The Ghost in the Third Row Read online

  Paula’s tirade was interrupted by a scream from the hallway.

  I had heard kids scream on the playground all my life. And I’d heard scream queens in the movies. But that was the first time I had ever heard a real-life scream of terror. I thought my skin was going to crawl right off my body.

  Have you ever been watching a movie when they stop the projector but keep the picture on the screen? For a minute everyone just freezes in some weird position. Then the projector starts again, and everyone bounces into action.

  It was like that in the little rehearsal room. For a minute after we heard that scream, no one moved at all. Then everyone bolted for the door. Chris and I were the last ones through. Melissa was first, naturally. A small crowd had already gathered in the hall by the time we got there.

  “Stand back! Give her air!” That was Edgar, trying to push his way through the cluster of actors and production people.

  As they moved aside, I could see who had been screaming. It was Lydia Crane, the beautiful woman who had the starring role in the show.

  Lydia was stretched out on the floor. Alan Bland, Paula’s writing partner, was kneeling behind Lydia. He had placed her head on his knees. Ken Abbott, the handsome, dark-haired leading man, was bending over her, patting her cheek as though he was trying to wake her up.

  Lydia’s eyes were wide open, but I had the feeling she wasn’t seeing any of us. It was almost as if she was looking into another world.

  Edgar reached down and put his hand on her arm. First she flinched away from him; then she turned and looked into his eyes.

  “The Woman in White,” she whispered. Her voice was husky with fear. The sound of it made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Edgar, it was the Woman in White!”

  She buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The View from the Balcony

  Do you know what frisson means?

  If you do, you’re ahead of me. I only learned it because my fifth-grade teacher used it all the time. He was a true horror-movie freak, and he decided if a film was any good by whether or not it provoked a frisson in him. Anyway, it’s a word the French came up with to describe that tingle that skitters down your spine and across your skin when something truly horrifying happens.

  Frisson is the word I always think of when I remember the look in Lydia’s eyes that night. At one point she turned her face directly toward me. But I know she didn’t see me. It was as if she were looking into some bottomless pit.

  That’s when the frisson hit me. It was like thousands of little ants running across my skin.

  Poor Alan Bland was almost as bad off as Lydia. His big eyes were wide with fright, and his bony hands trembled as he tried to hold her up.

  Paula knelt by his side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you see it, too?” she asked.

  Alan shook his head no. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. But no sound came out.

  Melissa nudged me in the ribs. “What a nerd,” she whispered loudly.

  Paula shot us a sharp glance.

  I wanted to die of embarrassment—and I hadn’t even said anything! Right about then I would have handed Melissa over to the ghost without a second thought.

  Suddenly a booming voice cried out, “What in hell is going on here?” Looking up, I saw Gwendolyn Meyer pushing her way through the knot of people surrounding Lydia. Ken Abbott quickly moved out of her way.

  “Lydia thought she saw something,” Edgar said quietly. “It frightened her.”

  Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me,” she said sarcastically. “Let me guess. Our famous ghost has made another appearance, and our leading lady has become faint-hearted and collapsed.”

  “Gwendolyn,” said Edgar, in a warning tone.

  But Gwendolyn was wound up and ready to roll. Her nostrils flared, making her look a little like a racehorse. “Actresses!” she snorted. “Someday I’d like to produce a series of plays without a single actress in them. I get so tired of whining, sniveling—”

  “Gwendolyn!” snapped Edgar. “Back off!”

  Gwendolyn reared back, a ferocious look on her face. But she closed her mouth.

  “What’s bugging her?” Chris whispered as Edgar and Alan helped Lydia to her feet.

  “Oh, she’s always that way,” whispered Melissa knowingly.

  “All right, why don’t we get back to work?” said Edgar. “We’ve got plenty to do!”

  Muttering among themselves, the cast and crew began to drift away. Chris, Melissa, and I lingered on because Paula was still talking to Alan.

  “You girls had better go back to the room,” she said, suddenly noticing us. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Reluctantly, we turned to go. As we did, I noticed that the only other person still standing in the hall was Pop.

  He didn’t see me looking at him because he was staring at Lydia. I don’t know what he was thinking. But the look in his eyes sent another frisson skittering down my back.

  I turned and hurried after the others.

  “Well,” said Paula when she joined us back in our rehearsal room. “That was certainly exciting. I had no idea Alan and I would be stirring up such nonsense when we wrote this show.”

  “Nonsense?” said Chris. She sounded really surprised. “Do you mean you don’t believe in the ghost?”

  Paula snorted. “How dumb do I look?” she asked. “Bite your tongues,” she said before any of us could answer.

  I smiled. She had said it to all of us. But she was looking directly at Melissa.

  Not that it did any good. Melissa opened her mouth anyway. To my surprise, she asked a halfway intelligent question. “If you don’t believe in the ghost, why did you ask Alan if he saw it?”

  Paula began to blush. “I—I just wanted to know if he had seen something that might have looked like a ghost,” she said. “I assumed there was something that Lydia took for a ghost. I thought he might know what it was.”

