The gala had already begun. Most of the attendees blissfully unaware of the macabre event on the level below. The foyer was filled with denizens of the city and artistic world. The few of them who did know, existed within an agreement of facade as if they had placed a mask of forced cheer upon their faces. Deb Mulligan and Polly Jones arrived, resplendent in their formal evening dresses, each handed a glass of sparkling champagne upon their arrival at the top of the stairs met by the enthusiastic applause greeting them as they descended down to the sponsors, the troupe, and the guests.
The atmosphere felt jovial and light despite the few whispers here and there. The tables were laid out with a variety of foods, piles of fruits, cakes, and crudites. The dancers had changed out of their tights and gauze skirts, opulent in cocktail gowns and formal suits. The shabbiness of the artists only differentiated them to the keen eye from the velvet, lace, and satin of the gentry. Little James laughed and chattered, bouncing from here to there, seeming to have forgotten the grisly events of the evening. When the retiring managers appeared Sara quickly called him to order.
The applause subsided and Sarah began her farewell speech. Frozen smiles plastered on faces as she spoke. The new managers stood to the side, humbly partaking in the celebration of their forerunners. No one noticed the hooded figure standing in their midst, dressed in a blood-colored velveteen, not at all out of place in the well-dressed crowd. The keys to the Opera house, a large old fashioned loop filled with keys upon keys, the two large master keys stood out among the rest of the gold toothed baubles.
The new managers, Amy Charmain, a trim fashionable woman and Frank Richards, a dapper young man with the flair for design, both stood off to the side relatively unknown to the gathered crowd. They received cordial handshakes and exclamations of welcome throughout the night. Everyone gathered towards the food, at last, picking and nibbling of tiny plates with gloved, manicured hands. Still, the woman in the dark-red cloak moved among them, nothing more visible than the glint of the chandelier light on her glossed lips.
Not to say that she was not noticed, for she did present a striking figure, her movements swan-like, graceful. Each of the guests when landing their eyes upon her had such fleeting thoughts about the make of her cloak, the way her face remained hidden, but every single one found nothing else noteworthy about her, a guest of someone, perhaps, or a well-to-do sponsor with a flair for the dramatic. Nothing at all out of the ordinary.
"The Opera Ghost!" declared little James, his voice rising above the polite chatter of the party. This bold declaration, along with his pointing, shaking finger towards the red-hooded woman seemed to break the tension in the room. The woman stood, tilting her head as the room fell silent. All eyes landed upon her, though her face remained hidden. What everyone would remember about that night for years to come, was the way the light landed up her face, shrouded though it was. Beside her perfectly applied lipstick, the smoothness of her flesh betrayed the slightest scar, a crag in her cheek caught and revealed by the brightness of the light. Her eyes and nose remained under shadow, her identity unknown.
Marcus began to cry, even as most others began to imagine this some kind of elaborate practical joke, all parties willing participants. They watched with smiles of anticipation. Sarah was furious that the ceremonies had been interrupted, casual though they were. She had heard tell that Frank, one-half of the incoming management team, had a knack for practical jokes, but she would never have imagined he would stoop to such a display. She had only met him in passing, though so her judgment could have been skewed.
"The Ghost!" James cried again as excitement began to rise. "It's her! The Ghost!"
A slight circle had formed around the woman as everyone waited for her to respond, to play her part in the madcap performance being played out around them. She did not speak, but stood in such stoic silence, her very presence filling the space to the extent that the onlookers began to look away, finding the need to adjust a stole, smooth a button or otherwise attend to some important adjustment of clothing. No one could pinpoint the exact moment this woman had arrived among them but her presence now seemed more real, almost too real, for anyone's great comfort.
Most of those present did not know of the death of the unfortunate Janice Flowers. Those who did, seethed with the assumption that this was a joke played out in bad taste, which should have been canceled the moment word arrived of the poor scene-shifter's death.
"The dancers are right," the hooded figure spoke in a voice like steel. "The death of Ms. Flowers is perhaps not so natural as one would think."
Deb and Polly, as of yet unaware, gave a start. Polly reached for her throat, as Deb clutched her partner's arm in shock.
