ALL THE WORLDS A STAGE ACT THREE

The descent from the balcony level was ordered, measured, some of the investigators subconsciously skipping the step that had, only moments ago, entangled Ernest. The old warhorse seemed to have recovered from the unearthly assault, his somber mask once more in place. The group seemed more determined at this point, each of them drawing that reserve of resolve from deep down. Calm had returned, or at least it appeared to have, bolstered by Bertrand holstering his revolver. The stairs creaked more as the weight of the group lumbered downward, toward the auditorium.

Once they reached the lobby, the group moved towards the auditorium, Bertrand turned to check over his shoulder, “so I think that our best course of action would be to turn the manager's office upside…” seeing at once the looks of fear on the faces of his fellows. All staring past him, dumbfounded. Bertrand turned his gaze forward and saw it. There, on the stage, furniture. A couch, a loveseat, a padded chair, a rocking chair, several tables. Furniture that was not there scant moments ago! Bertrand's hand shook, the beal of his flashlight dancing across the stage. For once even Archibold was dumbstruck.

“What is going on?” a murmured question came from several of the investigators. TJ silently crossed himself as the thought of flight entered the minds of others, so easy, so quick, the doors to the outside were less than 10 feet behind them. 

Once more assuming the role of leader, Betrand was the first to speak. 

“It's clear that someone or something is playing games, almost like events are playing out for our benefit. Let's keep going, I want to get to the manager's office, we can do window shopping later”. He started moving towards the stage, down the left aisle, towards the trapdoor side. The group filed past the stage, remarking that there appeared to be no drag marks, passing by the orchestra pit and heading for the far corridor adjacent to the stage.

Coralee, occupying space in her own mind, started to pick up sensations, familiar sensations. She began to recall the occurring dream she had on the train ride from Richmond, the one she had partially shared with the group.

“I am sitting in a rocking chair. The motion is gentle. Automatic. I don't remember starting the motion.

A book rests in my hands, I know I have been reading it for a long time, but I cannot recall what its about. I licked my finger and turned another page. 

A lamp glows nearby, warm, steady, safe.

Something soft and warm lies in my lap. A cat. I stroked it without thinking, my hand moving in time with the rocking chair. The cat is purring as I turn another page.

Everything feels manageable. The cat meows, not urgently, just enough to be noticed. I murmured, without looking away from the book. 

“Soon”.

I don't know what that meant, it feels like something I have said many time before. 

The chair keeps rocking. I turn yet another page. I don't remember the last time I stood up. I don't remember how I got here.

I don't remember whose house this is, and something stranger. I don't feel the need to remember.

The cat shifts, tail flicking. It meows again. Louder. I look up from the book.

There are no doors, no windows. Just a heavy curtain hanging where a wall should be. I feel irritation, not fear.

The cat is being impatient. I stroke it again, firmer this time. 

“I said no!”

The words came out automatically. Practiced. I have said this before. I have not been resting; I have been reading.

The cat is hungry, and hunger must be fed. I start tearing pages from the book, feeding them to the cat, who eats them with gusto. I wake in mid motion…”

As the medium gathers her thoughts, the group has moved towards the manager's office, alert to anything at this point, but moving much like automatons. Ernest and a few others stand guard in the hall while Bertrand enters the office first, followed by TJ and Coralee, they begin to thoroughly toss the room. Drawing upon his abilities as a mental medium, TJ focuses upon the room, thinking of its potential secrets, trying to focus his mind and the minds of those nearby, to find what they feel is hidden in this room. His Latin prayer is mostly undetected. After nearly twenty minutes of searching, nothing productive is found. The part looks from this room to the door across the hall, the one that leads backstage. 

The open the door, Bertrand’s flashlight a beacon in the darkened confines of the backstage area. As he begins to illuminate the dark corners, the group silently splits up. Caleb, Jonathan, Archibald, Coralee, all move to the stage, parting the curtain as they pass through it. TJ & Bertrand remain behind, starting to search the back wall, the one that their news clipping had reported as being ‘hot”, while the rest moved to the furniture on the stage.

