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Authors: Chet Williamson
Tags: Horror
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troops will be here to . . . rectify the situation on stage. No trace will remain by morning, believe me." Steinberg folded his arms and looked down at the carpet. "And believe me also when I say that I liked that young man very much. As much as I regret his passing. You go up to bed now. Curt and I will see to things down here."
The lobby was almost empty. Only Steinberg, Dennis, and Curt remained. Dennis moved toward the elevator at the far end of the lobby, but instead of pushing the button, he glanced in the direction of the others. Seeing that their attention was occupied, he stepped to the door of the theatre, pushed it open, and entered.
The lights were still on, and Dennis walked gently, as if afraid of being heard, across the inner lobby until he could see the stage. The curtain had been pulled back to its former position high up in the flies, and was no longer visible, but he could see the dark stain on the stage floor, and his lips went tight with the memory of what had caused it.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move in the shadows of the stage right wing, and felt fear bolt through him, remembering for the first time what Ally Terrazin had told him in the lobby — a presence, she had said. Dennis had never been superstitious, but Tommy's death had shaken him terribly, and he realized that his unease had made him susceptible to those vestiges of irrational fear that remained in the human mind from the dark times before history.
Susceptible.
That was the word, wasn't it? That explained it all, explained why he had seen something move where there was nothing living. He looked again, but all was still.
Just as he was about to turn around and go upstairs to bed, he saw the movement again, felt the fear like a knife, and then was embraced by blessed relief as he saw that it was only the cat, that damned bitch of a cat that hated him all other times, and had terrified him now.
Cristina. He would never forget her name, just as he would never forget the vicious way she had sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of his hand the first time he had tried to pet her. Dennis had kept cats as pets in the past, and they usually liked him, but it seemed as though Cristina had instantly abhorred him. In fact, she loathed everyone but Abe Kipp , the older of the two custodians whose sole domain was the Venetian Theatre and environs, and only because he had raised her from a kitten and fed her every day.
Dennis watched her now as she regally stepped onto the stage like a diva in a curtain call, stretched luxuriously, and padded silently over to the spot where Tommy had died. She sat, curled her tail around her, and gazed down at the damp stain on the wooden stage floor. Then, having come to some feral conclusion, she uncoiled her tail, lowered her head, and began, ever so daintily, to lick the sodden boards.
Dennis turned away, a bitter lump rising in his throat. He swallowed heavily and closed his eyes, trying to erase the sight of the cat.
"Dennis? Are you okay?"
He opened his eyes. Sid was standing inside the door to the inner lobby. "I'm fine. I . . . just . . . wanted to see, wanted to think about it, about what could have happened."
"I know. It was danm strange." Sid frowned, as his gaze swept past Dennis up onto the stage. "Jesus, what's that cat doing?" He turned toward the open lobby door. "Abe!" he called. "Get that cat out of here, will you?"
In through the door walked Abe Kipp . The gray coveralls he was dressed in were a shade darker than his hair, which framed a face fissured with wrinkles. He looked at Sid through round, owlish glasses with the kind of superior, appraising look mechanics give you when they tell you a part you've never heard of needs to be replaced. "What's she doin ' now?" he drawled.
"See for yourself," Sid said, and took Dennis by the arm. "Come on, Dennis. Let's get some sleep."
~ * ~
Abe Kipp walked up to the marble divider that separated the seats from
The lobby was almost empty. Only Steinberg, Dennis, and Curt remained. Dennis moved toward the elevator at the far end of the lobby, but instead of pushing the button, he glanced in the direction of the others. Seeing that their attention was occupied, he stepped to the door of the theatre, pushed it open, and entered.
The lights were still on, and Dennis walked gently, as if afraid of being heard, across the inner lobby until he could see the stage. The curtain had been pulled back to its former position high up in the flies, and was no longer visible, but he could see the dark stain on the stage floor, and his lips went tight with the memory of what had caused it.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move in the shadows of the stage right wing, and felt fear bolt through him, remembering for the first time what Ally Terrazin had told him in the lobby — a presence, she had said. Dennis had never been superstitious, but Tommy's death had shaken him terribly, and he realized that his unease had made him susceptible to those vestiges of irrational fear that remained in the human mind from the dark times before history.
Susceptible.
That was the word, wasn't it? That explained it all, explained why he had seen something move where there was nothing living. He looked again, but all was still.
Just as he was about to turn around and go upstairs to bed, he saw the movement again, felt the fear like a knife, and then was embraced by blessed relief as he saw that it was only the cat, that damned bitch of a cat that hated him all other times, and had terrified him now.
Cristina. He would never forget her name, just as he would never forget the vicious way she had sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of his hand the first time he had tried to pet her. Dennis had kept cats as pets in the past, and they usually liked him, but it seemed as though Cristina had instantly abhorred him. In fact, she loathed everyone but Abe Kipp , the older of the two custodians whose sole domain was the Venetian Theatre and environs, and only because he had raised her from a kitten and fed her every day.
Dennis watched her now as she regally stepped onto the stage like a diva in a curtain call, stretched luxuriously, and padded silently over to the spot where Tommy had died. She sat, curled her tail around her, and gazed down at the damp stain on the wooden stage floor. Then, having come to some feral conclusion, she uncoiled her tail, lowered her head, and began, ever so daintily, to lick the sodden boards.
Dennis turned away, a bitter lump rising in his throat. He swallowed heavily and closed his eyes, trying to erase the sight of the cat.
"Dennis? Are you okay?"
He opened his eyes. Sid was standing inside the door to the inner lobby. "I'm fine. I . . . just . . . wanted to see, wanted to think about it, about what could have happened."
"I know. It was danm strange." Sid frowned, as his gaze swept past Dennis up onto the stage. "Jesus, what's that cat doing?" He turned toward the open lobby door. "Abe!" he called. "Get that cat out of here, will you?"
In through the door walked Abe Kipp . The gray coveralls he was dressed in were a shade darker than his hair, which framed a face fissured with wrinkles. He looked at Sid through round, owlish glasses with the kind of superior, appraising look mechanics give you when they tell you a part you've never heard of needs to be replaced. "What's she doin ' now?" he drawled.
"See for yourself," Sid said, and took Dennis by the arm. "Come on, Dennis. Let's get some sleep."
~ * ~
Abe Kipp walked up to the marble divider that separated the seats from
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