Chapter 10

It’s the Ghost Who Did the Trick!

I stood offstage in the wings looking for Candy. The only people onstage were the kids and a pear-shaped woman about thirty years old. “You’re too fat,” a boy said to her. He looked vaguely familiar. “Too fat to fly.”

“I am not too fat,” she replied. “I am pleasingly plump.”

“Pleasingly plump like a plum,” said a girl’s voice.

“Thank you, Madison,” said the woman, who had short hair the color of a cherry Popsicle. “I am pleasingly plump like a plum. Ripe like a tomato. Juicy like a peach...”

“Nonetheless,” shouted a technician. “We need to recalibrate so we can fly you in safely. How much do you weigh?”

“I’m not sure,” said the woman—must be Eden. “I think about a hundred and seventy pounds.”

There was a collective gasp from the people onstage and in the theater. And a laugh from She Who Must Not Be Named. Babette stood a few feet from me, tapping her cowboy-booted foot. “And you say you’re not fat? What is that, one hundred and seventy pounds of muscle?”

“It’s one hundred and seventy pounds of awesome,” said Eden. “High five, Madison.” They smacked hands.

“Guys,” the stage manager said to the technicians, “can you recalibrate by the time Eden gets in place?”

“Of course,” said the one who’d spoken earlier. “We’re professionals.”

Eden walked past me to the twisting metal staircase that led to the facility’s fly space. I watched her climb, along with half the crew, who were admiring her pleasingly plump backside.

“Wait,” I said to Logan, who stood next to me. “The Wicked Witch of the East flies?”

“In this show, almost everyone flies,” said Logan. “After all, it is a space Oz-pera.”

A flash as Babette took a picture of Eden’s ass as she climbed. “Will fattie fly?” she said out loud as she typed into her Smartphone. Probably tweeting.

Eden reached the catwalk. Hey. There was Candy, already in place on the catwalk among the beams and lights, standing next to a large silver orb about six feet in diameter made of a shiny fabric over a cage-like structure. I waved, but she didn’t wave back. Must not have seen me.

Logan followed my line of sight. “Glinda’s bubble spaceship,” he said. “Pretty cool, huh?” Eden stood on the catwalk, spreading her arms and legs so that two techies could strap her into a harness attached to a beam by a cable. “The Wicked Witch of the East wears a jet pack during the show,” Logan continued. “They’re not working in costumes until after break, which is good because the paint on the prop jet pack I made is still wet.”

“You made the jet pack?” I asked.

“Last one got ruined during the accident. It’s actually very cool that I got to do this. Prop and special-effects design is really my passion, and I’m hoping that—”

“All set?” the stage manager called up to Eden.

“Okay to go,” she said.

“Good. Let’s take it from the top of the scene. Lights up.”

A green light bathed the stage. “Standby Wicked Witch of the East, flying in downstage,” the stage manager said into her headset.

“That’s notice of a piece flying in,” Logan said. “Or in this case, a witch.”

“Bwahahaha,” Eden swooped down over the munchkins. Not too fat to fly at all. “My dear munchkins. Which one of you shall I munch for lunch today?”

“She eats munchkins?” I asked.

“Arrestadt took a few liberties,” Logan replied.

“Is it you?” She hovered over the boy who’d called her fat earlier. He looked nervous, her hanging over him like that. “Or maybe you?” Eden cackled at a girl munchkin.

“Standby Dorothy’s house, flying in downstage,” said the stage manager. A gray farmhouse dropped from the fly space, just a few feet from where we stood in the wings.

“Aaah!” Eden screamed as the two-dimensional set piece descended. From the audience, it would look like the house was falling on her. “Aaah!” She collapsed onto the stage floor as the set piece touched down, then stuck her legs out of a carefully placed hole in the house (made to look like a basement window). “Aaah!” she said one last time, then, “Gluck.” Her legs twitched once, then were still.

The munchkins cheered.

From my place in the wings, I saw Dorothy enter from backstage. Hidden by the set piece, she walked up to its backside, stepped around Eden, and opened a door that was cut into the house. The audience would see Dorothy stepping out of the farmhouse. Ah, the simple magic of theater.

“Hold,” said the stage manager. “Let’s run that again.” They did. Eden had just flown in when...“The ghost!” said a man’s hoarse voice behind me. “She’s here. Up in the fly space.”

Munchkins began to scream. “She’s there.” Madison pointed up. “Don’t you see her? The Lady?” More screaming.

“Hold!” yelled the stage manager.

People rushed onto the stage. Some were mothers protecting their darlings, but most were people hoping to get a glimpse of the ghost. “Quick, take a photo,” said someone next to me.

