would bat an eyelash. Hell, Maxine would probably adopt the rodent as her good-luck charm. Or familiar.
Vivien pushed through the double doors that opened into the house. With no windows, it was even darker in here, and only a smattering of light bulbs worked when she flipped the switches. The main aisle projected like a shadowy ribbon straight in front of her, dipping on a gentle incline and ending at the great, dark maw of the stage.
The stage. The empty, open expanse standing proudly and expectantly in a shadowy building that had been abandoned to dust, cases of deteriorating playbills, sagging, creaking seats, and a small cache of rodents.
But the memories—the witty dialogue, the heartbreaking songs, the dramatic soliloquies, the energetic dances—all reverberated in the vast, dark space. For a moment, Vivien fancied she could hear them…
“The hills are alive…”
“To be or not to be…”
“I’m hopelessly devoted…to you…”
“I can do anything better than you can…”
“Consider yourself…at home…!”
She imagined the surrey with the fringe on top, the long table where twelve angry men had debated, the hotel room that was visited the same time every year, the telephone on which M had been dialed for murder…
A sudden chill caught her by surprise, and had her pausing there, halfway down the main aisle. She stilled, the hair prickling along her arms and over the back of her neck, and looked around. But there was nothing to see—no open door, nothing to cause a draft. Yet the chill was there, frosting her breath into a light cloud.
She waited, wondering if the ghosts of shows past recognized a fellow actor…someone who understood them.
“I’m here,” she called out quietly. “I’m here to bring it back.”
The chill remained, buffeting her, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Noticeable, but not unpleasant.
She walked further. The emptiness above the stage loomed high and black before her, melding into the infinite space behind the proscenium, up into the hidden expanse of the catwalk trails, rows of light cans, and a jungle of frayed, looping ropes—all swathed by rows of tattered, faded curtains.
The air was still and quiet. The shadows sat heavy and long, their shapes dark and solid and unending. The scents of mustiness and age filled her nose, reminding her of death and rot.
“How morbid I am,” Vivien said because, suddenly, she needed to hear something besides her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. “There’s hope here, not just death and rot, Liv,” she said, taking another step forward. “There will be laughter and singing and dancing again, and yes, there will be tears and death and drama…but that’s life. That’s the two masks of drama isn’t it? Comedy and Tragedy.”
The air moved, chill and sharp.
The phantoms of the theater were agreeing with her—a gentle nod, a soft affirmation, a nudge.
The slightest of breeze lifted her hair—she swore it lifted her hair, ruffled it—and it was shockingly cold.
And smelled dank.
Felt heavy.
She heard the soft skitter, a little rustle, and caught sight of a bit of crumpled paper as it danced on the floor near one of the dingy footlights by her sandal-bared toes. The floor felt soft under her foot, giving away a little as she stepped forward—
Just then, suddenly, there was light.
It came in a shocking, strident blaze from the empty stage: cold and blue and bright.
The illumination vibrated angrily in a swirl of shadow and light…and then suddenly it was gone.
The theater was silent.
And then she saw the words—green, vibrant, glowing—were emblazoned on the back wall of the stage:
GO OR DIE.
Chapter Three
Vivien didn’t remember leaving the theater. She assumed she ran. She could have stumbled and staggered, tripping over her own two feet. She might have simply turned and walked—very quickly, without breathing—out of the building.
Regardless, she got out.
Quickly and soundlessly. That part she was sure of. She didn’t scream or shriek or even gasp…because she couldn’t catch her breath.
She just got out.
Then she launched herself into her car, locked the doors, and started the engine with an ugly grind—all in one nonstop movement.
She was just about to throw the car into reverse and get the hell out of there when she stopped.
“What the hell was that?” she asked herself. Out loud, of course—she was always talking to herself. It was a habit from when she’d had to learn lines. “What. The. Hell. Was. That?”
Her fingers were shaking, and she gripped the steering wheel in an effort to give them something purposeful to do. Her stomach was tight, and she still felt a little clammy beneath her linen sundress.
“Okay.