"What does she mean?"
"Is Janice dead?"
"Yes," came the voice emanating from her as if a bodiless entity of its own. "Found just this evening in the cellar behind the footlights and the scenes from tonight's performance."
Deb and Polly both stood, mouths open, staring at the strange creature. A small smattering of uncomfortable shifts and asides rippled over the crowd. Invoking the death of a well-known core member felt a bit macabre even for an elaborate practical joke. Deb reached for Polly's arm, who then turned towards Frank and Amy, gesturing for them to follow. As the four of them scurried towards the office, Polly took a moment to signal Mr. Greer to call security, but by the time they arrived the mysterious woman had vanished.
"What is the meaning of all of this?" Amy pronounced once they closed the door behind them.
"Yes," chimed Frank. "Even I find this in very poor taste."
"No," Deb explained, her face pale as a tablecloth. "This is not a joke. Not even close, and as the new managers it is vital that you understand this."
"Do you know her?" Frank asked, settling into the lounge couch. Amy perched on the windowsill awaiting the answer. The other two exchanged a tentative glance.
"Look," Deb began. "You should probably see about changing the locks in the building."
"Which locks?" Amy asked.
"All of them."
"Why? Do you have a problem with thievery here?"
"No, listen!" Polly exclaimed making the three of them startle. "It's not thieves. This is not a joke of any kind. This theatre building has always been a bit of an anomaly. Something resides here that we cannot explain, in all of our time here."
"And what is that?" Frank asked tapping his fingers on this knee.
"The Ghost. The Lady Ghost."
The silent moment passed between Amy and Frank, both pressing their lips together in attempt to suppress their disbelief. To no avail, however, as within moments they both burst into laughter. It tapered off when they both noticed the pallid gazes of Deb and Polly, unamused and patiently waiting for their humor to subside.
"Alright, fine," Frank said. "I'll play along at least. What about this 'ghost'? What does she want?"
Polly reached behind the desk and retrieved the memo-book from the middle drawer, flipping open the pages until she found her goal. "Here," she said. "Clause 98. It states that the management of the Opera house shall acquiesce the performance as declared and comply with the following amendments."
She spun the book around, prompting the others to lean forward. Deb had seen the contents a thousand times, if once, so she remained at the far side of the desk with her arms crossed. The other two managers read the final paragraph with some confusion.
Or if the manager, in any month, delays for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which shall be made to the Opera ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, two hundred and forty thousand dollars a year.
"Is that all?" asked Frank. "Does she want anything else?"
"Yes, she does," replied Polly. "Here, have a look. There are specific days in which the private boxes are to be reserved for high profile guests. Box five is to be held at the disposal of the Lady for every performance."
"Every performance!" Amy said. "That's just not a realistic option. This whole thing is just ridiculous. That's one of the best boxes in the house."
"You don't think we know that?" Polly snapped. "Do you know how much revenue we have lost by holding that box alone? We've not sold it once. Not once!"
"Why do you think we're taking early retirement?" Deb asked with a slight roll of the eye.
"So you've seen her then," Frank replied cooly. "In box five?"
"No, we've never seen her. Not once."
"Then sell the box. What difference does it make?"
"Ha!" Deb exclaimed. "Try it. Just once. See what happens."
Amy and Frank cut their eyes towards one another, each trying to read the other's reaction. The pall of knowledge of the death of Ms. Flowers crept upon them as a possible reality. What had they gotten themselves into, they both wondered, even as they sought reassurance in the other? Perhaps this was nothing more than an elaborate joke after all, and they would return to the foyer to be met with genuine applause. Surely the company had created this ruse for their sake, nothing more than a gauntlet to welcome the new managers and Janice Flowers would step out from behind the curtains with a dramatic flourish, taking a bow to the renewed cheers.
They both hoped to see a flicker of this possibility in the eyes of the other. But in that moment, that one split-second of eye contact, what they saw there were disbelief and a dawning acceptance of the information before them, a picture of the job they had both already signed and agreed upon. As much as they wanted this to be an elaborate hoax, they both knew with utmost certainty that this was not.