The audiences found the rats dreadful. The ladies would clutch at the pearls that choked them, fainting when one ran by, and the gentlemen would oh so gallantly (gentlemen always considered themselves gallant, as if it was such a tremendous task, this calming after seeing rats in a crowded city) catch them, holding them stiffly upright. Callista used to peek out from the doors on the side of the amphitheater if the manager wasn’t looking.

    She remembers Viola most all, with eyes like spotlights from the back of the theater, trained on Callista.

    There are no simpering young ladies and their chivalrous escorts to mind the rats now. What is theatre with no audience?

    The orchestra plays silently tonight, as every night. It still brings the hair on the back of her neck to a stiff stand, goose prickles up and down her arms, a quickening heartbeat. Or at least, she remembers these sensations.

    The flesh forgets, but perhaps, tonight, it remembers. Perhaps tonight, as with every night before, or so Callista hopes, there is a bit of land outside of town where wild clover dances, and underneath, the bones try to clasp their fingers together, and the descendants of worms from decades ago constrict unknowingly compelled by some small part of a diaphragm their ancestors pushed through.

    She pushes her skirts under her legs, leaning stubbornly back into the chair. Presses her lips together as hard as she can. Somewhere, maybe, there’s a fox who lives only because her starving great-great-great-grandmother, through sheer luck, dug up the body of a contralto and, because nature loves irony, tore out her throat. Perhaps that fox makes small, low whimpers as it dreams, the echoes of a song passed down in time.

    The stage, empty and dusty, and obscured by shadow, beckons her still. If she snuck into the wings, she would find the floorboards decayed with gaping holes through which a person could fall. The smell of face powder and perfume would be replaced by mildew, and the rustling of skirts and gleeful, sheepish shushing would be nothing but insects and rodents running and fighting in the walls.

    If she stood on that stage, no spotlight would save her from the consuming, frigid dark that enveloped the building.

    It used to be: no matter how hard she practiced, she could still feel the pounding of her heart in her throat when the audience’s eyes and ears focused in on her hotter than any spotlight.

    Callista looks to her left, to her right, behind her, above to the mezzanine. Empty. Empty. Empty. A one-woman audience with no show to watch.

Surprisingly though that’s not the strangest thing here. It's the old beetle tucked down by the fence corner, mostly covered by the slightly dead bushes determined to hide it. My boss told be to never venture down there, down a well beaten path that takes you away from the hoard of cars. I did find it rather weird that no other cars were placed near it, even though there is a tonne of space. I questioned my boss about it and he simply told me that it is for a reason. Helpful. And not any good at quelling my curiosity.

So of course that’s how I find myself here. Locked inside the car yard after closing as the last of the Sun's rays are absorbed into the Earth. The vines growing out of the car were not something I expected. Nor the way they curl, twist and bind themselves to the car, like they're somehow stopping it from running away. Besides that the car itself seems to be in reasonable condition. Well reasonable for this car yard, there is rust on it but at least the rust hasn’t caused any holes. I reach for the silver handle, maybe I'll find something interesting inside.

The green upholstered seats could certainly use a wash, though again at least they are in one piece. The vines are also in the car, they must come through the floor of something. Well I think that until I glance at the dash of the car and down to the cassette player, the vines are growing out of it. Like out of the machine, where you would put the cassette. The buttons are still visible, slightly worn out but like they would still work. I hear a creeping sound behind me, probably just my weight as I lean further into the car.

Against all better judgement I hit the play button on the player. The car isn't on so it's not exactly like it'll work. Except it does. It starts playing, some horrendous concoction of notes, both in and out of tune. It grinds against my ears, my brain. My hands move of their own accord to cover my ears, the extra protection doing nothing to stop the screeching. My legs fall out from underneath me, knees smashing into the car floor. Falling sideways I pull my legs to my chest, simply willing for it to be over.

Something grabs my ankle and pulls. I pull back, my ears might be bleeding but I am not about to be taken by someone lurking in the shadows. The car lights up, the headlights turning on with a buzz. I see green around my ankle, the vines. Its pulling me, and harder this time I can't stop it. It drags me towards the open door of the car and a flail, quite ungraciously but no one is here to see it. The vines pull me out of the car and drops me into the dirt. Quite hard. Dead bush digging into my shoulder.

Another vine grabs my arm and drags me through the dirt away from the car. Arm getting increasingly scratched as I move. I end up away from the car, the vine seems to be helping me, far enough away that I can stand again and slowly can begin to walk away.