It was here that Coralee was once more overcome, the rocking chair. It was the damn rocking chair from her vision! While the rest of the group moved to the trapdoor, she approached the rocking chair, out of fear, out of respect, she moved towards it as if expecting it to jump at her as she approached. When it did not, she made the choice. She sat down on it, hands on the armrests, she began to rock back and forth. The chair seemed so familiar, she almost started looking for a cat! When her actions were seen by the folks on the stage, they paused and looked questioningly at her. They knew she was a spiritual medium but did not know for sure what that meant as she explained her feelings, her emotions, the effect the dream had on her and what it could possibly mean. 

While she continued to rock back and forth, Jonathan opened the trapdoor to the stage, his beam of light revealing a dirt floor in a claustrophobic crawlspace below, weathered odeon pillars supporting the stage, a short ladder leading down several feet. He was forced to squat once he had climbed down, his thin beam of light swallowed by the darkness below the stage. The rhythmic rocking of Coralee echoed above him as he scanned the underside, noting old and new chalk marks on the various supports, one mark here, bunches here, no apparent rhyme or reason for them.

Bertrand & TJ joined the group, having found the backstage both dark & cold, not lighted nor warm to the touch. TJ volunteered to join Jonathan, his smaller form able to move rapidly around the cramped space, coming back with nothing but dirt-stained hands and a disgusted look. 

Archibald had remained allusive, his usually talkative demeanor railed by the events that had been happening. He took note of Coralee rocking in the chair and decided that these events were not going to faze him. Calipers in hand he began taking notes of her actions. Studies of mood, intention, physical conditions, hidden tensions. Rhythm, tempo, arc of motions, these were all empirical things he could anchor himself to. His hand was a blur as he made notations in his ever-present notebook. Consistency vs irregularity, body posture, sound distinctions, narrative symbolism. Yes, his world started to make sense once more.

Once more the investigators were together on stage, their world now a puzzle they were determined to solve, clues were found but likely more were to be found and standing here on stage was not going to get those answers! The decision was made to check the final door near the stage managers office and see where that might lead them. Clearly, the investigators were piecing things together in their own minds but ready to share their observations with the group. As one, they filed down the backstairs once more to the hallway where that unopened door beckoned…

 (1) OLD GREY BEARDS CAMPAIGNS - MINIATURE WARGAMING

 ALL THE WORLDS A STAGE ACT TWO:

…the front doors of the Apollo Civic Theater closed with the tired creak of wood that had not been properly tended in years. Dust hung in the air like a faint fog, stirred by the investigators’ entry into the once-proud lobby. The feeling of dread some felt did not diminish. The lobby was a tiled affair, likely there was carpet once here but it had suffered damage from the flooding and was temporarily removed. Restrooms stood to the left, ticket booth and concession stand to the left, a short flight of stairs leading to a short landing, beyond which sat the auditorium, with a pair of small stairs flanking the auditorium entrance that likely led to the upper floors and balcony.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then the sound came.

A low, unsettled rumbling echoed from the hallway leading toward the restrooms. The noise was subtle at first—something between shifting pipes and distant thunder—but in the stillness of the theater it carried clearly enough to draw attention.

Bertrand, Coralee, and Ernest moved to investigate.

The women’s restroom door groaned softly as it opened. Their flashlights cut narrow beams through the dim interior. The room appeared ordinary enough: porcelain sinks beneath a long mirror clouded by age, a vanity cabinet, and several narrow stalls equipped with old-style chain-flush toilets.

That was when they heard it. A woman’s voice. Soft. Weak. Almost breathless.

From behind one of the stalls came a whisper that seemed to tremble through the tiled room.

“LET ME OUT…”

The investigators moved quickly. Flashlights swept beneath the stall doors and over the tiled floor. One stall after another was opened. Each was empty. No woman. No movement. Nothing except cold porcelain fixtures and the faint metallic sway of the toilet chains. The whisper did not return.

After several minutes of searching every corner of the restroom—checking mirrors, plumbing, and the spaces behind the stalls—the investigators found no explanation for what they had heard. A quick search of the men's bathroom revealed even less. Only silence remained.

