George’s eyes were closed. His eyes were closed, and he could perfectly imagine a world where he could visit Germany, like the black and white photos from old issues of National Geographic back home. Photos of windmills, castles, and descriptions of rare, fragrant blooms of Edelweiss on mountaintops…His stomach ached when he pictured biting into hot, savory dishes served at charming bed-and-breakfasts, nestled snugly next to (he could only imagine, though his was known to be overactive in such regards) pretty pastel buildings in pristine villages. But things had changed, and that world was no longer present. All too soon, George opened his eyes to find that Berlin was still on fire.
He traveled, as he always did, with young, inexperienced Heath (whose eyes – already enlarged by round eyeglasses – were bigger than his valor), and brawny Kip (whom George attended school with, and remembered him as a strong swimmer and football player who never cracked a smile, yet seemed to always get the attention of more girls than he). On the afternoon that their troop had the rare privilege of watching The Wizard of Oz in a movie house long ago, it was George’s idea to teasingly nickname Heath after the Cowardly Lion – and Kip’s idea to scribble “C.L.” onto Heath’s helmet. Kip cracked a smile at being labeled after the Tin Man, to everyone’s disbelief at the impromptu dinner table that night, between gulps of water from tin cups and forks scraping against matching plates. This, of course, George to be the Scarecrow.
“Hallo, wir haben geöffnet,” Heath annunciated slowly, butchering the foreign words on the half-charred sign. George and Kip, in matching olive drab uniforms, shifted their weight to one leg, getting impatient with the boy.
Heath kicked a pile of rubble away from the door of the quaint bakery, which hung loosely on one hinge. He shakily raised his rifle up to his chest, preparing himself to kick it down, which lasted an extended amount of time.
“Well?” said George. “Is something supposed to be happening?”
Heath shook his head, lowering the weapon. “I can’t do it.”
Kip let out a great sigh and pushed past the boy, his towering frame breaking the door clean off the hinge with one kick from his powerful leg. A cloud of dust flew from where it hit the floor, causing the three to have a coughing fit. Their eyes had never stopped burning since they arrived in Berlin last night with their company, and this certainly wasn’t helping matters.
They waited for Kip’s “all clear” before entering. The inside of the tiny structure had been left untouched for the most part, except for a gaping hole in one corner of the ceiling that allowed bits of ash and dust to float gracefully down from the sky. If George didn’t know any better, he’d liken it to the fallen snow back home in Whitby; of putting the horses up for the night in the barn, placing freshly warmed wool blankets with intricate designs on their shivering backs, his own cold breath huffing out as he looked up to the cloudy night sky…it reminded him of a foggy lid that covers a cooking pot. On the short walks back to the house, he’d catch silent snowflakes on his tongue, some landing on his frostbitten cheek like a kiss. These memories were always welcomed when they came. They unfortunately also went away too soon.
They were not in Whitby, nor was it a winter’s night. It was a stiflingly warm noonday, fires from a few blocks away still making the sky heavy with smoke and partially blocking the sun. And his eyes still stung – not to mention the terrible headache.
Heath put his hand on the glass pastry case, where the treats should have been. He stooped down to observe the paper doilies that remained, some with breadcrumbs on them, some with white folded cards reading the dessert’s name, and the rest strewn about the floor. The boy let out a disappointed sigh, to which Kip shook his head.
“What’s the matter? Did you think the Jerrys would save you a scone?” he scoffed.
“This is Germany. I think it’s more likely to be strudel,” Heath replied, not meaning to sound so sarcastic.
After George put an end to the squabble with one stern look, the others followed Kip out into the middle of the street, where he dropped to one knee. He slung the large, rectangular radio box off his back with ease. They watched him adjust the knobs and antennae and turn the dials on the box for a solid minute, cussing all the while, hitting it with his fist, before the static died down to a low buzz. He lunged for the headphones, not waiting a moment to speak.
“Hello? Hello, this is Private Kip Smith with the 87th, does anyone copy?”
Nothing. The panic in his low voice was barely audible.
