STARSHIP TROUPERS IV: THE UNKNOWN GUEST
Chapter Two: The Trouper's Tales

by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright 2011

 

"Wonderful scream!"  Horace nodded with enthusiasm.  "I could swear the girl was truly frightened."

"I am!" Lacey shrieked.  "Someone get this thing off me!"

"Merlo!  Stop it!" Marnie cried on the edge of panic.

"How?" he bleated.

I opened the door for a better look, just in time to hear the ghost moan.  "This house is mine.  Intruders away!"

"Barry, do something!" Marnie cried.

But it was Charlie who stepped out of the wings and said, with grave politeness, "I beg your pardon, young woman, but we are booked into this theater for the next week.  We will bring hundreds of people to watch us.  Surely you do not wish to be left alone in so great a structure."

"Alo-o-o-o-ne!"  The ghost wafted toward Charlie, and I could see the details as it passed—a young woman indeed, who might have been good-looking if she hadn't been so gaunt and her long hair so thoroughly snarled.  Bony hands waved at our stage manager.  "Leave me alone!"

"Who does she think she is—Garbo?"

I whirled; Suzanne had just come through the door, but not her usual cheery self.  In fact, she looked downright grim as she pointed at the ghost and intoned,

 

"All that glisters is not gold—

 Often have you heard this told.

There be fools alive, I wis,

Silvered o'er, and so was this.

Take what spouse you will to bed,

A fool shall ever be your head.

So begone—you are sped."

 

The ghost turned to her, its moan sliding up the scale to a shriek as it thinned, then winked out as though being sucked through an invisible hole.

Everyone was silent, staring for a minute.

Then Barry cleared his throat and said, "Yes."  And, "I think we might take a short recess."  He turned to Suzanne.  "Very quick thinking, Ms. Souci.  How did you realize Shakespeare's verse would banish her?"

Suzanne shrugged.  "She's in a theater and wanted the stage to herself.  What else could she be but an actress?"

"Yes, I see your point."  Marnie scowled, relieved but incensed at being upstaged.  "Why Shakespeare, though?"

"Because all actors revere the Bard, even those who show it by trying to belittle him," Suzanne explained, "and what you revere has power within you."  She turned to Barry, frowning.  "Why didn't you tell us Merlo was right—that this theater was haunted?"

"Why, because I hadn't been told that in so many words," Barry answered.

"'In so many words?'"  Suzanne's eyes glittered.  "But you suspected it?"

Horace stepped in.  "What theater isn't haunted, Ms. Souci?"

The glitter faded from Suzanne's eyes as she turned thoughtful.

I looked from one to the other.  "Am I missing something?  What's this about theaters being haunted?"

"I think we might want to discuss that in soft chairs, in the greenroom," Barry said.  "You did put the coffee on, didn't you, Ramou?"

I had.  We more or less collapsed in armchairs in varying degrees of after-crisis shakiness, inhaling coffee fumes and trying to calm down.  I looked around, realized Merlo wasn't there, and wondered how he had the nerve to stay in that theater alone.

Horace sat down beside me.  "You do remember my telling you that actors are a superstitious lot, Ramou."

"Yeah, sure."  I frowned.  "You don't mean we bring out ghosts just by believing in them?"

"If we do, someone as credulous as you should bring out dozens," Larry said.

I gave him a quick glance.  "A ghost is like anything else frightening, Larry.  There’s no shame in being scared of it, as long as you don’t let it keep you from doing what you have to do—so don't work so hard at being skeptical."  I turned back to Horace before Larry could think up a retort.  "Maybe we bring out ghosts that are hiding, but that means they’re already there."

Across the room, Winston nodded, cup at his chin.  "I've never known a theater that wasn't haunted.  Even the community theater in my home town had a ghost.  Had a right to, of course—it was centuries old, built for vaudeville and the touring companies of Broadway plays."

Suzanne turned to him, eyes wide.  "What did the ghost look like?"

