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…