel.

  “Don’t hold it against me. I’ll buy something nice for opening night.”

  “Stop with the joking already,” said Nell. “This a deliberate act of terrorism!”

  “I agree,” said Quentin. “You need to report it.”

  Keating echoed him, putting a protective arm around Isabel.

  “And have the tabloids eat us for lunch? I don’t think so.” Cassie had already dealt with several overly-friendly reporters looking for the inside scoop on a perfectly—well, almost—ordinary production of Macbeth. They’d been interested in getting dirt on Isabel, of course.

  Isabel shook her head. “Never mind the so-called press. I can take a little heat so long as they spell my name right. This could be a life-threatening situation. You have to call the police!”

  Cassie raised her hands in a placating gesture. Unfortunately, the prop knife was still in one clenched fist, causing everyone to back away a step. “Okay! I’ll phone them, but I am not terrorized, I’m mad as hell. Everyone here should get mad, too.”

  Nell visibly thought that one over. “What? Like an acting exercise?”

  “No! I mean if you put all the poltergeist stuff together, most of it doesn’t mean squat, but this is different. Someone wants to kill this show, for reason or reasons unknown.”

  “Over my dead body,” said Isabel, her eyes flashing blue fire. “I’ll call in a security firm and lock this place up like Fort Knox before I let that happen.”

  “Right,” said Cassie. “That’s what I’m looking for—I want you and everyone else mad and on red alert. If we all play watchdog, look out for each other, anticipate problems before they happen, then they can’t happen. Am I brilliant, or what?”

  “Or what,” Nell deadpanned. “You want us up here twenty-four/seven to revoke Murphy’s Law?”

  “Whatever it takes,” said Cassie.

 
“Lemme tell you, girl, when it comes to theater, Murphy was an optimist.”

  * * *

  Cassie filed a report with the police, but knew they couldn’t do anything. It was not a crime to dress up a dummy and hang it from anything; no harm was done. The officer was sympathetic, but even the promise of free tickets for opening night wasn’t enough to lure him into staying until then. He did ask if she could have Isabel’s autograph, which Cassie got for him, since he was kind of cute.

  Her pep-talk galvanized the company. For the rest of rehearsals Cassie concentrated on directing, which almost made her forget about the poltergeist—for whole minutes at a time.

  It helped to have amazing actors to work with, though. Quentin Douglas’s romantic, hot-blooded—if slightly psychotic—Macbeth quite overwhelmed the brooding, anger-driven version Trevor Hopewell had attempted. Even without the drawing power of Isabel Graham’s star name, this production was shaping into something special. Cassie was thrilled. She wanted the audience to see the characters, not the actors playing them.

  Complications still arose. Mostly in the form of Quentin finding all kinds of ways to stick close to her when he wasn’t busy killing people on stage. She pretended not to notice his attentions and focused on business, which drove Nell up the wall.

  “He likes you, Cassie! Are you nuts? Total studs like him are thin on the ground.”

  “He’s an actor. Actors are off my menu.”

  “Unbend a little, girl. At least have coffee with him sometime so he doesn’t think you hate him.”

  “I don’t hate him! I’m being professional. Go for him yourself.”

  “I tried—but all he did was get me to talk about you. The least you can do is date him so I can have a vicarious thrill when you tell me about it.”

  “I’ve no time. The play opens soon, and in two weeks it closes; he’ll be history. End of problem.”

  “You wish.”

  * * *

  Despite everyone looking out for each other, Murphy’s Law continued with a vengeance. Opening-night jitters became the norm days too early, with more missing or damaged costumes, broken props, and damaged scenery flats. Frustration rose, tempers shortened, and arguments were frequent. Isabel’s presence helped; she could stop a fight with her smile alone. At her own expense she had the locks changed and hired off-duty policemen to keep an eye on things. To no avail, with so many crew and actors milling hurriedly about to bring the production together it was impossible for the security types to watch everything. The incidents continued.

  After the effigy business, Cassie started sleeping in the theater. She’d often done so when work had gone too late to drive home. With spare clothing, a comfy couch in her office, and showers in the dressing rooms, it was no hardship. She rather liked it.

  She was well over her fit of denial, facing the ugly fact that someone in the group was out to kill the show. Cassie absolutely hated the idea, but found herself looking at familiar faces with new eyes. She began to come up with motives for each and had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out an accusatory question that could destroy a lifetime of friendship.

  So she kept quiet about her after-hours guardian duty, hoping that if she did discover the culprit they could settle things privately. As for the possibility that an anti-Shakespearean ghost had taken up residence in the theater. . .well, Cassie had yet to meet a poltergeist who was any match for a furious redhead armed with a baseball bat.

  The nights were uneventful, giving her much time to think back on the various pranks—especially the deadliest. The guilty party behind the effigy had to have access, time, and privacy to set it up. The knots made her think of sailors, but Quentin Douglas was newly come to the show, unfamiliar with the layout of the theater, and had no motive. Besides, most of the company knew how to do special knots; it was part of normal stagecraft training.