"No one ever saw anything of him but his shadow."  Winston gazed off into space, remembering.  "I did myself, once—stepped out onto the fire escape for a breath of fresh air one night and noticed that the light from the theater cast my shadow on the wall of the building next door.  Then I realized that it wasn't my shadow, but the profile of an older man with a beard and pipe.  I turned to look beside me, and of course there was no one there.  When I turned back, it was only my own shadow again."

"A trick of the light," Marnie objected, "coupled with a very active imagination."

Winston gave the devil-may-care smile that had won him so many parts.  "If you say so."

"Was that all it did?" Lacey asked.  "Just showed up as a shadow now and then?"

"No, it used to move things."  "You'd go to set your props and find they had disappeared from the prop table, or the toilets would flush when everyone was onstage for notes."

"Someone moved your props and forgot," Marnie suggested, "or the prop master neglected to bring them back to the table—and someone from the front office came down to use the bathroom off the greenroom."

Winston shrugged.  "There are always explanations, of course."  He did not look convinced.  "Do you mean to say you never worked in a haunted theater, Marnie?"

"Oh, I didn't say that!"  She gazed off into space herself now, musing.  "There was a stagehand who appeared now and then, watching from the gallery."

"Nothing odd about that," Marty said, frowning.

"This was before tech rehearsals started," she said sourly.

Marty shrugged.  "Maybe he wanted an early look."

"A union stagehand, showing up before he's on payroll?" Horace asked, scandalized.

"No, of course not."  Marty shook his head.  "What's wrong with me?"

"You don't want an answer to that question," Marnie said tartly.

"Wasn't there a doorman, though?" Lacey asked.  "Or the resident stagehand who had to be there for every rehearsal?"

"Yes," Marnie said, "but he didn't wear nineteenth-century clothing."

"Oh."  Lacey pursed her lips.  "But that's all he did?  Just watched?"

"Well, no," Marnie said.  "There was a problem with the clothing in the women's dressing rooms.  Intimate items of apparel would be strewn about, on the backs of chairs or heaped on the counter."

"That doesn't sound terribly different from women's dressing rooms everywhere," Winston objected.

"Authority on women's dressing rooms, are you?" Marnie said archly.

Winston gave her a knowing smile.  "I've seen my share of them."

She gave him her best look of disdain.  "We were professionals, Mr. Carleton.  We knew how to hang up our costumes at the end of the night."

Personally, I thought it was all their own superstitions.  If you want to believe in ghosts badly enough, you'll see them where they aren't—imagine your own shadow has changed form, or blame human carelessness on a convenient specter.  I didn't let anybody know, of course.  I hid my smile as we ran the rest of the show, this time without incident.

Then it was home to the Cotton Blossom for dinner and more ghost stories.  The spooky tales went on in the lounge for an hour or so after dinner, before fatigue took its toll and we headed for our cabins.

"Are you sure it was a male ghost?" Ogden asked.

"I can't think why a nineteenth-century man would have wanted to wear women’s clothes," Marnie said with a sniff.

"Maybe he was a cross-dresser," Marty offered.

"Or wanted to be," Suzanne added.

"In the Victorian age?" Marnie demanded.

"Well, there was George Sands," Lacey offered.

"Yes, but she didn't pose as a stagehand!  No, I think our ghost was simply trying for a cheap thrill by handling our lingerie."

"I take it this was a different theater from the one that had the Lighting Ghost," Horace said.

"Playing with lingerie sounds more like the work of a living stagehand," Barry said with a smile.

"Skeptics!" Marnie said with a theatrical sigh.  "Why should I waste my anecdotes upon you?"

"Especially when we haven't even taken the poison," Marty said.

"I said anecdotes, not antidotes!"

"A good anecdote is often a good antidote for sadness," Horace said piously.  "Perhaps if we had found the right one for the Ghost in the Attic, he wouldn't have been quite so antisocial."

I don't believe I've heard this one."  Marnie turned to Horace with a rare smile.

"Most of the time, he only made a deal of noise," Horace explained.  "That did interrupt rehearsals until we became accustomed to it.  But going into his attic was another matter—especially after dark."