  I didn’t believe her for a minute. Neither did the others. “She was lying through her teeth” was the way Chris expressed it when we were standing outside the theater waiting for our parents to pick us up.

  Before I could ask her why she felt that way a battered blue Volkswagen bumped into the curb in front of us. “That’s my dad,” said Chris. “I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow night.” She scrambled into the car and rolled down the window. “Assuming the ghost doesn’t get you first!” she cried as her father began to pull away. Then she tried to laugh a deep, spooky laugh. Only it came out more like a cackle.

  I was alone in front of the theater. Actually, Melissa was standing beside me. But as far as I was concerned, that still meant I was without human company.

  To my surprise, she actually spoke to me. “I’ve got my lines all memorized,” she said. “Do you?”

  Before I could answer, a silver BMW slid in next to the curb. Without waiting for me to answer her question, Melissa walked to the car. I thought she was going to leave without even saying goodbye. But just as she was about to get into the car, she turned to me and said, “Try sneaking a breath two beats before that note you’re having trouble with. It might help.”

  She slid into the car and slammed the door before I could say either “Thank you” or “Bug off,” which were the two responses I was considering. The BMW pulled out into traffic.

  As I was standing there, it started to rain. I was tired. I was hungry. And I had to go to the bathroom.

  “Come on, Dad,” I said, bouncing on one foot and then the other. “Get me out of this place.”

  He didn’t come.

  Five minutes went by, and he still hadn’t come. I was starting to feel as if I might explode.

  I looked back through the glass doors of the theater. A few people still lingered inside the lobby. I could see Edgar, Gwendolyn, Paula, and Alan. They seemed to be arguing about something. I didn’t want to intrude. But I ha
d to use the bathroom.

  Moving quietly, I slipped through the doors and headed for the stairway that led up to the bathrooms. Nobody seemed to notice me.

  The mezzanine where the bathrooms were located was like half a second floor. Part of it was cut away, and it was surrounded by a railing, so I could look down into the lobby.

  I wasn’t too thrilled by the fact that the lights were out up there. But by sticking to the railing, I got enough light from the lower level to see where I was going. Trying to kind of glide along, so I wouldn’t make too much noise, I passed above the group on the first floor.

  “Not good for the cast!” I heard Edgar saying. His voice was low, but fierce. I was dying to stop there and eavesdrop for a while. But I had to get to the bathroom!

  The lights were out there, too. But once I was inside the door, it took only a moment of fumbling to find the switch.

  If I had had any common sense, I would have taken care of my business, run back down the stairs, and headed for the street. But common sense was never one of my strong points. At least, that was what my mother had always claimed, before she left. So she probably wouldn’t have been surprised at what happened after I left the bathroom.

  The funny thing is, it still surprises me. I mean, I’m not usually all that bold and brave. And when you consider what had already happened in the theater that night, I should have been shaking all over. But when I spotted that little sign over the door that led to the balcony, I just couldn’t resist sneaking up to take a look. I had admired the balcony from the stage the first night of rehearsals. I also knew it was off-limits, except when the theater had some attraction that really packed the house.

  I figured I might never have a better chance to see it. Even so, I hesitated for a moment, wondering if my father had gotten there yet. But then I decided that I had had to wait for him, so it wouldn’t hurt him to wait another minute or two for me.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the door.

  The stairwell was dark and surprisingly cool, considering what a hot night it was. Keeping one hand against the wall, I made my way slowly up the short flight of stairs.

  The carpeting muffled my footsteps. The theater seemed deathly still.

  I was tingling with excitement, and for a moment I had the feeling I was headed for some wonderful adventure—that maybe when I had traveled through this strange, dark passage I would come out in some totally different world.

  Sometimes my imagination gets out of control.

  Naturally I was disappointed when I reached the balcony and discovered that it was, after all, only a balcony.

  But only a little disappointed. Because it was wonderful being up there. By the dim light filtering up from the stage area, I could see great long rows of seats stretching in front of me. To my right the rows marched upward, rising until they were lost out of sight in the darkness at the top of the theater.

  When I turned left, toward the stage, it was even more wonderful. The theater was stretched out beneath me like some glorious, oversize dollhouse. The modern movie theaters I go to suddenly seemed bare and tiny compared to this space.

  I settled into a seat and stared down at the stage, imagining myself there, acting, singing, gracefully dancing.

  Suddenly I caught my breath. Someone was dancing down there.

  It was her!

  Leaning forward, I held my breath and watched as the shimmering figure of the Woman in White glided across the stage. She was wearing that same old-fashioned dress, which I now realized must be the costume she had been wearing when she was killed. She had her arms raised, as if she were dancing with some invisible partner. But she was alone. And she looked sad. Very, very sad.

  From somewhere, I heard the faintest strain of music.

  At first I could barely make it out. But after a moment I recognized it as a song Paula had played for us earlier in the evening. It was “The Heart That Stays True”—the song Lily Larkin had been singing when she was murdered.

  I should have been scared, I suppose. But I didn’t sense any evil in this ghost. Just terrible loneliness.