“Hello, does anyone copy?”
“…This is Lieutenant Thackery of the 87th, I copy. Perhaps you can tell me why I’ve had three men missing since five-o-clock this morning?”
George, seeing Kip’s eyes widen, snatched the headphones from Kip’s blond crewcut and put them on himself.
“Uh, uh, yes sir, this is Private George Rourke. We didn’t hear the wake-up call and now we’re a little…lost.”
“You didn’t hear the wake-up call…” said Lieutenant Thackery, his Cockney accent laced with disbelief. “Who’s the third chap with you? Let me talk to him.”
Everyone’s hearts collectively skipped a beat. They slowly turned to look at white-faced Heath, who shook his head aggressively as George passed him the handset. He gave Heath a sharp nod to reassure him despite his own lack of confidence in the young man.
“H-hello, sir.”
“What’s your name, son?” said Thackery, the radio static picking up slightly.
“Heath Thomas, sir.”
“Hello, Heath. So…” he paused, “what really happened, son.” It was more of a test than a genuine question.
Heath looked frantically around at his fellow troops for answers, to which George pressed his palms together and put them under his tilted head, imitating sleep.
“Uh…sleeping. We were asleep. Everyone was gone when we woke up and now we don’t know where to go.”
The other line went quiet. Kip was very close to slapping the side of the box again when the lieutenant finally returned.
“Look, son, under other circumstances I’d make you three crawl all the way over here on your bellies through the muck and manure…”
“So, you’re not going to punish us?” said Heath a little too eagerly.
“Oh, there will definitely be punishments. But if you die that very well spoils the fun I’ll get from it, so listen closely. Outside of town is riddled filthy with Jerrys. Backup is coming, st–“
Static hissed, overpowering his voice. The three frantically scrambled for the radio, making rapid adjustments where they could until the signal returned.
“—Few days. I repeat, stay where you are. Over and out.”
And that was the end of that. For several minutes the three sat on the cobblestone road like that, just processing. They were stuck here in this great demolished city, at the will of the reserves and at the mercy of the enemy.
They stayed like this until the sound of barking shook them into a standing position, guns ready. There, a full block down the winding stretch of abandoned shops and two-story inns, was the culprit: a Jack Russell terrier, fur matted and caked with mud, hopped onto a pile of bricks partially obscuring a shadowy doorway. His wagging tail undermined the ferocious note in his bark.
“Aww, lookit there,” said Heath with a grin, “Can we pet him?”
Two hands belonging to an indiscernible, detached figure immediately dashed out from the shadows of the doorway to yank the dog back into the black, shutting him up with a yip.
None of the three had ever considered themselves to be capable of being true warriors. To kill without thought or hesitance – well, they just weren’t brought up that way, not even strapping Kip. There were moments, however, when something primal within them took over, caused their feet to move them forward, to lurch toward the danger. It was a strange thing that fear could somehow make them fearless, but it proved itself to be true again in that moment. George, gripping his gun once more, signaled the others to follow suit as they took careful, silent steps toward the house with fallen bricks. Creeping along, finally close enough to see the lace detailing the curtain in the second-floor window, George cleared his throat.
“Show yourself!” he commanded.
He gulped. Put a clammy finger on the trigger. Then he began to count down in his head. 3…2…1…
“Bitte!! Bitte!”
It was a young woman’s panicked voice, thick with emotion. A moment later the trio put a face to the voice as she stepped out with her hands up – quite disheveled, holes in her black shoes, scuffs on her purple shirtwaist dress, reddish hair pushed back by a moth-bitten bandana, not any older than 20, and above all, terrified.
George made a motion to step forward, to which she stepped back. No one moved for a solid lifetime until George – very slowly – dropped to one knee to lay the gun down. Heath did the same. Standing up, they noticed Kip still clutched his rifle at eye level.
“Kip…” George warned.
“No, George. One of us’s gotta be looking out for trouble, and I’m lookin’ at her. We’re stuck here because of you, and I’d rather not get killed because of you.”