"Do tell," I said, grinning.

"I shall," he answered.  "Our prop master, Mike—big man he was, six and a half feet and very muscular—went up there one night to find a 1930s soda siphon for a Noel Coward piece.  There was only the one lamp in the ceiling, so there were a great number of shadows—chairs and swords and spears hanging up on hooks in the rafters, wing chairs and sofas, and even an ancient telephone booth—and it was quite lonely."

"Sounds kinda cozy," Marty offered.

I glanced sideways at him, wondering if there were aspects of his personality I didn't know about.

"There was a rumor that one of the actors had lived up there for a month when he, ah, could no longer afford his apartment," Horace admitted, "so when Mike heard the rustling in the corner, he turned and called, 'Sam is that you?'"

"It was a rat?" I guessed.

"It was nothing," Horace said, "or so it seemed, for it stopped at once, and when Mike went over and looked between the umbrella stand and the bookcase, he found no sign of anything living."

"Imagination," Marnie said.  "Even prop men have it."

"Perhaps, but he was just turning away from the corner when a chair came crashing down and missed him by inches."

"He must have brushed against it," Larry said.  "You said he was very tall."

"Besides, you said it had rafters," Marnie seconded.  "It must have been a rather old building."

"Built around 1900, I would guess."

"Then it could merely have been settling."  But she didn't look convinced.

"Mike told himself something of the sort, but was rather relieved when he heard someone coming up the stairs.  Since it was a rather slow and heavy tread, he called out, ‘Ogden?'"

Ogden frowned.  "I'll have you know I was light on my feet in those days."

"Yes, he was only fifty-three," Barry agreed.

"Besides," Ogden added, "I never went up into that attic at night."

"So Mike found, when he went to the stairwell and found no one there—but the footsteps kept coming up anyway."

Suzanne caught her breath, then said, "That would have finished me right there."

"Yes, but Mike knew he had a very active imagination and no soda siphon," Horace said, "so he turned his back on the stairwell and went searching on the shelves."

"Not so smart."  In spite of myself, I felt dread pooling in my vitals.

"He learned that when a spear fell from the rafters just as he turned.  If he hadn't, it would have split his arm open."

The room was silent for a minute, then Marnie offered, "The building was still settling."

"Mike didn't stay to discover the reason," Horace told her.  "He went down that staircase far more quickly than the ghost had gone up—and I assure you, he was a very brave man."

"What about the soda siphon?" I asked.

"He came back for it at noon the next day," Horace said.  "The attic did have rather large windows, so there was plenty of light then."

"And he took company?"

Horace nodded.

I didn't need to be told who had gone along.

"Really, though, Horace," Ogden said.  "If you're going to tell them about the Ghost in the Attic, you also should tell them about his last hour."

"Last hour?"  I looked from one to the other.  "Ghosts can die?"

"No, but they can be dispossessed."  Horace turned to Barry.  "I was thinking you might want to tell that one, old fellow.  After all, you were the one who was working late in the box office, after the performance."

I could fairly feel my eyes bulge, and I wasn't the only one who sat forward in his seat.  Ghost stories are one thing, but hearing them from a person who was actually there was another matter entirely.

"You were in the box office?"  I tried not to seem too eager.  "I thought you were an actor."

"An apprentice, actually," Barry said, "my last summer in college.  Horace was two years ahead of me and already employed as an actor, and Ogden was a charter member of the company."

"Not that the classification was so much of an honor," Ogden said, "since it was a summer company which had begun to edge into the autumn."

Barry nodded.  "It was a non-union company, of course only in its second year of trying a year-round season.  Everyone does a bit of everything, in summer stock—especially the apprentices.  The producer was a college professor who had begun the company as a training ground for his graduates twelve years before, and had been longing and planning to make it a year-round operation after he retired.

"Which he had done two years previously."  Ogden gazed off into space, looking nostalgic and rather sad.

Barry noticed.  "I'm sorry, old fellow.  I should have realized you might not wish the story brought up."

