A Wander Through the World

A Night at the Theatre

Qrow Frickner

The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds, and with it a man concealed by crowds slowly trudged through the vibrant streets of Hester. Being the capital of the similarly named duchy, it was always busy in the summer, particularly around market season.

His long white cloak grazed the well-worn road made of stone, and the blade on the left of his belt clunked with every step taken. His left hand rested on the sword’s scent-stopper pommel, whilst his right bobbed with every step. Next to his blade was a leather holster; inside it lay a contraption, somewhat dated in design yet new in acquisition. It was a major advancement in society, but one most of the world had yet to see.

As he walked, the people made way; except for one man.

The man was of average height, resting about a head shorter than him, and of olive skin. A smile seemed glued to his face, as it had yet to waver since he’d been first spotted. His eyes shone a turquoise blue, whilst his curly brown hair fell to the top of his neck. A simple green tunic fell just over the waist of his ash grey trousers, covering his torso. Around his waist was a belt, decorated with several quills, a notebook and a large gold key.

‘Excuse me,’ greeted the man, smile growing even wider, ‘but you wouldn’t happen to be a Guardian, would you?’

The man practically rambled the words out in an out-of-duchy accent, yet it was as though every word had been perfectly planned to sound as appealing as possible. It was helped by his polite manner and soothing tone, and the pitch-perfect volume at which he spoke.

‘As of an hour ago; why?’

Like a divinely planned contrast, the Guardian spoke in a soft Hesterian accent, with every layered in a tone of boredom and annoyance. Blunt was the best way to describe it, almost as though every word came through without a filter. Hidden behind all the irritation, lay a subtle eeriness.

The stranger’s smile stayed, ‘Brilliant! You are just the man I’ve been looking for, as I am in need of your expertise!’

The Guardian stared back blankly, ‘You need a monster hunter?’

‘Quite so!’ he exclaimed, ‘You see, throughout this year some particularly gruesome attacks have taken place at the Rosebud Theatre, where I work. In fact, just last night, a cleaner nearly died! So I am looking to enlist your services to root out this foe.’

‘And you’ll pay the going rate?’

‘What else would I pay?’ shot back the man, smile loosening ever so slightly.

The Guardian faintly nodded in agreement.

‘Excellent! Now, may I have your name?’

‘Ishmael Faust, Guardian.’

‘My pleasure. My name is William Barkner, apprentice playwright at the Rosebud theatre!’

Ishmael refrained from a response, whilst William looked sheepishly about.

‘Alright then,’ William said, finally breaking the ice, ‘I’ll take you to the Rosebud!’

Ishmael gave the man a quick nod, and they swiftly left for the theatre.

~?~

The Rosebud’s foyer was a decently sized room to the side of the arched entrance and held many booths. A ticket stand greeted the pair, obviously meant for working days. The room was built nearly entirely of timber, and only the dirted floor broke the endless monotony of brown. The room was only a tad taller than Ishmael, and some of the roof’s supports nearly caused the Guardian to crack his head.

‘And here we are, the Rosebud Theatre!’ William proudly announced, ‘The Rose, as we in the business like to call it, was restored in 1493, mostly out of timber, though the base was made of brick and the roof out of thatch. We are also very proudly one of two roofed theatres in Glen. Furthermore, our first production once the theatre was completed in 1499 was of the truly brilliant ancient Victoric playwright Hadrius Catus’ ‘Pope Sacrosanct I’, which is, in my humble opinion, one of the grea-’

‘For the love of Saut please just get on with it.’

William began sputtering indignantly.

Ishmael sighed before continuing, ‘This is a hunt, not a history lesson. Just take me to the scene.’

‘Fine. I’ll bring you there,’ William pouted.

Ishmael made no sign of caring.

Their route was through a door in the top right of the foyer, which took the pair under the stands. The walls around them continued in their tedium, unending brown stretching down to the path’s end, where it curved, leading to more hazel.

They walked on for a while longer, going through the bend and reaching the backstage. Two straight halls covered both directions of the area, and eight rooms took up what was left of the space.

