Page 3 of Welcome to Gothic
“Open the trunks and take whatever strikes your fancy. We’ll square it with you later.” Mabel pulled a big, old-fashioned iron key from her leather belt bag, unlocked the door and opened it with a creak that would have done the Addams family proud. “Lock the door behind you. Tourists try to sneak in everywhere.” She handed Wendy the heavy key and gave her a push.
Wendy stumbled inside.
With a resounding thunk, Mabel shut the door, and for a moment, it reminded Wendy of a prison door closing... forever.
She looked up the dim, narrow stairs into a swirl of dust lit by some unseen window or skylight.
Or had the fog crept backstage in the theater?
Chapter Two
The air here at the bottom of the stairs seemed dense; it was hard for Wendy to catch her breath. The sensation of being trapped, shut in a dark closet, quickly grew. She needed to out of here before something jumped out and shrieked, “Boo!”
Wendy fit the heavy key in the lock, turned it and locked herself in. Rather than bounding up the stairs in her usual style, she moved cautiously. Which, she assured herself, wasn’t because it felt as if she would confront some unhappy theater ghosts, but because of Mabel’s warnings about trapdoors and curtains and props.
When she got to the top, the vista opened up to show her a backstage littered with boxes and trunks. It looked as if everything had been abandoned in a panic. Feather boas, wide women’s hats and draped netting hung on hooks. She collected those, and the tear-away gathered skirt and bustier that made up some medieval costume. She forgot her trepidation; this seemed like a treasure hunt, and as she gathered each item it tickled her imagination.
She threaded her way through the dusty velvet curtains to the stage where, yes, theater ghosts lingered. She faced the plywood wall that separated the stage from the shop, where the audience should be. Surely the voices of the tourists in the clothing shop should carry this far... but back here, it was so quiet she could hear only the floor creak when she took a step. Wendy had lived in Gothic for six years, but never had she had a moment when she thought the local legend was true... until now.
The currents were strong, indeed.
Giving in to impulse, she caught up the cape draped across a trunk, flung it around her shoulders, faced the plywood and took a low bow. She faced stage left, and took another bow, stage right, and another. She could almost hear the roar of applause, which made her laugh at herself. Removing the cape, she wrinkled her nose at the musty smell and placed it in her bag. She’d have to hang it out and beat the dust off it before the game, but the kids would love it, and she loved those kids. She wanted them to enjoy a carefree childhood, to laugh, to know no one could hurt them and that they were loved.
The single onstage steamer trunk called her name, figuratively, she assured herself, so she started there. It had been well-packed; the leather straps had been pulled through the buckles, tightly fastening the domed lid. She worked the leather free, flipped the metal clasps, and with an inhale of anticipation, she opened the lid.
Wendy expected a flutter of moths or a funky smell, but instead it smelled like... the theater, a smell she knew well from her high school years: greasepaint and that indefinable sense of excitement. She’d never been an actor, never wanted to be, but to be involved in make-believe had made her a part of something bigger than herself, something that gave people pleasure. She’d been a stage manager, a stuntwoman, and yes, a costume designer, and now she reached into the contents and pulled out a long, blond wig. “Wow,” she whispered. Wendy shook it and no vermin fell out, so she placed it on her head and reached for the next piece, a skimpy leather skirt. She knotted it around her waist, took the companion piece, a leather halter, and tied it around her chest. She went to stand in front of the mirror; her dusty rose jumpsuit molded her shape and with the blond wig and the costume, she looked like some Hollywood producer’s concept of Tarzan’s Jane.
Cool.
Wendy still needed to gather props. She could get everything she needed out of that one trunk, so she headed back and leaned in. She didn’t take off the costume—she figured Mabel and Minnie would get a laugh out of that...
From behind her, Wendy heard a whistling noise. Before she could turn, something heavy and hard struck her on the back of the head. The light changed. Stars swirled in a vortex.
She collapsed into the trunk and realized—oh, God, the trunk had been placed on top of a trapdoor. She fell. And fell. And never hit bottom.
Chapter Three
Wendy opened her eyes, shook her head to clear it, and, hearing voices, hastily stood up. Thinking it was Minnie or Mabel, she started to call,Here I am!
A man grabbed her by the arm. “Quiet backstage. The play is live!” He spoke softly and vehemently.
She faced him, wide-eyed and confused.Where had he come from?She looked around.
More importantly—where am I?
The man checked out her blond wig, then surveyed her leotard, her running shoes and her silly leather skirt and halter top. “You’re the stuntwoman who agreed to step in in our hour of need, right? Thank you for that. I’m Percy, the stage manager.”
Percy wore a suit. With shoulder pads. And pinstripes. And a crisp white shirt with a tie that had been loosened to allow him to open the top button. Wendy had never in her life seen a stage manager dressed in anything but torn jeans and a T-shirt.
“I’m Wendy Giordano.” Her voice sounded scratchy to her own ears.
“Good to meetcha.” Percy kept his voice low and his delivery staccato.
“Where am I? I mean, what’s the name of this place?”
“The Gothic Palace. How many other theaters do you think there are out here in the back of beyond?” He surveyed her as if worried. “You okay?”
“I hit my head.” She rubbed the lump on her skull.