"Nonsense!" Ogden huffed.  "My idea, wasn't it?  William should have his tribute, after all, and what better one is there than to become a legend of the theater?  Even his feud with the coffee machine will assume mythic proportions now."

"Feud?" I asked.  "With a coffee machine?"

"The one in the greenroom—a very recalcitrant piece of hardware," Ogden informed him.  "You swiped your card through its reader, and it might give you a cup of coffee—or again, it might not."

"But it would always charge your account for it," Horace noted.

"William became quite weary of writing letters to his bank telling them not to honor transactions," Ogden explained.  "He began to take it out on the machine itself, castigating it in the most abusive language and on occasion, even kicking it."

"Don't tell me it kicked back," I said.

"No, but its shins were harder than his," Ogden said.  "He also used to push it, trying to rock it, perhaps thinking that would open the spigot and pour the coffee."

I had to smile.  "Not the way it works."

"Well, we know that," Horace said.  "Even William did, I'm sure..."

"But one forgets such niceties in the heat of the moment," Barry explained.  He gazed off into space with a small smile.  "Still, it was a wonderful October, the trees at their peak of multi-colored loveliness, the air crisp and invigorating when we could find a few minutes to go out into it—and an absolutely stellar bill."

Ogden smiled with reminiscence.  "As You Like It for the Shakespeare, and I made a rather odd Jaques—and Blithe Spirit for the comedy, and..."

"Man of La Mancha for the musical."  Barry nodded.  "Yes, a most magnificent bill—and the third night of Man of La Mancha, the whole production came together in one of those magical performances where everything seemed effortless and every actor could actually believe he was the character whenever he was onstage..."

"The music soared," Horace said.  "The singing wrenched your heart, though you knew the sentimentality of it."

"And William absolutely glowed," Ogden said, but with an undertone of sadness.  "His life's dream come true, his year-round company an unquestionable success, and a perfect night with a magical performance.  He knew he shouldn't drink, of course, but one really must celebrate on such a night."

I felt the ominous note.  "What happened?"

Ogden turned to Barry.  "Really, it is your story.  You were the only one in the theater."

Barry nodded.  "I was checking the tickets for the next day's performance, and was nearly done... it was midnight, I remember glancing at the clock just before I heard the crash..."

"The crash?" Marty asked, with dread.

"From the greenroom," Barry explained.  "I ran to look, and found the coffee machine flat on its face in a spreading pool of cappuccino.  It was humming in great distress, still being plugged in."

"Don't tell me you tried to pick it up by yourself!"  I knew how heavy those vending machines were.

"Indeed not, but I did unplug it—to put it out of its misery, as it were—and went back to the box office to leave a note for the office manager to call the repair company the next day.  Then I finished sorting tickets, pulled on my sweater, and was about to depart when I heard the screaming."

"Screaming?" Suzanne asked, huge-eyed.

"Hoarse male bellowing," Barry explained, "coming from the stairs to the attic.  If I hadn't known better, I would have thought it to be war-cries."

"From both sides," Ogden said, "and you didn't know better."

"I'm afraid not," Barry said, rather sheepishly.  "They were both very angry, I can tell you that."

"Don't tell me you went to investigate!" Marnie said.

"I wasn't quite that foolish," Barry said.  "I went to the computer instead, to notify the police—but the call chime sounded just as I reached it, so of course I touched the 'receive' button instead."  He paused, looking both contemplative and doom-filled.

I couldn't take it any longer.  "Who was it?"

"It was I," Ogden said heavily.  "I'd been at the hospital with William for an hour.  He'd collapsed as he'd come out of the cocktail lounge.  He never regained consciousness.  His wife was distraught, of course, so I carried him to the car and Alfred drove us to the hospital—quicker than waiting for an ambulance..."

"Much quicker," Horace agreed.  "Alfred told me William was still alive when they reached the emergency room."

Ogden nodded.  "But not long after.  Adrenaline, electric shock, massage—none of it worked for more than a few minutes.  No, his time had come, and may we all be blessed to see our dreams come true before we die."  His face darkened, reflecting on his own dreams and what had become of them.