  That clue shoved to the side, she thought seriously about motivation. Why would anyone want to kill the production? Not one of her people would benefit if it died—quite the contrary.

  What about Isabel? She believed in this show, but was that just a cover? Her grand plan to prove herself to be a powerful dramatic actress as well as a comedy star was backfiring in the tabloids. Derisive articles were surfacing without any of the writers having seen her work. Unfair, but bad news sold. If Isabel stopped the production in the face of the mishaps, then the critical feeding frenzy would never happen. Of course, she’d lose the chance to dispel the mockers by delivering a solid performance.

  Perhaps James Keating? He’d more than once voiced the thought that they should quit and close down the show before anyone got hurt, but always deferred to Isabel’s wishes. Could he be tired of playing second banana?

  By the third night at watch, Cassie was exhausted. She had to keep up a strong front to inspire confidence, but that and the hard work of rehearsals drained her. At eleven she said good-night to the last of the crew, locked the door, and made a round of the dark and silent theater. While others might find the cavernous quiet and deep shadows ominous, she was in her home element. Each creak was as familiar as her own breath. When no boogeyman obligingly leaped out so she could whack him with her bat and solve her problems, she retired to the dressing room area to get a much wanted shower.

  Having seen the Hitchcock movie enough times to be sensible about the vulnerability of bathing females, she not only locked the dressing room door, but propped a chair under the knob. Any would-be Norman Bates would have a tough time sneaking up on her, especially if the toolbox she’d balanced on the chair fell off.

  Which it did, just as she finished her final rinse and cut the water.

  The terrific crash nearly made her leap out of her freshly scrubbed skin. Dripping, she struggled frantically into a terry robe and grabbed her bat. Her heart hammered so loud she could barely hear anything else as she approached the dressing room door—

  Which was being forced open.

  Swallowing her fear and outrage, she nipped quick as a cat behind the door, ready to deliver a Babe Ruth-style homer to the intruder.

  The chair abruptly tumbled over, and a black figure cautiously edged inside. She gulped again. He was awfully big for a poltergeist.

  No matter. He was a trespasser and she was within her rights. She swung the bat hard, giving a banshee yell for good measure.

  He whirled barely in time to duck and deflect the blow to the side. He yanked the bat from her grasp and drove bodily toward her. She buried her fist into his belly, using plenty of knuckle. The man doubled over. Cassie dodged, rolled, and grabbed up the bat again, coming to her feet with it ready in hand as he recovered enough to turn on her.

  “You?!” she screamed, caught between disbelief and rage.

  “Grrg!” said Quentin Douglas, holding his gut.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He waved one hand, palm out, backing away from her threat. “Uh-a-ha-ooo?”

  “I’m watching the place,” she answered, understanding the question even if articulation was lacking. “Why are you here? You’re the poltergeist?”

  He violently shook his head, then found a chair and dropped into it, breathing heavily. He didn’t look like a poltergeist. But then he’s an actor, she reminded herself.

  “I’m here to watch out for trouble,” he wheezed out a few moments later. “With the stuff that’s going on. . .it seemed the right thing to do. I was worried about you.”

  Wow. Her last guy would never have done that for her. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I noticed,” he said, rubbing his stomach.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since the first night I arrived.”

  “What? You’ve been creeping around every night without me knowing?!”

  “I happen to be very good at it. That’s why Isabel recommended me when Hopewell gave notice. She knew about my training. She thought it might be an asset to theater security.”

  Cassie relaxed. Marginally. She
still held her bat ready. “Are you all right?”

  “Just bruised pride. If my service buddies ever found out I was decked by a half-pint like you—”

  She growled and tightened her grip on the bat.

  “Take it easy! That was a compliment. You’ve got a killer arm. If red hair is mentioned they won’t hassle me.”

  Mollified, she eased off. “Why’d you come in here? Trying to cop a peek?” She tightened the tie on her robe, suddenly aware of drafts.

  “That would be wonderful, but I saw someone lurking in the hall outside. I chased him, then lost him. When I returned I found the door’s lock jimmied, so I thought I’d better check to make sure you weren’t hanging from a coat rack with a knife in you.”

  “Oh. Well. Thanks. Shouldn’t we go looking for the lurker, then?”

  “We—sure, when you’ve dressed for the part, but don’t go to any trouble on my account. In the meantime, I’ll start looking around.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right here and watch my back.”

  He grinned, his wicked eyes lighting up.

  “Figuratively!”

  Growling, she retreated to the shower and threw on clothes, then returned, still damp, but ready for anything.

  Apparently recovered from the blow to his gut and pride, he reported that all was quiet. “He’s probably gone by now. I didn’t get a good look at him. It was too dark. It might have been a woman.”

  “I’m still turning on all the lights and going through this place room by room.” She headed for the master switches backstage.

  “Wait a second. . .do you smell gas?”

  She sniffed. He was right.

  “Basement,” she said decisively, pivoting and running for the stairs. “We have butane tanks to fuel stage-fire effects, but they’re locked up in a cage. I don’t see how—”

  Quentin followed, using the flashlight he carried to guide them down the stairs. “Who has the keys to the cage?”