To the pair’s right was a thin staircase, and Ishmael was led up, soon arriving on the first floor, identical in layout to the ground. He was soon moved onto the hallway, before his guide stopped, leaving them in a rather unremarkable stretch of hall.

‘Well, this is it, here is where our cleaner got injured,’ William announced.

Ishmael took a second glance over at the scene of the crime, and once more there was nothing, only a door on the right wall broke up the endless brown of timber.

‘There’s nothing here,’ uttered the Guardian, sarcasm running thick, ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about us Guardians, but we do need a starting point to begin our work.’

’Well that sounds like your problem, it’s not my fault that our mystery opponent has left us no clues,’ William huffed.

The Guardian couldn’t help but sigh, There were other attacks, right? Bring me to those places and let me do my work.’

‘Alright then, I’ll lead you there. It’s on the stage.’

As they walked back down the stairs, emotions ripped from the walls; chaos, joy, tragedy, love, all emotions too fine and heavy for the Guardian to notice. He did notice one, however. It was ancient, possibly older than the halls in which they walked, but it was still there.

Their brief walk soon stopped, and Ishmael was led into the main body of the theatre. It was undoubtedly a sight to behold; before the stage, rows upon rows of seats hugged the circular walls, only ending when they were almost touching the thatch roof. Just in front of them, a massive open circle lay; presumably, the poorer viewers crowded there.

The stage itself was no less impressive; six metres long and four deep, a semi-circle jutted out at the front. Above the stage, a balcony lay but stopped just shy of its end. Peculiarly, on the stage, there was a small square cutout, which Ishmael pointed out.

‘Oh, that,’ answered William. ‘That’s the stage’s trapdoor, we use it to swiftly get on and off the stage. Anyways, this is where the first attack took place.’

Again, on close inspection, there was nothing visually off about the area. It was a bit dusty, sure, but there were no signs of a struggle. A sinister sense remained, however, but the Guardian could not put a finger on it.

‘There’s still more scenes, right?’ He waited for the other man to nod. ‘Then we’ll have a look at them.’

The pair ran through the remaining hours of daylight, Ishmael methodically appraising every scene. It was in vain, however, for no new clues emerged. Eventually, the afternoon turned to evening, and the evening turned to night. The two found themselves back in the foyer, William exhausted from their search.

‘Alright then, with all that time you surely must know what beast we are dealing with, right?’ the playwright queried.

Ishmael took a moment to respond, ‘I have an idea.’

‘An idea!’ William bemoaned, ‘An idea! You’ve been here for the past several hours and you only have an idea?’

‘Well there wasn’t much to work with, was there?’ snapped Ishmael. ‘And besides, I’d rather be slow and steady with an investigation than rush on in like a buffalo.’

William’s cheeks blushed red.

‘Anyways, I’m confident in my theory.’ continued Ishmael, glaring at the man, ‘Considering I have no hints, your monster mustn't be corporeal. Add in the violence, and you’re probably dealing with an Expirvit.’

‘A what now?’ asked William, head turned in confusion.

The Guardian let out a loud sigh, ‘An Expirvit is what you might know as a ghost. I expect you know the basics of soul, so you’d know that when a person dies but refuses to pass on, a ghost is created, the soul free from its flesh. The soul’s strength is pretty important; a weak soul leads to a weak ghost, and a strong soul to a powerful one. Got that?’

‘I suppose that you learn something new every day,’ William replied, ‘And you believe this to be our monster?’

‘It’s likely; have there been any deaths connected to the theatre?’

‘Not that I can recall, though there may have been an accident I may have missed.’

‘Thought so,’ Ishmael said, clicking his tongue as he did, ‘I’ll go check with the registrar to see if there have been any.’

He turned to the door and opened it. The door refused.

He tried again, then again, but twice more the door refused to open.

‘Say, William?’ he asked.

‘What is it?’

‘Did you lock the door?’

‘I most definitely did not, and I am positively sure that no one else has a key.’

Before Ishmael even began his next sentence, a harrowing screech echoed through the building. William covered his ears and dropped to the floor in pain.

Ishmael’s eyes widened, and he let out a small curse.

He moved before he had even realised it. His heart thundering in his chest, he wrenched William’s hands off his ears and shouted to him, ‘Run!’