“I’m sorry,” George interjected irritably, “if I remember correctly, you two volunteered to help finish the brandy last night.”
“How can you remember anythin’? You were so stone cold skunked, Heath had to pour his canteen over you this morning!”
“Wait, that was you?” George exclaimed, snapping around to face Heath.
The woman looked between the bickering trio, some of her hesitance turning into brow furrowing confusion. She began lowering her arms, to which Kip pulled the safety on his rifle, his cold stare unwavering.
“Hey, hey,” Heath spoke softly to her, “you can put your arms down, alright? We won’t hurt you, Kip’s just difficult…What’s your name?”
It barely registered above a whisper. “Ilsa.”
“Okay…” said George, “Ilsa, we need a place to stay for a few days. It needs to be big enough for us to stretch out and keep watch. Do you know of a place?”
As this went on, Heath looked left and right, up and down the city, even walking over to the small apartment complex next door and climbed a few rungs up the fire escape for a better view. He had to clean his glasses with his sleeve to make sure what he saw was real.
“Is there somewhere that, that –-” George became distracted by Heath’s new elevated height. He pardoned himself from Ilsa and irritably yelled “OI! Looking for a signal?”
“George – what about there?” He pointed several blocks north, their eyes landing on an emerald green glass dome that stood out and above everything else, miraculously left untouched by the military invasion from the week before – to the weary, battle-trodden, and exhausted soldiers, it even appeared to glimmer. The boys spun back around on their feet, shrugging and waiting for Ilsa’s approval, as if she were a travel agent or a tour guide. Her eyes became as big as saucers, and she violently shook her head.
“No!”
“You can talk, eh?” George chuckled. “Well, why not?”
“…It’s haunted.”
Kip put down his gun and scoffed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake…” Shouldering it, he began taking long strides north, toward the beautiful dome. Heath looked conflicted, as if he thought about stopping him.
“It’s alright, Heath,” said George, adjusting his bullet-grazed brodie helmet and following suit, looking over his shoulder at Ilsa and gesturing her forward. “We don’t believe in ghosts, miss. If you want to get out of Berlin – and I’m assuming you do – staying with us is your safest bet.”
Ilsa, torn between sticking with the shadows and allying herself with three Englanders who could go from threatening to idiotic at the drop of a hat, whistled for the dog, hesitantly picking up her step to catch up with the gun-toting foreigners.
…
It wasn’t an exceptionally long distance, but for Ilsa, who hadn’t eaten in nearly three days, it felt like walking uphill Everest. Noticing this, Heath offered her one of his candy bars, which was promptly scarfed down. George knew Heath had no ulterior motive when he offered the chocolate, but they’d all have to admit that her eating gave them at least a minute of peace from Ilsa’s never-ending verbal barrage of warnings and paranormal folk tales, all of which featured the green dome’s (a theatre, as it would turn out) very own specter.
According to their reluctant tour guide, speaking fair English in between deep gulps for air, none of the townspeople knew who was doing the haunting. There are many versions of the story to Berliners – that it was Josef Berger, the Emerald Theatre’s very own caretaker who died inside, losing his balance whilst dusting the second floor’s viewing box. Or perhaps Ann Bohm, the stage starlet who after the curtain dropped took a dagger, plunging it into her heartbroken chest (a very Bohemian death, indeed). Another – albeit far-fetched – version states that it was in fact the ghost of Rasputin. The how’s and why’s as to him ending up in a German playhouse are a bit foggy. But no matter who was doing the haunting, the specter had the same name – the Phantom Green.
Minutes later, stepping over piles of jagged wood planks and glass shards from broken store-front windows, they arrived at their resting place. The height alone was impressive – three stories tall, plus the dome added a good thirty feet or so to the top. Its exterior featured a stone pillar at either far side of the matching stone steps, giving the appearance of a castle influenced by Greek architecture. Gold detailing was sprinkled in here and there – lining the double mahogany doors stained a deep brown, gold framing both of the ground floor’s massive semicircle windows, making it look like the building was wearing golden spectacles, and vertically lined on the left and right side of the steps, making a gold carpet of sorts. The group, craning their necks, followed the trail that led them to the impressive double doors.