  So I wasn’t frightened at all—until a huge hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  Then I nearly fainted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chris

  Three things happened at once: I started to scream; I spun around in my seat; and I heard a familiar voice snarling, “What are you doing up here, kid?”

  It was Pop. He looked fierce, not at all like the sweet old grandfatherly type I had imagined him to be.

  I swallowed and looked back toward the stage. The ghost was gone.

  Had he seen her?

  “I said, what are you doing up here?” repeated Pop, giving me a little shake. I turned back to him. There was anger in his eyes—and something else, too. Only I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “I—I just came up to look,” I stammered. “I wasn’t hurting anything.”

  “Well, just get yourself right back down,” said Pop gruffly. “This balcony is off-limits to anyone who doesn’t have a ticket—which is most people, most of the time. You kids get to sneaking up here and the next thing you know one of you will be falling over the edge. Then your parents will be suing the theater because we didn’t keep you out of here! They ought to sue themselves for not teaching you better manners! Go on! Scat!”

  I got out of there as fast as I could, racing down the stairs so quickly I nearly made Pop’s prediction about hurting myself come true. I shot across the mezzanine, down the next flight of stairs, through the lobby, and out the front doors—something like the Cowardly Lion running away from the Wizard of Oz, except that I opened the door instead of going through the glass.

  My father was just pulling up to the curb.

  “Well, looks like my timing was perfect,” he said cheerfully as I quickly got into the car. “They must have put you through some workout tonight, Nine. You’re all out of breath!”

  If he only knew, I thought.

  Lydia and I had seen the ghost on Wednesday night. There was another rehearsal scheduled for the next evening. But by ten o’clock on Thursday morning I was so desperate to talk to somebody about what I had seen that I thought I would go out of my mind waiting.

  Finally I decided to call Chris. It took me six calls because there were over a dozen Gurleys in the phone book, and I had no idea where she lived. I just started at the top of the list and worked my way down. No answer at the first two, an old lady at the third, no answer at the fourth, and a very cranky man at the fifth. He said he worked nights and I had woken him up. He also said several other things, but I had better not put them on paper.

  I was about ready to give up after the episode with Mr. Cranky. But then I remembered my grandmother’s saying that people who gave up on something with less than a hundred tries didn’t deserve to succeed anyway. That always seemed a bit on the high side to me, but I figured five was really on the low side. So I tried again.

  “Hello, this is the Gurley residence,” said Chris.

  Bingo! “Chris,” I said. “This is Nine.”

  Chris ignored me and kept right on talking. “This is Bonk, the cat, speaking. No one else is available now, so the folks have put me in charge of the phone.”

  An answering machine. I hate answering machines!

  “At the sound of my meow, please leave your name and message. I’ll make sure it gets to the right person. Also, please let me know if you have any spare mice.”

  There were a couple of seconds of whirring noise, then a loud meow.

  I almost said, “This is Nine. I saw the ghost. Call me as soon as you can!”

  Fortunately, I caught myself in time. If Chris’s parents got to the answering machine before she did, they’d think I had really freaked out.

  “This is Nine,” I said. “I need to—”

  I was interrupted by a clicking sound. “Nine! How are you?”

  “Chris?”

  “You were expecting maybe the Woman in Wh
ite?”

  “Don’t say that!” I snapped.

  “Hey, what’s going on? You sound grouchy enough to be Melissa!”

  “Don’t ever say that to me,” I said. “You startled me, that’s all. Anyway, why do you have your answering machine on if you’re at home?”

  “To filter calls, dummy. What if it had been Melissa, instead of you? I haven’t had breakfast yet. I don’t think I could stand to talk to her on an empty stomach this early in the morning.”

  “Chris, it’s almost noon.”

  “So shoot me. It’s summer and I like to get up late. Did you want something, or did you just call to nag me?”

  “No, I need to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Suddenly I felt really stupid. “Can we get together somehow? I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

  “Why not?” asked Chris. “Is it dirty?”

  “No, it’s not dirty! I just don’t want to talk about it on the phone!”

  “Can you get downtown?”

  Downtown itself was easy; the bus came right by my house every fifteen minutes or so. Getting permission was another matter.

  “I’ll have to call my father at work and ask him. You’d better be flattered. I’ll probably have to endure a ten-minute lecture on the dangers of downtown before he lets me go.”

  “Better you than me. I’ll wait for your call.”

  Chris was standing in front of the library when I got there.

  I smiled when I saw her. Not because she looked funny, or even because she looked pretty, though the fact is, she was both, which isn’t easy. I smiled because that’s the kind of person she is. She just makes you want to smile.

  I waved when I spotted her. I expected her to wave back, but she acted as if I didn’t exist.

  I thought maybe she had decided she was angry at me for dragging her down there to talk, instead of just telling her my problem over the phone. I figured I’d better apologize as soon as possible.

  “Look, Chris, I’m sorry about—”

  She cut me off with a fierce hiss. “Shhhhh!” She looked around, then squinted at me. “Follow me!” she whispered. “Ve vill go vhere no one can hear us!” She was speaking in a ridiculous German accent and arching one eyebrow like a bad actor playing a spy in an old movie.