Chapter One: The Lady

It all began the evening of the party. Deb Mulligan and Polly Jones, co-managers of the theatre, were having a retirement gala at the end of that night's performance. Principal Dancer, Sara French, sat at her dressing table practicing her toast for the gala, when half-a-dozen members of the ballet rushing in from the stage, interrupting her solitude.

Shrieks of nervous laughter and voices filled the small space.

"Great," Sara muttered, glaring at the incoming gaggle of gangly legs and arms that made up the junior troupe.

Little James, the smallest of the troupe with a button nose and bright blue eyes, pressed his flushed cheek against the wood of the door as if to listen He quickly locked the door as he declared "It's the Lady! It's her!"

"Don't be silly!" Sara said rolling her eyes and feigning confidence. She did not want the young dancers to sense the chill she felt on the back of her neck. Her next words, however, immediately betrayed her curiosity. "What did you see?"

"I saw her," James continued, sinking into the valise. "Just as I see you now."

His anecdote was interrupted by another young dancer, Marcus Greer who had been hired into the Junior Troupe when his father came to work as Manager for the Box Office. "If that's the ghost," Marcus said with a disdainful edge, "then she's very ugly."

"Oh, yes! She is!" declared some of the others rallying around James. They all continued talking in one great conglomeration of voices. The lady had appeared, according to the rumors, in the guise of one finely dressed, covered in a Victorian style wine-colored silk dress and the staunch corseted posture of the gentry. It was as if she had walked out of the wall itself.

"Whatever," declared one of the older girls in the troupe, trying to align herself with Sara. "You see the Lady everywhere."

At first, rumors of the spectral Lady had been few and far between. No one wanted to admit speculation of the finely dressed woman roaming the corridors, unexplained and unimagined, moving like a shadow and vanishing the moment anyone laid eyes on her. People laughed at the idea, but the legend of the Lady soon grew among the superstitious dancers. The performers traded stories, each trying to top the other with tales of bravado. How many of the experiences may have been true was up to speculation of course, and many believed the more outlandish stories were made up on the spot. Though as time passed, even the naysayers began to experience unexplained incidents. The number of 'accidents' increased with alarming frequency among the crew members. If anyone met with a fall, fumbled a line, or misplaced a make-up applicator it was attributed to the Lady ghost.

Those who claimed to have seen her varied the description of her depending on the teller. Some said she appeared as a skeleton; the fine Victorian dress hanging off of her as a garment on a wire hanger. Others described her as a fine lady dressed for a Masquerade. The most popular description, which spread through the entire theatre company and quickly captured everyone's imagination, came from Janice Flowers, head of the scene changing team. She had seen the Lady, on the little staircase behind the footlights, only for a second. The ghost had vanished, she said but not before Janice caught a good glimpse.

"She is thin," Janice often began to anyone who would listen. "Too thin, you know? Like there might be something wrong with her. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, but they gleamed in the low light, deep and dark. Her skin stretched across her bones, but she still had skin. She's not a skeleton like they say. She's a woman. Sickly, and pale, but a woman nonetheless. She carried herself proudly, tall and imposing, though her face appeared wasted and her hair thin. And then as soon as I saw her, just like that, she vanished. Disappeared before my very eyes."

No one dared to doubt Janice Flowers, a sober, steady woman, not one prone to imagining things. Her reputation was that of one more serious than to take part in fanciful pranks or story-telling. Her witness account was received with genuine interest from the members of the company. Some believed she may be sincere in her account, but perhaps victim to someone else's idea of a joke. Soon, however, with the corroboration of multiple accounts, the presence of the Lady ghost became acceptable knowledge among the company.

One of the technical members, Pauly, worked part time as a volunteer firefighter. His demeanor was that of one who feared nothing, always the first to climb the ladder to adjust an out of reach lamp in the rafters, to wedge himself in the back pockets of the props closet, braving the possibility of spiders or other creatures. On one such day, he returned from his rounds in the cellars. When he rushed onto the stage, interrupting a rehearsal in progress, face pale and sweat beaded on his brow, everyone started with alarm.

"It's her!" He cried. "I saw her in the cellar! A head of fire, floating there before me, just there!" He extended his arm, eyes glazed over as if he could still see the visage before him. The dancers erupted into a frenzy. Seeing this oak of a man trembling with fright threw off even the older dancer, though they tried hard not to show it. The mood shifted in the days following everyone took extra care to avoid the darker parts of the building, the shadowy corners, and dimly lit catwalks up above. The difference of the description did nothing to slow down the tale of the Lady ghost. The younger ones soon came up with the plausible explanation that the Lady had multiple heads and could exchange them out at will. Sara French arrived early one day to set a horseshoe on the table by the stage door. In unspoken agreement, everyone began the habit of touching it quickly for luck before stepping onto the stage.

