Page 52 of The Wishing Game

"You can borrow it after the show as long as you put it back when we leave," I tell her, knowing that even if I say no, she'll still do whatever she wants.

Her eyes sparkle and she gives me an effusive nod.

When it's time to go to our seats, we barely get her away from the display. As we reach our designated area, I'm surprised to see Cer had gone all out and booked one of the private boxes on the side of the auditorium. The privacy is welcome, as is the opportunity to study the location from a vantage point.

We place the bags with our supplies on the floor just in time for the curtains to go up. Silence descends in the room, the orchestra starting with a lulling violin sound. Turning to the stage, I take a moment to soak in the beauty of the auditorium. There's a vaulted ceiling surrounded by paintings in an Art Nouveau style. Green, mauve, gold, and a muted red swirl around in a contrast that speaks of the Gilded Age of New York, with its lavish decorations and illusions of grandeur. Floral details are depicted in a bas-relief style—which I only know about because I took art history as one of my electives. There's an assortment of new and old pieces, preserving both the history while keeping up with modernity.

A pang of regret reverberates in my chest. I've been living in this city for over a year and I've barely visitedanything.For the first time, I should have been here with Nikki, not with two odd non-humans, and certainlynotghost hunting.

The musical ends up being surprisingly enjoyable—so much so that I barely realize when it ends and people stand up to leave the premises.

I make to get up, too, but Cer raises a hand to stop me.

"We can wait here until everyone leaves."

"But the staff will come to clean and?—"

He gives me a bored look that simply saystrust me.

"He's right, Luce. Sit down and wait. It will be easier to evade detection here."

I don't know how, but apparently, they have some plan I know nothing about.

Just as I predicted, the staff comes to the auditorium to clean up after the spectators. Someone opens the door to our box as well, and just as I prepare to make up an excuse for still being there, I realize that they don't come in. They stare at us as if they aren't seeing us. A moment passes, after which they close the door and leave.

"What just happened?" I mutter, confused.

"Told you there was nothing to worry about." Thea winks.

Hours pass and the sun goes down. The lights go out in the theatre, and the last staff member leaves, which allows us to finally move around freely.

Turning on our flashlights, we make our way out of the box and back to the ground floor.

For a supposedly haunted place, I expected to be more afraid. Instead, there's only an odd sense of anticipation that blooms within me with each step I take. If this ghost is real, then so is the one from the previous night—or so I tell myself.

The night air is cool and moist. Despite the continuous use of the theatre since its inauguration, there's still an old, musky smell clinging to the walls. While the main auditorium has been entirely restored, the rest of the theatre not so much. The vintage wallpaper in the hallways is one peel away from falling down, the various decorations adorning the walls and the ceiling chipped and discolored. Once upon a time, this would have been a vibrant, ostentatious place. It's still ostentatious, but in a way that speaks of decadence and decay—perhaps fitting considering its history.

"We should check backstage," Thea suggests. "The article mentioned the sighting of the ghost was on the stage. Maybe we can sense something there."

While Thea and Cer go down the stairs that lead backstage, I remain rooted on the spot in the middle of the stage.

My mouth parts in awe at the grandiose view of the auditorium from the center of the stage. I imagine that every seat is filled, their eyes on me as they follow my every move. There's a sense of exhilaration—of fear laced with excitement.

Is this how stars feel when they perform?

Is this how Olive Thomas felt?

"Luce?" Thea's voice rings out and I shake myself from my reverie.

"Coming," I call out, turning to leave.

I back away slowly, somehow unable to tear my gaze away from the sprawling empty seats.

The wooden floor creaks as I place my weight on the heels of my feet. The sound vibrates in the silence of the auditorium, and I wait for fear to seep into my bones. I wait for many things—a sudden drop in the temperature of the air, the foul smell of sulfur, the flickering of lights and all the Hollywood signs that point to a ghost infestation. Most of all, I stare intently at a spot in the back of the auditorium, almost as if willing the ghost to show itself. Alas, I may have watched one too many movies.

My lips quirk up and I shake my head at my own foolishness. I pivot, rotating on the ball of my right foot.

A gust of wind hits my face, but I welcome the breeze. It's only when I blink, my eyes fluttering open, that I come face to face with a red, mottled mass of skin. There are no eyes, just scar tissue that had never mended properly. A mouth with rotten teeth slowly opens, the movements of the jaw emitting a low, clanking sound, almost as if it's popping out of place.

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