Meanwhile, back in the lobby, Joseph examined the ticket booth, encased on two sides with metal mesh, the back wall a third barrier and the front of the marquee completing the enclosure. What sounded like rodents drew his attention.

Using the set of keys they had recovered earlier, he unlocked the small compartment and stepped inside. The cramped space still smelled faintly of old paper and varnish. A narrow counter sat beneath the ticket window where eager patrons had once purchased admission. Rolls of unused tickets lay on shelves, till open and entry, the ticket logbook not here.

Joseph searched carefully.

Behind one of the drawers, he discovered a folded slip of yellowed paper long forgotten within the frame of the cabinet. When unfolded, it was clear the fragment had been torn from a larger intake ledger used to record nightly receipts.

The page listed entries spanning several months:

March 2, 1935 — July 1, 1935

At first the information appeared routine—ticket totals, usher headcounts, and recorded receipts. But a closer examination revealed troubling inconsistencies.

On nearly every date listed, the numbers did not match.

Ticket sales differed from usher counts.
Receipts did not correspond to the number of patrons supposedly present.

In the margins were handwritten notes written in at least two different hands.

One read:

“House felt full.”

Another:

“Applause excessive for crowd size.”

Further down the page the annotations grew shorter.

“Not enough.”

On another date:

“Accepted.”

The final entry, dated July 1st, 1935, recorded no ticket sales at all.

Next to the blank column a final note had been pressed deeply into the paper as if written with force.

“Still hungry.”

Only one entry appeared normal.

The receipts for May 18th, 1935 matched the usher count exactly.

The Not Enough entry was added here.

Joseph brought the fragment back to the others once they had finished searching the restroom. The group gathered beneath the dim lobby lights and discussed the strange ledger for several minutes.

Some suggested bookkeeping errors. Others pointed out the pattern was far too deliberate.

Most unsettling of all were the notes themselves. They did not read like financial observations.

They read like someone measuring satisfaction.

Eventually the investigators decided the answers they sought would not be found in the lobby. They gathered their equipment and moved toward the staircase leading into the theater proper.

As they climbed the short flight of steps something unexpected reached them.

A smell. Faint at first but unmistakable.

Burnt popcorn. Mixed with it was the sweet scent of heated sugar—the unmistakable aroma of a concession stands during a busy evening performance. The concession counter beside them stood empty. No machines were running. The vending machines silent guardians.

Yet the smell lingered as if a crowd had only just passed through.

Then something else happened.

Without warning, sheets of paper began drifting down from above.

At first it looked as if old programs had been disturbed by a draft.

But before the pages could reach the floor they collapsed in on themselves, crumpling violently as though invisible hands were crushing them in mid-air.

One after another the papers twisted into tight balls before falling to the ground.

By the time the investigators reached them, the brittle fragments were already disintegrating into dust. Several of the investigators went ashen with shock. No wind stirred the lobby. Nothing explained the phenomenon.

The papers were all the same, some sort of enteral memo, dated 02/12/1936, from acting manager L.R. Whitcomb. An internal memorandum that made no sense. Employees were never to practice alone, voices heard should be reported not answered, no one stays after midnight, all these and more, threat of termination if not followed. It made little sense after the mind assault of the crumbling paper, the group tried to shrug it off, file it away, deal with it in their own ways.

After a tense moment, they continued forward.

The doors separating the lobby from the main auditorium opened slowly.

Inside, the air felt colder.

The investigators split up almost immediately.

Coralee, Bertrand, and Joseph moved along the right aisle toward a rear door near the back of the theater. Others spread out through the seating and toward the stage.

The auditorium stretched wide before them, a cavern of empty chairs and shadowed balconies. High above, stone gargoyles crouched along the decorative molding of the walls. In the uncertain light their carved faces seemed almost attentive, their fixed expressions strangely watchful.

More than one investigator found their gaze drifting upward again and again.

On the stage, faint strips of old tape marks could still be seen across the floorboards.