I pulled out my phone. “What? Where?” No one answered, so I pointed my phone toward the rafters several stories up and snapped a bunch of photos.

Madison’s mother arrived onstage. “What did you see?” she asked her daughter.

“Lights. Up there.” She pointed into the fly space, which was crowded with cables and flats and lights.

“Duh,” said the now-familiar hollow-eyed boy munchkin. I was taking a firm dislike to him.

“No, above where the lights are supposed to be.” Madison turned to me. “Did you get a picture?”

I scrolled through the photos I’d taken, but my phone was so small. “I don’t know,” I said, enlarging the picture. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for...Omigod.”

“What?” said, oh, everyone.

“These photos, they’re full of...glowing orbs.”

“That’s just Glinda’s bubble,” said the munchkin I wanted to smack.

No. I looked again at the four photos I’d taken. Each one of them was full of misty bright circles, like small full moons, or bubbles, or...

“Spirit lights,” said Madison, peering over my shoulder. “Those are ghosts, or maybe just one.”

“Just one? What’s she doing, blowing bubbles?” said the boy munchkin. I decided I wouldn’t learn his name. Didn’t want to give him any power.

“I’d be happy to hold a séance,” Eden said. “I have a Ouija board and—”

“Shhh. I thought I heard footsteps.” Babette stared up into the fly space.

There was no way anyone could have heard anything over the din on stage, but people did quiet down, straining to hear the ghostly footsteps. The theater was almost silent when a whirring noise came from overhead. Dorothy’s house. And it was falling.

“Runaway 47, downstage, heads up!” shouted a techie. Actors and munchkins and mothers bolted, scattering in the wings.

“No!” a man yelled. “Let go!”

A scream from stage left. A blur of motion. A techie, flying into the air. We couldn’t do anything but watch as the runaway rope yanked her up into the fly space.

Bam! Dorothy’s house hit the stage floor and the techie’s ascent stopped. She dangled from the rope some thirty feet above the stage.

“Shit!” Logan ran onstage. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” The techie’s voice trembled. “Just get me down fast, okay?”

A flurry of movement backstage, then the woman was slowly lowered down. As she touched down onstage everyone applauded, except for Logan, who looked like he was going to bite off his bottom lip, and Babette, who said, “Hang on. That house could’ve fallen on me. Isn’t anyone concerned that the ghost just tried to kill me?”

Everyone stared at her, open-mouthed. Next to me, a light on a stand flicked on. The Grand Phoenician’s ghost light. Why did someone turn it on? It usually wasn’t lit until later, when everyone was about to leave the theater.

Then, a scuffling noise from Candy’s bubble and movement from within. The silver tent-like fabric dimpled like someone was punching it from the inside. Another louder noise—a muffled cry for help?

“Let her down,” shouted the stage manager. “Lower Glinda’s bubbleship.”

The ship touched down. The stage manager opened the panel that acted as the bubble’s door. Candy crawled out, wild-eyed. “Help!” She clutched her chest. “She’s got me. She’s killing me.”

I rushed to my friend. She didn’t seem to recognize me. I knelt down beside her and felt her pulse. It seemed fast and erratic. “Candy,” I said loudly, right in her face. “Candy.” Shaking violently, she shut her eyes tight against whatever she was afraid of.

“Help should be here right away,” said Logan. “I called 911 as soon as the house fell. I was afraid someone was hurt.” He dropped to one knee beside Candy. “What do you think happened?”

“It was the Lady,” Madison said in a hushed voice.

I forced myself to be calm. I reached for Candy’s hand. She grabbed mine and held on, tight enough that it hurt.

A burst of noise from the stage door, followed by a team of firefighters and EMTs bearing a stretcher and some medical equipment. “Here,” I shouted. They ran over to our little group.

“What happened?” asked a guy who was taking Candy’s pulse. Or trying to. She’d let go of my hand and turned into a wild person, screaming and clawing at the air.

“We don’t know,” I said.

“We’re going to need to restrain her.”

I cringed, but the guys were professionals. In what seemed like seconds, they were securing Candy on the stretcher, using soft restraints on her hands and feet. “Let’s get an IV started, and we need a heart monitor,” the first guy said to another EMT. He shone a penlight in Candy’s eyes. “Dilated pupils, but reactive. Do you know if she’s taking any medications?” he asked me. “Or if she’s allergic to anything?” I shook my head, but the stage manager said, “I’ll check her employee file and get right back to you.”

“What kind of medication causes dilated pupils?” I asked, thinking back to what Ricky had said about drugs.

The EMT didn’t answer my question, just said, “Would you help to clear this area? Let’s get some privacy for your friend.”