ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE

Richmond, Virginia — Union Station, Autumn 1936

Coal smoke hangs low over the platforms, drifting in slow gray banners beneath the iron-and-glass canopy of Richmond Union Station. The hiss of steam, the clatter of baggage carts, and the murmur of travelers echo together, a mechanical heartbeat that never quite settles.

It is late afternoon. The light is already turning the color of tarnished brass.

One by one, they arrive.

Archibald Cornelius Leopold Kensington III stands slightly apart from the crowd, immaculate even in travel—coat brushed, gloves folded just so, oversized galoshes shined to a high sheen. He studies the station clock with faint irritation, as though daring it to be imprecise. A leather valise rests at his feet, heavy with instruments no porter has been allowed to touch. Somewhere nearby, a man coughs wetly; Kensington notes the sound with professional interest.

Jonathan (Jonnie) Connecticut leans against a column, hat tipped low, eyes moving constantly. He’s already clocked the exits, the baggage office, the police presence—and the man pretending not to watch the group forming near Track 3. A smile flickers as he considers the coming assignment, his research papers regarding the Apollo Civic Theater crammed into a satchel tucked under his left armpit.

A few paces away, Ernest Morgan stands rigid, shoulders squared, gaze fixed down the length of the platform. The scream of metal on metal as a train brakes hard makes several people flinch. Ernest does not, the shriek of a metal trains is nothing compared to the shriek of machine gun bullets from the trenches in France.  For a moment—just a moment—the smell of coal smoke is something else entirely, and his hand tightens into a fist before he consciously relaxes it.

Caleb Johnson arrives last from the street entrance, carrying himself with the weary steadiness of a man long accustomed to being needed. His eyes linger on the waiting faces, not with suspicion, but with recognition—recognition of grief worn differently by each person. When a young porter stumbles nearby, Caleb’s hand is there instantly, steadying him, a quiet word offered. The boy straightens, calmer than he was a second ago, though he can’t say why.

A woman’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Y’all here for the westbound?”

Cora Lee Mullins stands with her carpetbag at her feet, her hair pinned neatly, eyes far older than her years. The station feels loud to her, in ways sound alone can’t explain—emotions brushing past like static. Her gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the departure board. For half a second, the destination Martinsburg looks… blurred. Like it’s trying not to be read.

Bertrand Jackson arrives with a battered satchel, well maintained fedora and a careful, measured step, his posture betraying years at sea despite his landlocked surroundings. He pauses when he hears the telegraph key clicking from the station office—his head tilts, unconsciously counting the rhythm. Nearby, a piano sits unused in a first-class waiting room. He gives it a long look, as though greeting an old friend he won’t have time to visit.

And then there’s Joseph Thomas Peters, nineteen years old, coat a size too big, Flash Gordon comic strips folded and refolded in his pocket until the creases are white. He’s trying very hard to look worldly. His eyes flick from face to face, curiosity warring with nerves. His hands are tucked into worn pockets against the frigid temps.

The seven wear Indalo on their person, one way or another, announcing silently to one another that they are all part of the same play about to unfold. They gather near Track 3 as the conductor calls out boarding times.

“So,” Jonnie says lightly, exhaling frozen breath, “anyone want to tell me why we’re all being sent to a sleepy West Virginia theater instead of, I don’t know, someplace that deserves the trouble?”

Kensington sniffs. “The Apollo Civic Theater is hardly sleepy. Society papers call it the Miracle On Martins Street, ambiance of little compromise"

“People don’t use words like that unless they’re hiding something,” Ernest mutters.

Bertrand tilts his fedora forward, “It seems to me that we might be better off discussing these things in a more private setting, away from prying ears & eyes”

Joseph’s eyes widened. “You mean like spies? One of my comic heroes is a spy…”

Caleb glances toward the tracks. “Good point, maybe we should get onboard and into more quiet settings.”

Cora Lee’s voice is quiet when she speaks. “It ain’t the people that worry me ya'll. It’s the place. Eerie lights, strange sounds, what are we getting into”

A sudden clang echoes as a baggage cart overturns nearby. When you look, there’s nothing. Just startled travelers and a red-faced porter apologizing.