Dominating one side of the stage stood the theater’s massive pipe organ, an instrument that still commanded admiration despite the theater’s decay. Pipes were mounted on both sides of the stage walls, too big to be contained in the orchestra bit, Mueller's brilliance & craftmanship on full display. Bertrand gave the massive instrument more than a passing glimpse, wondering at its voice when it sang.

Meanwhile Ernest lingered near the lobby entrance. Unsure of the building’s layout, he decided to test the electrical controls along the wall. With a firm motion he flipped the switches. The house lights flickered on, illuminating the theater in a dull but welcome glow. At the same moment the Ghost light on the stage clicked off. Curious, Ernest tested the switches again.

He shut the house lights off completely. The auditorium fell into darkness. But the ghost light did not return. He restored the house lights once more. The Ghost light refused to illuminate.

While the others searched the orchestra pit and stage, Bertrand tested a narrow door set parallel to the stage curtain. The door opened easily. Beyond it lay a dim hallway with three doors.

One was marked MANAGER.

Joseph handed Bertrand the keys. After sorting through them he found one marked the same and unlocked the door. Inside was a small office containing a desk, chair, and several shelves of awards and certificates honoring the theater’s past successes.

But something about them was wrong. Every single plaque and trophy had been turned to face the wall. As if someone—or something—no longer wished to look at them.

At the same time, investigators on the stage noticed something in the lobby. A shadowy figure stood behind Ernest. He seemed completely unaware of it. Those on the stage began gesturing frantically for him to turn around.

Before he could, The figure vanished. Not by walking away. Simply gone.

Moments later a sudden blast of hot wind tore through the cold auditorium. The gust quickly gained strength, growing to a powerful gale. Ernest was forced to one knee as the wind struck him, his bowler hat ripped from his head and sent tumbling across the theater before landing on the stage. Others grabbed seats and stage fixtures to stay upright.

The gale rushed through the hallway, scattering papers and knocking objects from shelves in the manager’s office. Coralee was struck squarely in the face by a yellowed sheet of paper which clung to her like a mask before she tore it away. Bertrand and Joseph struggled to remain standing. Then, just as suddenly as it began—

The wind stopped.

Only drifting dust and loose papers remained. Caleb retrieved Ernest’s hat from the stage and tossed it back to him like a discus, which Ernest caught easily and placed back on his head.

The theater fell silent again.

The paper Coralee had caught proved to be a journal page dated April 7, 1919. The unknown writer spoke of declining ticket sales and financial pressure. A letter had arrived asking when the Apollo would close its doors permanently. But the writer insisted the continuity of the theater must be maintained. Performances were not to be abandoned. One entry mentioned a performer named Edwin missing a cue—something the writer claimed had never happened before. The house, the writer noted, felt strained, as if holding itself together. The page ended there.

The investigators began speculating.

Perhaps someone had made a deal to keep the theater open. Material solutions were considered. Then darker possibilities. Infernal ones.

Joseph finally voiced what many were thinking. “Guys, is there really a ghost involved?”

He recalled from SAVE training that “ghosts are typically tied to an important place or object from their lives. Destroy the anchor. Destroy the ghost”.

But what that anchor might be within the Apollo remained unknown? If it even was a ghost and such an anchor even existed. 

Meanwhile Ernest had begun climbing the balcony stairs. He had been a lone operative during the war, nothing unusual for him here, he knew how to take care of himself.

Halfway up the second flight, the stair beneath him twisted. The wood warped and reshaped itself. A hand formed from the stair itself and seized his ankle. The grip was solid as living flesh.

Ernest shouted for help. Caleb, Jonnie, and Archibold rushed to him immediately. The stairs groaned under the weight of the footfalls even as Ernest began to strike at the horrific wooden abomination!

Bertrand drew his pistol moving ahead of Coralee, “follow me and stay close” back down the aisle and towards the stairs, shouting for Joseph to “move his ass” & follow.

Caleb reached Ernest first and began pounding the offending stair with his cane. After several blows the wooden hand released him and flattened back into a normal stair. Everyone stood catching their breath.