Slightly at ease but still very aware of the circumstances of their temporary home, the young men got into a crouching position, guns up. George gently pulled on Ilsa’s tattered dress sleeve, leading her to a pillar that she would hide behind. George and Heath sidled next to the left door, watching Kip mouth a countdown.
They let him handle the search of the foyer, which was soon declared clear. The inside was just as beautiful: the lobby was decorated with cream-colored walls and ornate Art Deco light fixtures which sat above numerous, plush floral settees, positioned on the polished dark marble floor.
Too cautious to observe the exquisite display just yet, the four humans and their canine friend stalked past the ticket booth built into the wall of the foyer, stopping at another double door. They would split up at the diverging hallways on either side of the door.
“What about me?” hissed Ilsa, looking between the pitch-black paths to the left and right of her.
Seeing Kip give a nasty grimace at her, George wordlessly directed Heath to follow Kip on the right to err on the side of caution. “You’re with us,” George whispered to Ilsa. “Is that dog gonna be a problem?” he asked, referring to its low growling.
Ilsa shook her head as they moved along into the hall that was growing dimmer with every step. As leader of the pack, to George it sure felt like the walls were getting narrower, too, but he knew that it was probably just his claustrophobia. It eventually got so dark that they had to put one hand on the wall just to guide themselves.
“This is ridiculous,” sighed George. “Ilsa, would you reach into my bag and get the flashlight? I’m still right in front of you.”
“Yes, I do still have ears.”
George snickered. Ilsa grasped at the air before finally connecting with the rough canvas of the haversack. Snapping the buttons, she reached inside, feeling a small tin box, a rolled-up magazine, a slightly larger tin box, the hard plastic of a snuff can, something crinkly, a metal canteen, and – there, the flashlight.
“Good, now hand it to me.”
She did. Nothing happened.
“Sorry – have to thump it a few times…”
A thin, weak beam of light shone from the instrument. It wasn’t much, not even all that comforting, but it had to do as they made their way along the curving hallway, one small spotlight at a time. It went on like this for another minute until the first sliver of light appeared from a door-sized opening on the right. The light grew and grew, until they were finally able to make out each other’s features.
A shaking Ilsa shoved the flashlight under her arm and stooped down to cradle the little dog at her feet. He didn’t belong to her, but she knew to whom he did. Mr. Weisz, the owner of the butchery she had been to every Sunday afternoon with her family since she was old enough to learn the alphabet. Mutter always gave her a shiny Mark to pay Mr. Weisz behind the register in his bloodied apron for the pork slab of her choice – it delighted her to see him then as a child, and to later exchange funny newspaper cartoons with him as a teenager. The Adventures of TinTin was his favorite to cut out, saying that TinTin’s faithful white pooch, Snowy, reminded him of the abandoned puppy that had shown up at his doorstep. So naturally, when the invasion began four nights ago, and caught fire to the sleeping Weisz household, Ilsa felt it was only right that she look after the only surviving family member.
“It’s alright, Snowy,” she whispered, nuzzling him into her chest as George prepared himself to meet whatever was out there, head-on.
Yip! Yip! Yip!
George’s head snapped around to Ilsa, warningly glaring at her as if they were her barks.
“Shut him up!” moaned George, looking part furious and part petrified. “If that dog–”
“His name is Snowy,” she said defensively.
“Fine. If Snowy becomes a problem…Well. Just don’t let that happen.”
“Why? Everyone’s gone now after you so heroically set fire and bullets to my home.” Her eyes were blazing. “Picking on civilians was not enough, so you pick on animals now, too?”
George opened his mouth to make some quick remark but wisely closed it. Remorse became woven on his features. “I wish you could understand.”
“I understand plenty.”
The silent frustration surging between them was palpable.
“George!” It was Kip, his voice echoing. “Come out here!”