Joseph swallows. “Flash Gordon never had to deal with haunted theaters,” he says, trying for humor. It lands… shakily.

The conductor calls again. All aboard for Fredericksburg, Alexandria, Harpers Ferry, Martinsburg.

Steam billows, swallowing the platform in white.

As you step onto the train, each of you feels it in your own way. This isn’t just an investigation. 

The train rumbles out of Richmond, its wheels rattling against cold steel. October 1936 brings an early frost, the air sharp and carrying the faint smell of wet earth. Six months ago, the rivers of Harpers Ferry overflowed, leaving the valley scarred—but now the waters have mostly receded, leaving behind a landscape frozen between ruin and recovery.

Through the windows, the travelers see the aftermath: muddy fields littered with driftwood and broken fences, the skeletal remains of small trees bent or snapped by the flood, and faint outlines of houses whose foundations were washed away. Bridges stand twisted or partially collapsed, some now cordoned off, others teetering on the edge of safety.

The flood left more than broken land. Occasionally, the eye catches something out of place—a rocking chair on a front porch that should have been washed away, a curtain swaying in a house abandoned for months, or a lone scarecrow oddly intact, staring at the train as if aware.

Inside the train, the carriage is warm but quiet, almost unnervingly so. The other passengers are tense; some murmur about the “ghosts” that remain in Harpers Ferry, while others simply stare out the windows, unable to look away from the ruined landscape. Steam hisses from the engine, punctuating the rhythmic clack of the wheels.

The shadows in the carriage seem heavier here, clinging to corners and pooling around luggage racks. Reflections in the windows sometimes lag behind the passengers’ movements, or appear slightly warped, showing a fleeting image of someone who isn’t there. Occasionally, a low moan drifts from the empty spaces between cars, echoing like wind over hollowed foundations, or a splash in the distance that can’t be traced to any water.

Small talk between the investigators emerge, guarded secrets kept close to their chest but sharing pleasantries and their knowledge of SAVE, its methods and envoy attrition of late. While the banter turns friendly, no one notices Cara Lee has fallen asleep, a fitful affair at first, then a gentle rocking motion, as she were in a rocking chair, stroking an imaginary animal in her lap. The others stare at her with curiosity at first, then possible concern, before she awakens, as if from a deep sleep. When pressed if she is alright, she says she feels a little drained but that is nothing new, she often falls asleep during the day.

“When I sleep, I dream. And when I dream, its often a series of unrelated things. For instance I was dreaming I was in a room, reading a book and stroking a cat while rocking in my chair. It's nothing I can place a finger on but weird nonetheless”.

The others regard her statements but don't press her, out of respect, and besides, she had nothing more forthcoming.

As the train climbs out of the valley and approaches Martinsburg, the landscape gradually shifts back to normalcy. Streets are snow plowed but passable, houses intact, and trees stand tall. A little over an hour later the steel beast slows to a halt at the Martinsburg Roundhouse station under the pale, low October sun. Snow lies in tidy plowed piles along the streets, the dark cobblestones wet and glistening. The air is crisp, sharp, and tinged with frost, carrying the faint metallic scent of melting snow.

Six months ago, The Great Flood scarred this state. Now the valley is calm, yet the memory lingers, and travelers passing through feel a subtle unease—the sense that the land remembers disaster.

Outside the station, a pair of cabs await. Their engines purr quietly in the cold air, and the tires splash lightly over melting snow as the party climbs in. Inside, the seats are warmed by the residual heat of the engine, the faint scent of oil and leather mingling with coal smoke from the train. As the cabs take a turn off of Liberty Street, they travel to Martins street, at one point in the drive they pass by the 3 storied structure they have come to see, the Apollo. Several workmen can be seen erecting ladders, hanging lights and other preparations for the new construction of the marquee, each of the seven investigators keeping their thoughts to themselves.

The cabs roll to a stop in front of the Shenandoah Hotel, a stately brick building warmed by brass lamps. Snow piled on either side sparkles in the late afternoon sun. The doorman greets the party politely, taking luggage efficiently, his eyes briefly scanning the street as if expecting something unseen.

