phantom curtain call

1923

In his arms, it broke. She was helpless to stop the sobs that escaped her as she clung to him. 

“W-what happened?” She managed through gasping breaths. “I don't--I don't understand.” 

The question that had haunted her for years, had kept her up at night and had caused the lingering feeling of a black hole of sorrow in her chest.

❝You're safe, and we're together,❞ he shifted to sit with her on the lounge, still holding her close. He brushed a hand over her hair, ❝everything's going to be alright.❞

Though, he wasn't entirely sure what that meant. He'd been alone in the Palace for some time, left to aimlessly wander her halls. She seemed to have her own secrets, of which he felt so close to understanding. It was almost like a door her couldn't quite reach down an endless hall, or one of which he couldn't find the key.

Now with Emma here, how was he to explain it all? He hardly understood it, yet this place—The Theater—seemed to trust him, just as he'd known Emma to. Perhaps he didn't need the answers now, and only needed to have faith in his judgement to keep them safe.

She was in pain, deep and agonizing, stemming from a place in her chest and spreading throughout her entire body. She didn't want to wake, she wanted to rest, to sleep and pray that when she woke it would be gone. 

But her waking hours were never without pain regardless. They hadn't been for the last five years. 

The Palace was her home, the only place in the world where she felt safe, valued, happy. It had been a place of wonder when she was small and her sanctuary as a young woman. Protected and mentored by the man who had become more of a father than the man whose name she bore. Julian was her life and had been with her through almost all of hers. 

And her life had seemed to stop when his did. 

She didn't know for certain that he was dead, there hadn't been an obituary nor any true evidence to indicate what had happened. He had simply disappeared. She'd played through the last night she'd seen him time and time again. She had made sure that there was something for him to eat in the fridge, had tidied the books, made him a cup of tea, said her goodbyes and given him a wave as she began her walk home, safe under his watchful eye. 

But when she arrived the next morning to open the theater, she'd found the doors still unlocked, the food she'd made still in the fridge, the tea still sat on his desk. She had hoped for an explanation, for him to simply reappear and tell her what had happened. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and by the time months had turned to years, her hopes had turned cold just as she had. 

She poured her heart and soul into carrying on his work, ensuring that the theater was cared for in every way. She didn't care how the other staff began to avoid her, how they would whisper only to fall silent as she went into a room. She didn't care how the patrons now seemed to shrink under her glare, afraid to upset the stern usherette. 

At least. Most of them had been. Where once cleaning and closing post the final showing had been a pleasant time shared between her and her father, working alone, they had become her personal hell. Rude and inappropriate behavior was not to be tolerated, but men tended to listen to her far less than they listened to the former manager. 

“Nnn--!” 

The memory of the evening was starting to come back, her brow furrowing and breath quickening as it did. She trembled, she thrashed, the memory of those moments in the ticket booth drawing her forward in a panic. 

Dulled hazel eyes snapped open, a horrified gasp escaping her lips. She blinked, trying to gather her bearings. 

Until at once she was frozen solid by the sight of the man before her. 

❝Mon chu—,❞ he pulled her into him, cradling her against his chest. He pressed a kiss to her hair, tears streamed down his face. It was heartbreak, mourning, shame, and selfish joy to have her with him again. Never did he want this, not like this.

His blood ran cold and his stomach sank. He knew the name, everyone did. Even if the stories became more and more fantastic every time one was told, there wasn't a single person who knew of the theater who didn't also know the ghost stories.

He didn't want to believe it, and perhaps he wouldn't have if he hadn't researched the theater's history himself. He knew his face from the photos he'd seen, and he knew from the tell-tale rope marks around his neck that this was no one but the man himself.

"C-Charles Chapman..." He was trying not to panic as it all was clicking in his brain. "I go by Chad..."

They'd done it. Oh god, they'd actually done it. He knew Alexander and his friends were sick bastards and that it was only a matter of time, but he hadn't expected it to be him.

"What--"

What would his mother do? Fate had already stolen her husband, and now to take him too? Would anyone know the truth of what happened? Would anyone care to? Being the sheriff's son tended to make Alexander's mistakes disappear.

He coaxed the young man out into the empty lobby. The soft music came from another radio behind the concession stand. The gold accents all around glimmered from the warm lights from the electric chandelier. The smell of buttery popcorn hung in the air. The doors out to the entrance hall, and ticket booth, were replaced with a facade.

Julian smiled as he looked over her. It faded as his gaze fell back to Chad.

❝I wish I had an answer that you'd like to hear. I know it's difficult to process... I found myself in a situation similar to yours many years ago. I was never sure what to expect, and this theater certainly wasn't it... However, here we are, safe within Her walls.❞ he gestured around them, and to Her and her glory.

He took the gloved hand as it was offered, eagerly wiping at the glasses before putting them on his face. How they'd survived what he'd endured, he'd never know. But he was thankful for it. His eyesight had been poor since he was small, an early and easy target for the other boys in school, and he'd become near helpless without his glasses.

"They'll never stop. I don't know what's wrong with them and how the hell they can sleep at night with what they do to people. One of these days, they're going to take things too far and someone's going to--"

Any train of thought came to a screeching halt as he finally looked at the other man. He'd thought it was a stranger, someone who happened to come in just at the right moment.

But the man who stood before him was something quite different.

His uniform mirrored his own, and yet, it didn't. It was cleaner, brighter, newer. He'd never seen one of their uniforms look like that despite having been working at the theater for nearly five years. Even stranger still, he didn't know the man. Their staff was small, and he knew they hadn't been hiring.

❝My name is Julian Browning,❞ he offered his hand to him again to shake. His name still remained painted on the glass of the office door. It had worn and chipped over the years, and was covered by others with paper and tape. Yet it lingered, just as he, ❝I am the General Manager of the Palace...,❞ it seemed as if the boy was naturally putting together what was in front of him. He hoped so. It would make this a far easier conversation. His brow furrowed in gentle concern, ❝or rather, I was.❞

He had known when the football players had come into the theater, rowdy and carrying on in the lobby, that he was in for trouble. Even while he was working, they couldn't seem to resist. He had hoped to avoid them, had tried to slip away and keep from being seen by going to clean the bathroom, but all he had done was trapped himself.

He had thrashed with everything he had to try to escape, humiliation turning to desperation as more and more water filled his lungs as his head was dunked over and over again. His glasses were gone, his body screaming in agony as they continued, their laughter barely audible over the sound of the water and the ringing in his ears.

And then all at once, it was over, pulled from his torment and sent to the floor. He sputtered and gagged, trying to expel the water as he tried to blink away the darkness that had overtaken his sight.

He didn't no how long he stayed that way but after what felt like an eternity, he could breathe again. He panted and trembled as he tried to look up at his savior. He still couldn't see.

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a round pair of spectacles, now an artifact of the theater. He offered them down to the young man.

❝Here you are.❞

He looked barely that. He wondered if he had still been in school. It was a shame he'd come to die, to be murdered; another young life senselessly lost. The actions of the other young men were pathetic. He wished there was more that he could do, retribution or justice. Regrettably, all he could do was save the boy's soul.

He did like this one. He didn't often cross the threshold into the world of the living to see what had become of his theater, when he did he didn't often like what he saw. Her shimmer had diminished with the passing years. It was as if she was being forgotten while more people than ever passed through her doors.

However, this boy was different. He cared. He could see through the turnover, the profit, to her glory. He appreciated what once was.

Despite where it led him.