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The Guardian took off instantly, his companion close behind. The pair raced through the underseatings, both feeling a ferocious presence draw near.

‘What is going on?!’ cried William.

Ishmael didn’t respond. The screams grew closer.

The labyrinth that was the backstage soon came into view, and with it salvation.

‘Inside!’ Ishmael clamoured, shoving the playwright into the first door that they found.

A dark and dusty storeroom greeted them. In spite of the limited visibility racks of clothing were clearly visible, arranged in three neat rows on either side of the room, a tight space through them allowing access. Two small chests on each wall sat forgotten, holding smaller accessories.

William sharply closed the door with his back, before sliding down it and breathing rapidly, ‘What- what on earth was that?’

‘That,’ began Ishmael, breathing normally, ‘was an Expirvit nunitus, also known as a revenant. It’s the single most dangerous type of ghost, and well beyond my pay grade!’

‘Well who's bloody pay grade is it!’ William fired back exasperated.

‘It’s someone whose not here right now, so it's up to us to deal with this bloody issue!’

The fire in William’s eyes waned and a heavy depressive sigh escaped his lips, ‘So we’re dead men.’

Ishmael glanced at the door, taking a moment, ‘There is one solution…’

William’s eyes lit with hope, and begged Ishmael to continue, ‘Revenants, like all ghosts, are weak to luxomancy- light magic. Now, we might not have a mage with us, but I do have some essence.’

‘How will essence help?’ queried William, a small flame alight in his eyes, ‘Bullets can’t hurt a ghost.’

‘That’s if you’re using regular ammunition,’ corrected Ishmael, I happen to have some lux bullets on me, which is just what we need.’

He let the fact sink in before continuing, ‘I do… require help, however.’

William’s brows furrowed, ‘How could I aid you?’

Ishmael glanced downwards, ‘I need you to be bait.’

Confusion turned to unintelligible sputtering.

‘Calm yourself.’ he interrupted, ‘I just need you to draw its attention, then you can go and hide as much as you like.’

‘Oh because that’s any better!’ hissed back William.

‘Look, we can either wait for it to find and kill us agonisingly, or we can take the fight to it and maybe get out of here alive. Your choice,’ chastised the Guardian.

William let out what must have been his dozenth exasperated sigh of the day, ‘Fine, I’ll play your bait.’

~?~

‘Come on out you halfwit! Are you so afraid to face me that you hide behind some petty protection!? If you are not to come to me, then to you shall I!’

Ishmael resisted the urge to facepalm from behind the door, instead concentrating on keeping his hand on the mechanical saviour that hung on his belt. William, in his efforts to be bait, had begun speaking in the most melodramatic and horrific manner he had ever come across.

To his severe displeasure, the dramatics were working; the feeling of sheer hate was coming.

Then it came closer.

Then closer again.

A high-pitched yelp let loose from the hallway, and the Guardian moved just in the nick of time to avoid the panicked form of William from crashing into him as it came through the door.

An interesting signal, he thought.

Regardless, the Guardian understood it was time. He opened the door and walked into the hallway. The revenant made itself clear.

It was a truly disgusting creature. Standing a little shorter than Ishmael, what was once olive skin now clung to bone, all covered in a strange, washed-out red aura; that was the manifestation of the beast’s soul. Its face was no prettier than the rest of it, rotted lips made clear stained teeth. Black, matted hair cascaded down its neck, and swarms of lice hugged its mane. Empty eye sockets held horrifying red spheres, the eyes exuding the abhoration that cast the theatre into despair.

The beast was draped in a large and broken toga, the once pristine and perfect white having been sullied with dirt and decay. A frayed noose hung around the revenant’s neck, seemingly brought into undeath through the beast’s soul and loathing.

The Guardian paid little heed to the ghost’s ghastly appearance and instead withdrew the complex contraption that was held in his leather holster. A long, iron barrel about sixteen centimetres in length met the revenant's visage, a firm wooden stock behind it, battered gloss still reflecting what little light there was.

Ishmael raised the flintlock towards his foe, pushed down the cock and pulled the trigger.