Inside, the lobby smells of polished wood, coal heat, and pipe smoke. Floorboards creak underfoot, and the gas lamps flicker slightly, casting long shadows in corners and alcoves. Sunlight streams through frosted windows, illuminating swirling motes of dust and giving the room a soft, timeless, slightly eerie quality.

Prior to dinner, the investigators each pursue their own agendas, some shopping, a trip to the local paper, The Martinsburg Journal, spending some time engaging with the editor Ed Burns, learning little. Joseph & Caleb, with Joseph sporting some new, less threadbare, duds by a visit to the Apollo on foot. Banter with the workers reveals little, basically nervous feelings, fear of working late, glimpses of things out of the corner of their eyes that were gone when stared at directly. Using the key provided tot hem to help complete their dupe of being insurance investigators, Joseph retrieved a set of keys from the font lockbox. Bertrand spent some time ogling the massive white piano in the bar of the Shenandoah, nursing his drink far longer than most would. Cora Lee, also sporting a more sleek set of clothes, surveyed the hotel hallways & lobby, striving to remember more details of her dream from the trek, for not. Ernest, for his part, did what a normal soldier might do prior to a mission. He stretched out on the massive bed in his room and grabbed some shuteye!

The party assembles in the stately dining room of the Shenandoah Hotel later that evening around 6:30pm. The late October sun slants low through tall windows, illuminating polished oak tables and chairs, and casting long, flickering shadows across the high, coffered ceiling. Snow lies in tidy, plowed piles outside, reflecting pale afternoon light that mixes with the warm glow of gas lamps inside.

The room smells of roasted meats, fresh bread, and melted butter, with a faint undercurrent of coal smoke. A subtle draft carries the distant scent of cold water and decayed wood from the valleys beyond, a whisper of Harpers Ferry’s six-month-old floods.

The table is set for seven, each place meticulously arranged with fine china, polished silver, and crystal glasses catching the lamplight. At the center, a small mechanical contraption hums quietly: Dr. Archibald Cornelius Leopold Kensington III’s famous self-heated oyster forks, gleaming in brass and steel, each fork glowing faintly red to keep seafood perfectly warm!

The group sits around a polished oak dining table. Gas lamps flicker against tall windows showing the snow-plowed streets of Martinsburg. Dr. Kensington’s self-heated oyster forks hiss quietly as warm aromas drift through the stately room. The group begins discussing the Apollo Civic Theater.

Archibald Cornelius Leopold Kensington III (Archibald)

(adjusting his self-heated fork with a meticulous hand)

“Remarkable, isn’t it? A fork that maintains optimum warmth for oysters. Surely, the Apollo Civic could use one of these… though I suspect the stagehands would call it witchcraft.”

Jonathon “Jonnie” Connecticut

(grinning, studying the flickering shadows in the corners)

“Maybe so, Archibald. But I’m more interested in the… oddities at the theater. Flickering lights, phantom footsteps, doors opening on their own. My extensive research into the theater's historic past has failed to provide any solid, useful facts, I am unnaturally vexed, and I don't like being vexed!”

Ernest Morgan

(Posture stiff, voice gravelly, taking a slow sip of wine)

“I’ve seen my share of strange things on the front, Jonnie. But the theater… it’s different. I didn't like the look of it, as short as it might have been, three stories, too many windows, no clear means of escape that I could see from the outside.

 (his hand taps lightly on the table, almost in rhythm with the distant hum of the forks)

Caleb Johnson

(Calm, radiating quiet strength, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face)

“I trust instinct. And when I stood near those front doors, I didn't feel anything. The workers, yes, you could tell they were a little on edge but I got no impressions the place was haunted, I mean aren't there usual telltale signs of a haunted house?”

(his hand hovers briefly over Archibald’s fork, almost instinctively checking its warmth, as if sensing energy)

Cora Lee Mullins

(intuitive, eyes sweeping the room, voice soft but firm)

“I agree with Caleb, I felt nothing from the place as we passed, no feelings of any sort, nothing that caused me pause or undue concern”.