I nudged him out of it.  "What did you tell Barry?"

"Hmm?"  Ogden looked up.  "Why, that William had died, of course.  I couldn't expect his wife to do it, poor thing, and Alfred was far better at offering comfort than I, so I called the members of the company and gave them the bad news, starting with the theater.  I really hadn't expected anyone to be there at midnight, but it was a bit of a relief, really."

"Though he did tell me to go home," Barry said, "which I did."

"But what about the yelling in the attic?" Lacey asked, puzzled.

"Oh, we're sure it was William having it out with the resident ghost," Barry said.

Ogden nodded.  "He'd poured himself into that theater, you see.  It had been his life."

"So he refused to leave it," Lacey said slowly.

"Sure," Marty said.  "Why let a little thing like death stop you from putting on a great production?"

Barry nodded.  "We're sure that, when he found he had transcended the material world, he came right back to have his revenge on the coffee machine."

"Sure," I said slowly.  "It couldn't fall on him then, could it?"

"And wouldn't hurt him if it did," Barry agreed.

"Then he went upstairs to evict the resident ghost."

"So the building's still haunted," Prudence said, eyes huge.

"Yes," Barry said, "but now its ghost is one who understands the importance of finding a soda siphon."  He looked at his watch.  "And speaking of soda..."

"With a bit of scotch in it," Ogden said, smile returning.  "Yes, the sun must be over the yardarm somewhere on this planet.  Cocktail hour, eh, Barry?"

Where Ogden was involved, drinks could always change the subject, and by the time we all had glasses in our hands (Suzanne had found a way to make a non-alcoholic old fashioned, and I had programmed the drinks computer accordingly), the topic had shifted to plays about ghosts, then plays about other supernatural creatures, and before I knew it, we were discussing Immortal Love.  In only a few minutes, we had analyzed this bedroom farce into five levels of depth—and were astonished to discover the clock said midnight.  Even us young folk had to set our alarms and roll into bed; twelve-hour rehearsals will do that to you.

 

Twelve hours turned out to be standard; the next day, Barry managed to block the whole play.  When he was done, we were all ready for a drink in the lounge.  I went to the light switches and watched the cast, ready to kill the last glow-globe.

"Leave the center lamp lit, Ramou," Horace told me.

"You sure?  It’s a waste of electricity."

"Worth it five times over.  Be a good fellow and join us in the greenroom."

"I won’t say no to a drink."  I left the panel and joined him.

I sat down with my Cuba Libra (good drink if you don’t want anyone to know it’s mostly cola—when you’re into martial arts, you tend toward keeping a clear head).  "Why leave one light on, Horace?  Liability insurance?  Worried about accidents?"

"Well, of course," Horace said.  "That's why we always leave one work light burning at center stage."

Ogden nodded.  "We call it the 'ghost light,' Ramou—so that the ghosts of old actors will know they are always welcome to return to the scene of their triumphs."

These people were mighty understanding about performers who didn't know when to quit.  "I thought it was a safety measure."

"Oh, it is," Barry said.  "Stages are very dangerous places, after all—scenery hanging from the flies, spotlights suspended by single clamps..."

"...and who knows what junk left around by the stagehands because the clock chimed five o'clock," Larry said, with a snide smile for me.

"Forgotten push drills have been known to turn under the feet of the unwary."  Barry nodded, all seriousness.  "People have been known to trip over low platforms—especially if they can't see them."

"So you're saying that the safety measures and the ghosts go together," I said slowly.

"Or that the lack of safety measures can result in ghosts, yes," Barry agreed.  He turned to Ogden.  "Happened at a theater you played when you were a juvenile, didn't it?"

"Well, a young villain."  Ogden smiled.  "I was always too large for juveniles or leading men—but yes, there was a theater in Ohio that had begun its career with a tragedy."

"What kind of tragedy?"  Lacey tried to look skeptical.

"One that happened because the stage manager forgot to leave the ghost light burning," Ogden explained.

 

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