Most were unsure what shocked them more:

That the stairs had just grabbed Ernest. Or the sudden transformation in Bertrand’s demeanor when danger appeared. And the fact that he still had not holstered his pistol.

One thing had become apparent. Whatever might be haunting The Apollo was no longer hiding.

The game was at hand…

 

WhiteFlint Township, The Olde World, 2014

Grumsnot Snotbane lay half-buried beneath a wolf’s scorched, broken body, one eye swollen shut, the other catching the pale reflection of the winter sky over WhiteFlint’s battered walls. Smoke drifted from the battlefield, a bitter mix of burnt flesh, iron, and melting snow that ran in rivulets through frozen ruin. Ice and mud slicked the ground, while steam hissed where blood met frost. The winter battlefield was a patchwork of frozen chaos, slick and treacherous underfoot, ghostly tendrils of smoke curling over the shattered skeletons of goblin war machines.

His Redd Kapz—his pride, his finest archers—were gone. Bodies burned and broken, bows splintered, arrows snapped in half. A few fanatics still spun through the ruin, cackling madly, their ball-and-chains whipping through the air. They had gorged on madcap mushrooms before battle; delirium made them unstoppable. Two collided with a roar, chains tangling, smashing both to pulp. Another swung his chain recklessly; it bounced off a jagged beam of a twisted war machine and struck him full across the skull. There was a sickening crack, a spray of blood, and a brief, horrible instant before his head shattered, rolling into the ice like a grotesque ornament, yet his body twitched for a heartbeat, still laughing madly before finally collapsing. Sparks gleamed briefly off shattered metal and gears, while humans moved among the survivors, blades flashing, delivering cruel mercy to any greenskin still breathing.

Grumsnot shivered, the winter biting at his scorched, bleeding flesh. Yet he was wrapped in what remained of the Redd Kapz’ tattered banner, its shredded cloth clinging to him like a memory, keeping him warm against the frost and chaos. Steam curled from his ragged breaths, mixing with smoke and snow. The arrow that had pierced him had nearly killed him, but luck had saved him, as it always did. No wolf had remained loyal—only chance had thrown one over him at the right moment. He pulled himself upright, chest aching, eye blazing with reflected pale light.

Around him, the battlefield roared: screams, cackling, clattering metal, and the hiss of melting snow on scorched earth. Charred timbers, shattered wheels, and twisted gears jutted from the frozen ground like broken ribs, groaning as if the machines themselves mourned their defeat. The war engines were skeletal now, jagged and blackened, some half-buried in ice, others leaning like the spines of dead giants. Grief twisted with fury. Pride shattered. Yet in that cold, scorched reflection, vengeance ignited.

“Ye… ye’ll pay… every last one…” he rasped. Scorched, bleeding, alive, Grumsnot Snotbane rose from the aftermath of his Redd Kapz. Flames and pale winter light danced across broken siege engines and melting ice, reflecting in his single good eye. Among the ruins, he saw the human commanders moving like ants, oblivious to the madness still whirling around them.

He tightened his grip on the tattered Redd Kapz banner, pressing it to his chest, whispering hoarsely through cracked lips: “Yer blood… yer honor… yer fire… I’ll carry it all, and make ‘em pay…”

Then his legs gave out. With agonizing effort, he crawled through the frozen mud and melted snow, inch by inch, toward the river behind the undergrowth. Each movement tore fresh pain through his battered body, every breath a rasp of fire and frost. The pale winter light reflected in his one good eye as he reached the edge. Finally, he rolled into the frigid water, the current swallowing him. The tattered Redd Kapz banner twisted around his unmoving form, wrapping him like a grim death shroud, a final, ghostly cloak of his fallen warriors. Steam rose from the icy water, curling into the pale winter air, carrying the faint scent of smoke, blood, and frozen iron. The battlefield seemed to exhale with him, marking the passage of the warboss into darkness. Beneath the frozen waves, the warboss who had survived fire, frost, and the ruin of his Redd Kapz finally surrendered to unconsciousness—yet his fury and vengeance would not die with him...