Bertrand Jackson

(Relaxed, leaning back, a faint smile on his face)

“Ah, there’s a comfort in all this—warm oysters, snow outside, and stories of ghosts. On the sea, I’ve seen storms that would make your hair curl, yet the theater’s little quirks? I’ll wager they’re the work of amateurs. Still, I’ll admit—if those shadows start walking, I’m on deck with you lot.”

Joseph Thomas Peters

(Wide-eyed, flipping a small comic book between courses)

“Guys…and uh, lady. What if it’s like a comic book scenario? Haunted theater, weird energy, maybe even a villain with a purpose?”

(gestures subtly toward the flickering corner of the room, comic book open to a page showing a spectral figure)

Archibald

(chuckling, fiddling with the fork’s dial)

“Well, Joseph, I’d rather leave the talking to oysters. But I do find your… enthusiasm oddly compelling.”

Jonnie

(leaning in, voice low and serious)

“Whatever it is, it seems like a good time to get this ball rolling”

The dining room has emptied, leaving only the faint aroma of roasted meats, coal smoke, and warm oysters lingering in the air. Shadows stretch longer in the corners, flickering in the last light of the gas lamps. Outside, the streets are plowed and pristine, snow glittering under the lamplight, but the evening carries a quiet weight, as if the town itself holds its breath.

The party rises, collects their gear quickly from their rooms, and move toward the hotel entrance. Each carries their tools, notes, or personal implements for the night ahead:

The Apollo looms ahead, dark and imposing against the snow-dusted streets. Its façade is stately but worn, the shadows of past renovations and decades of performances etched into its brick and stone. The main doors are closed, but a faint glow seeps from the stage windows above. The air is heavy here, warmer than outside but thick with a sense of anticipation and unease, as if the theater itself is aware of the party’s approach.

The Apollo Civic Theater squats on the corner of Martin Street, like a cold half-finished promise. Scaffolding hugs the front faced, wooden planks lashed together with rope and rusty mails. Sheets of canvas flap lazily in the chill evening breeze, snapping now and then like distant applause. Piles of construction debris clutter the sidewalk, the skeleton of the marquee yet to be fleshed out. Splintered boards, crates of unused marquee bulbs, a ladder lying on its side as though dropped in a hurry. The marquee itself is dark.

Bare metal letters wait in crates beneath it, some wrapped in old newspaper, others loose and scattered on the cold sidewalk. A few bulbs have already been installed, but without the wiring complete they only reflect the streetlights in dull, glassy stares.

The theater is supposed to be open despite the construction. That’s what the papers said. A point of civic provide, The Miracle of East Martin Street, the show must go on. But not tonight.

The front doors appear to be locked, brass handles cold and unyielding beneath your hands. A paper notice has been taped crookedly to the glass, edges lifting in the damp air:

CLOSED FOR THE EVENING

–Management.

No date, no signature

Through the glass, the lobby is dim, shadowy but not dark. A single light glows weakly beyond the concessions, casting stretched shadows across the tiled floor. The ticket booth is empty, its sliding window half-open as if someone forgot to close it. A roll of ticket stubs still rests on the counter inside.

The building smells wrong–wet plaster, old velvet…and something faintly acrid, like overheated machinery. Then, from somewhere inside the Apollo, you hear it. A low mechanical whine, a pause, then, click… The sound carries through the locked doors and unfinished walls unmistakably. A film projector starting up.

The noise grows steadier, the rhythm comforting and unsettling all at once. Light flickers faintly behind the lobby wall, as though something is being cast on a screen deeper within the depths of the theater.

Outside the wind shifts. One of the loose marquee letters, still wrapped in paper, slides slightly across the pavement in a sudden biting wind, scraping just enough to draw your attention. When you look back up at the glass doors, you no longer see or hear the projector.    

But was it ever really there?

The group stepped forward, using the keys provided, fumbling with cold hands to insert the old key into the newer lock, they entered the darkened theater, seven souls, one purpose. Bertrant’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing a sprawling lobby, concession stand & box office. Panning left and right he found the master light switch and soon the lobby was flooded with light, when a feeling of freezing terror, something not tangible, swept across several members, a feeling of something not of this world, something nearby, as a lightbulb flickered briefly…