Instantly, several bars and mechanisms leapt into action, forcing the cock forward. Flint immediately made contact with the steel frizzen, the sparks falling down into the pan, which had been exposed as the frizzen fell back.

The flame essence in the pan ignited at once, a small hole leaving it with one way forward- the barrel. Inside, the flames came into contact with yet more essence, sparking a chain reaction in the barrel. The sheer force of the miniature explosion propelled a small lead ball through smooth innards eventually reaching the hateful air of the hall.

The bullet sailed through the air, getting closer, and closer and closer still.

Then it reached its target.

The lux magic, sensing the beast’s soul, shattered, bathing the hall in brilliant beams of sun.

Ishmael barely withstood the assault on his eyes.

He wished he had looked away.

There, a handful of metres away, stood the revenant, mostly unharmed. Its dull red covering was cracked down its chest, but it still lived.

Ishmael stared with wide eyes.

Instinctually, he ripped open the storeroom door, snatched William by his arm and began racing down the hall, ignoring William’s futile attempts to save his ears from the cacophony of hate that came from the beast’s mouth. It was all the playwright could hear.

A sharp crack echoed from behind them, and the Guardian mechanically glanced behind him to see that the monster had untied the noose hung around its neck, but had his head forced forwards as the ghost began whipping the noose at them. Thankfully, he lacked skill, but that wouldn’t matter once it closed the distance.

Mercifully, they soon found salvation. A flight of stairs descending downwards came into his view, and he rushed down them before he had even a second to think on it.

He smashed the door behind them close, yet, once they both steadied themselves, it was clear that the two had entered into the theatre’s basement, support beams and hard slab floor greeting them. To their right was a door, which Ishmael swiftly led the two of them into.

The side room was dressed similarly to the rest of the cellar, though a ladder came down from the ceiling, which led to a hatch above. A few wooden boxes littered the floor.

William collapsed on the wall and loudly sobbed, a hoarse voice silently piercing the Guardian’s ears, ‘We’re damned, aren’t we.’

‘We are,’ the Guardian responded too quickly.

‘This is it then- William Barkner, dead at twenty-one. An apprentice playwright who failed to write any play of note, who gave up a comfortable life in his hometown for unrealised fame. The only remainder left of him on this earthly plane the mediocre manuscripts that he penned!’ he lamented, ‘What about you? Any dreams left behind?’

‘None, there’s only duty for me,’ the Guardian intoned

‘Only duty… heh, at least you die fufilled.’

Before William could sob further, booming bangs resounded through the door, and a horrible groan forced their attention. Ishmael, however, had other plans.

‘Look up there.’ The Guardian gestured to the hatch, ‘There’s your salvation- go through it now.’

William looked to him with near childlike fear, ‘You’ll die,’

‘It’s my duty,’

The door broke before he could elaborate, and the revenant made yet another horrible roar.

‘Go already!’ he shouted to his companion, drawing his sword and entering into a practised guard.

His final stand never came to be.

The Guardian only had a fraction of a second to realise a new feeling had entered the room- hope.

The room was then bathed in a brilliant white light. The two living occupants were blinded instantly.

Eventually, Ishmael opened his eyes, and saw that, while three people stood in the room, one had been replaced.

A new, toga-clad being lay before him, his pale white skin covered in an alabaster aura. What would be his eyes shone a silver steel. He stood at roughly the same height as Ishmael, and his white hair fell to his shoulders.

‘To think, a contest of ink would end in blood,’ lamented a melodic, measured voice in an accent not heard in millennia.

William’s eyes lit up, ‘It- it can’t be. Hadrius Catus?!’

‘Who?’ probed the Guardian.

‘Hadrius Catus, you do not know of him? His worst work, of which there are none, would be tenfold better than the magnum opus of my magna opera! His pure brilliance in writing cannot be undersold! Why, I spent so much time learning about him I could recite all his plays by heart!’ gushed William, carefree innocence somewhat out of place in the sombreness of the room.

The Guardian quickly tuned William out and focused his attention on what Hadrius had said, ‘A pity? The man tried to kill us. Not much to pity there.’