To return to the night in question, little James continued to stare wide-eyed at the door. "It's the Lady," he whispered. "Listen!"

Silence fell over the gathered dancers, hands clutching in their fright. A rustling sound slid past the door, crinoline, and silk. The sound suddenly stopped in front of the door. Sara swallowed hard before standing and striding to the door.

"Who's there?" she called, hoping no one noticed the slight hitch in her voice. In the looming silence, Sara felt all the eyes upon her, gauging her courage. She called out once more, "Is anyone behind the door?"

"Of course there is," Marcus whispered, clutching at Sara's gauze skirt. "Don't open the door, Sara. Please don't open the door."

Sara gathered her courage and motioned the young dancer back. With one swift motion, she turned back the lock and pulled open the door. She glanced up and down the hallway but saw nothing out of sorts, but the dim shadows of the twisting hall threatening to play tricks on her mind. She closed the door carefully and turned back to the troupe, the tension broken. "There is no one there."

"But we saw her," James declared stepping forward and mustering his bravest voice. "She must be there, perhaps hiding as she does. If we go downstairs for the gala we must all stay together. For safety."

"Now children," Sara said, "pull yourselves together. There is no ghost. It is nothing more than superstition.

"Father says she doesn't like being talked about," Marcus blurted out in an attempt to return the attention to himself. The outburst worked as the other dancers gathered around him, ears open. With the tension broken they were all eager to return to the jovial atmosphere of campfire story-telling.

"Why does your father say so?"

"Tell us! What does he know?"

Marcus stammered, "Because- because nothing. I promised not to say."

Of course, he had every intention of saying, and after a few perfunctory pleadings from his fellow troupe members, he finally conceded.

"It's because of the box," he began.

"What box?"

"Does the ghost have a box?"

"Oh, go on! Go on! Don't keep us in suspense!"

"Shh," Marcus waved everyone silent. "It's Box Five, in the grand tier. Father is in charge of it. But you must promise not to speak of it. All of you. Swear?"

"We swear of course."

"That is the Lady's box. No one else can make a reservation there. Only her. The box-office has standing orders that no one may ever reserve it."

"And does she really go there?"

"Yes, she does."

"Then someone does come?"

"No. The Lady arrives, but no one is there."

"But if she comes to the box, someone must see her."

"That's just it," Marcus insisted. The Lady is not seen and she has no dress and no head! All this business about a skeleton and head of fire is all nonsense. Father knows because he gives her the program."

"Marcus," Sara said, arms crossed. "You're just messing with us now."

His eyes welled up. "I shouldn't have said. If Father finds out, I'll be in trouble for sure."

Sara was just about to lean down to offer comfort, feeling immediately sorry for her harsh words, but the heavy sound of feet running in the hallway interrupted her. The door burst open and Mr. Greer rushed in, scanning the room and quickly rushing to his small son, still trembling from the excitement of the previous moment.

"What is it?" Sara asked.

"It's Janice. Janice Flowers is dead."

"It's the Lady!" Marcus cried before quickly pressing his hands to his mouth as if regretting the outburst. "I shouldn't have said! I shouldn't have!"

The other dancers, clung to each other, fright and panic etched on their faces. Sara's face turned sickly pale. At a loss from protecting the children from this harsh reality. Mr. Greer reached for the cupboard knowing there to be a flask well hidden behind the facial prosthetics. Sara gave him a sharp look.

"She was found backstage by one of the Senior Chorus," he continued. "They are handling it now."

"Greer, the children," Sara whispered.

He turned as if to notice the upturned horrified faces for the first time. "Ah, yes. They, um... The company is gathering in the foyer. Deb and Polly want everyone to check in and be accountable."

"Of course," Sara quickly began to usher them out the door grateful to have a task, albeit seemingly insignificant, with which to distract them. Many had begun to cry, nerves finally succumbing to the stark reality of the news. Little legs, a flurry of pink and blue nylon, rushed up the stairs to join the other company members in the relative comfort of the sunlit foyer. Sara and Greer followed behind, careful to avoid glimpsing towards the shadowy backstage.