Where are you? How long does it take to get off the bus and find a freaking chair???
I roll my eyes and stop moving so I can respond. Looking for a spot now.
Liberty: Well can you call me while you’re looking?
Me: No because I’m in a fucking haunted house with no lights. Just give me a second.
I freeze at movement in my peripheral. Heart pounding, I swing the light toward the blur, forcing air back into my lungs. Just old props and a rack of costumes. More movement on my other side, and I fire the light there. Two glowing eyes flash back at me, and I leap away with a start.
“Shit!” I cry out, crashing into a stack of chairs. Pain spreads through my shoulder, but I ignore it as I try to refocus the light on the eyes. The only thing worse than seeing a ghost is losing sight of said ghost. At least if it’s in front of me, I know it’s not behind me. But I can’t find the sinister glare again. No matter where I shine my light, all I see are more costumes and abandoned furniture. A propped-open door looms ahead, and I breathe a sigh of relief. This must lead to a more modern, recognizable area. A theater that seats five thousand and hosts elite events has to have corresponding amenities somewhere. But not behind this door, apparently. All I find is a dimly lit stairwell when I pull it open all the way.
Well, shit.
I glance behind me toward the dark, creepy storage space and turn back to the illuminated stairs. Lights are more promising, I guess. This is probably a tech entrance that leads to lower-level stage access. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to go down to go up. At the very least, a light means someone else must be down there, and a staff person could point me toward a bathroom or lounge.
I trip on the box supporting the door as I step through, sending it skidding out of view. The door clicks shut in my wake, and I spin back to glare at it. What’s with closing doors in this place? At least I’ve put another barrier between me and ghost-eyes.
I descend the old wooden steps with careful precision, resisting the urge to brace my fingers on the stone walls. Who knows what manner of critter is climbing around in this weird-ass cellar. “Hello?” I call out. My voice echoes down the stairwell, along with the crack of rickety wood with each step. “Anyone down here?”
My stomach drops in disappointment when I reach the landing. More cramped darkness. More stale air and—shit! More ghosts eyes.
And screaming.
• • •
Marina
A broom. That’s what I hold out in front of me to thwart a possible attack, but when you’re woken up at heaven knows what hour by an intruder, maybe one can be forgiven for turning to a broom for protection.
“Stay back! I know karate!” I lie. I don’t, but the fact that I’m pointing a broom at him means I have zero chance of convincing him I’m armed with something better.
“Whoa! Hey. Just looking for a bathroom or something,” the attacker says, lifting his hands. I can’t make out any distinguishable characteristics in the shadow he forms against the dim lighting of the stairwell. His voice sounds young, my age. His tone, calm and non-threatening, but any criminal worth his salt is going to try to get me to lower my guard with soothing lies. Reaching a trembling hand toward the lamp by my bed, I switch it on and jump back into defensive stance.
The man squints against the lighting assault, and it’s then that I notice his strange attire. A hoodie and gym shorts, messy hair that looks weirdly styled. A hiking pack slung over his shoulder. Is he homeless, maybe? Looking for a place to crash? It wouldn’t be the first vagrant our old theater has attracted. They think because our centuries-old building has lots of small, neglected spaces, no one would mind if they burrowed into one. Wrong. Employees only, asshole.
“You can’t stay here,” I hiss out, pointing my broom at him. “We’re a prestigious theater. This isn’t a homeless shelter.”
The guy flinches in surprise before the side of his mouth curls up in a smirk. I refuse to acknowledge he’s actually kind of cute.
“Really?” he asks. “Prestigious, huh? How prestigious?”
I cross my arms in frustration. Well, as much as you can cross your arms while holding a broom. “Um, excuse me. Not that I have to explain myself to you, but we’ve been operating for over a hundred and fifty years. Currently, our venue can host almost five thousand guests. In fact, Night Shifts Black is playing tomorrow night. They should be rolling in later today.”
The other side of his mouth tips up as well to launch a full-on grin. I resist the urge to swing my broom at his adorably smug face.
“Is that so? Night Shifts Black, wow.”
“Yes! Now, get out of my theater before I call the police!” I step toward him with what I hope is menacing force. The broom looks menacing to me anyway. It’s one of those heavy-duty push ones.
His amused stare travels over me with more infuriating smugness. Does he think I’m not serious? Because I will use this broom. Probably. Maybe. I swing it again anyway.
“Okay, okay. Geez,” he says through a chuckle. Lifting his hands once more, he takes a step back toward the stairs. “Seriously, I was just looking for a place to clean up and make a phone call. Relax.”
“Well, this isn’t a hotel. And don’t tell me to relax in my own home,” I snap back.
His eyes widen as he glances around my tiny apartment. “Wait, you live here?”
“Duh.” I wave at the bed behind me and small sitting area in the corner. There’s a bathroom too, but I’m in no mood for a campus tour. He scans the space slowly, intruding on my privacy yet again. “Out!” I yell, waving my broom.
“Okay! I’m going. Just… wait, do you own this place? The theater, I mean.”
I roll my eyes. When did vagrants get so nosy? “No, of course not. I’m the assistant manager. The owner wanted someone around to watch things, and I needed a place to stay. So here we are.”
“To watch things?”
“Yes, to keep intruders like you out of our building. Now, if we’re finished with this interview, there’s a shelter downtown next to the church.” I point the broom, daring him to challenge me.
And when did vagrants get so arrogant? I almost poke him just for the entertained look on his face, but he turns toward the stairs, and I have no interest in restarting something that’s finally ending. I watch him climb the first few, trying to ignore the fact that his ass is actually really hot in those gym shorts. In fact, so was his hair. And his eyes. And—gah! Whatever. He needs to go find a real shelter and be someone else’s problem.
His footsteps continue up the stairs, and I don’t lower my broom until I’m positive he’s near the top. I’ve just breathed a sigh of relief when I hear it.
My heart stops.
My stomach drops.
But there’s no denying it. As if this situation couldn’t have gotten any worse.
“Uh, miss?” the horribly irritating intruder calls back down to me. “How do you open this door?”
Eli
“You closed it?!” comes a shrieked reply from below. Yep, there’s no chance I come out of this situation without getting clobbered by a broom.
“Not on purpose,” I call back. “I tripped on that stupid box, and it closed by itself.” I start down the stairs, not interested in shouting the rest of this conversation while surrounded by weird wall spiders.