‘From your view?’ the ghost responded, ‘Yes, there is little to pity. But, truly, things never should have ended like this. Oh, but where are my manners!? My name is Hadrius Catus, and I am what you call a sentinel.’

At William’s confusion, the Guardian expanded upon the playwright, ‘Sentinels are the opposites of revenants, they protect rather than kill. Regardless,’ he turned to face Hadrius, ‘I take it you two share some history.’

‘That we do. I knew that man before his heart became so full of loathing- he was a good man, yet hate changed him.’

‘How could someone have so much hate as to become… that?’ queried William.

The sentinel let a sigh escape his lips before answering, ‘Before he became that beast from before, that man was Angelus Calerus, a fellow playwright in the northern reaches of the Victoric Empire. We both came to what would be Hester and became rival playwrights. Angelus… Angelus took our rivalry too seriously though. To me, it was a game, but to him, my constant successes were an insult to him personally. He went into great debt trying to beat me, but he never got the chance- his debtors came looking, and he was broke.’

‘They hung him in the end, and he died with hate on his tongue. But it was that hate that granted him undeath, for his soul, so, so full of loathing, stayed bound to the mortal plane. It was tied to this theatre, for on these grounds he lost his life; he died on this day in fact.’

‘In the later years of my life, I found out about his new state, and so I tied myself to his hunting grounds, protecting all those he sought to harm. I… I tried to convince myself that I could save him, but I lost that hope after a few centuries. Eventually, I sought to end him, but he was just strong enough to fend off my attacks. But today he was weakened, and so met his true end.’

William let out a solemn sight, ‘To think that any man would be driven to such abhoration. But, the haunting is now over, right?’

Hadrius remained silent.

William stared at the sentinel, ‘It is over, right?’

The ghost paused for a moment, ‘Perhaps it would be better if I showed you.’

He led the pair through the trapdoor and onto the stage. The sight was beyond their wildest dreams.

Dozens, or maybe hundreds of human spectres danced through the room, lighting it up with their ethereal souls. What should have been a dead and empty chamber was a living and full one. They sat, they sang, they acted, they laughed, they all seemed to ignore their state of death

‘What- what is this?’ sputtered William.

‘This,’ responded Hadrius, ‘is the theatre of the night. It is where all those dead but not gone come for a time of joy and entertainment. They each have a story to tell, and each story is a play to perform!’

William was stunned to silence, and simply spent the next few minutes taking it all in.

Eventually, Hadrius broke the silence.

‘They want to tell those stories you know.’

‘Pardon,’ replied William, now broken out of his stupor.

‘The ghosts, they wish to share their stories with the world, and I think I know how.’

‘How, they’re dead… or rather undead.’

Hadrius just laughed in response, ‘Gods you’re clueless. They want you to write about them.’

‘Me?!’ he responded, ‘Why on Earth would anyone want me to write about them?! I’d be an amateur on the best day of my li-’

‘Oh none of that,’ interrupted Hadrius, ‘You have such a talent, you have just yet to realise it. We just can’t have any of this drab behaviour. Let us spend the night in joy, I’ll teach you a few tricks of mine.’

William, a brilliant white smile on his face, took the offer and spent that night acting and writing and learning.

Ishmael had long since vanished back under the stage, simply staring at where the revenant once was

~?~

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Ishmael turned to face the speaker, the dawn sun illuminating the figure of William, standing there with a bag in hand. ‘What, exactly, would I be forgetting?’

‘Your pay, of course,’ William answered matter of factly. ‘I gave you my word, did I not?’ ‘Hmph, you did,’ he said, taking the bag, ‘By Saut that was awful, I’ll be thankful for the open road.’

A slight blush rose on William’s cheeks, Umm, about that- ‘I was wondering if you might want to go grab some breakfast and maybe… stay for a while’

Ishmael’s brows furrowed, ‘Seriously, you want to put up with me?’

He said it with a bit too much seriousness.

‘I’ll have you know that life or death experiences tend to colour your opinion of a person!’ he chastised jokingly.

Ishmael’s eyes rolled, ‘Two days. Two days and then I’m off.’

‘Brilliant!’ cheered William. ‘I know this simply wonderful bakery down on Clement’s Street, it’s only a short walk.’