At that, Ilsa strode past George, standing straight as a board. He shook his head, reflecting on their argument before following her out of the doorway and into the radiance beyond it, but what he saw was magnificent enough to somewhat erase the sour taste left in his mouth left by Ilsa:
It was the largest, grandest auditorium any of them had ever seen. At least 30 rows of velvet green seats on either side of the wide middle aisle, a gold-trimmed balcony directly above, and hugging the sides of the wall were little pill-shaped compartments for the private or individual playgoer. Then, the stage. Vast and sporting a lush, dramatically draped green curtain with golden tassels across the tops, and below it was a deep-set orchestra pit in the ground. It can be assumed that most people wouldn’t first think of a trench upon seeing this addition, but then again, it can also be assumed that most people have not spent their teenage and young adult years in a perpetual state of warfare.
“Woah,” croaked Heath, standing behind Kip in amazement, looking to the heavens.
It was the dome, their dazzling beacon of hope. Casting its heavenly rays down upon them, the skylight caused the entire top portion of the theatre to be basked in a green glow that managed to trickle down to form a kaleidoscopic circle in the middle of the floor. They stood in awe, mouths hanging open, except for Kip and Ilsa’s tight-lipped frowns. The two glanced at each other, on the same page for once, but the feeling was quickly shaken off.
“Well, if I were a ghost, this is where I’d wanna die,” Heath joked, making George smirk.
Ilsa shook her head at their disdain for her warnings. Meeting at the front-row seats, the boys began to remove their heavy military garb, setting helmets on and draping outer coats over the armrests. The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring, collecting supplies, and bringing their findings to the front seats, where Ilsa and Snowy remained. They all climbed up onstage to eat a supper of stale popcorn from the concession stand, dangling their legs off the edge. Heath was excitedly recounting his tale of going upstairs, where he spotted and even stepped across a narrow “bridge” above the stage.
Kip harshly slapped him on the back of the head, earning a groan from Heath. “It’s called a catwalk, you idiot.”
“Kip,” said George in shock, “I never took you as one to possess so much knowledge about the theatrical arts.”
He gave his usual grimace, but this time the tiniest hint of a smile began to form on his lips. “Stagehand, two years. Primary school.”
“And that’s about as much as we’ll ever get outta him,” joked George. “I’ll do you one better; behind the stage, there’s a dressing room. You know – mirrors, costumes, daggers for the suicidal actress.”
The boys laughed. Perhaps it was from being without human interaction for so long, but something about hearing laughter again, even if the joke was distasteful, was infectious to Ilsa.
“You’re all in good spirits” remarked Kip smugly, crossing his arms. “I must be the only one who’s been up to the attic.”
A hush fell over them. Heath cleared his throat, which only made his voice crack more.
“Attic?”
“What’s the matter, you scared? Nothing but cobwebs and old props. Had to use my lighter to see.”
“You mean you walked around?” Heath turned pale.
George, picking a kernel out of his tooth, shook his head at Heath. “C’mon. You’ve slept in an open trench in the pouring rain – you’ve operated a machine gun, and you’re scared of a little attic?”
“First of all, I don’t know who told you I was sleeping, but they’re a dirty liar. Second, I never wanted to do that.”
“Well,” said George, “good thing he checked it out. Figured you’d be up all night worrying about it. Ghosts, that is. Speaking of, one of us has gotta be up first for the night watch in case the reserves come in early,” he yawned, standing and stretching his limbs.
“You think they really could come early?” questioned Heath, eyes wide with optimism.
George chuckled dryly, licking the melted butter off his fingers and wiping them on his trousers. “Yeah, early. Because that sounds like them.”
“Sure as rain doesn’t sound like us,” scoffed Kip.
A pile of coats and canvas were piled together on the carpeted floor between the orchestral pit and the front-row seats to form a makeshift mattress. George, first up for patrol, put his gear back on one layer at a time as the other two snored on the ground. Reaching down for the rifle at his feet, he noticed Ilsa standing nearby, looking at the mattress with uncertainty.
Adjusting the collar of his button-up, he titled his head at her curiously. “They’ll scoot over, if that’s why you’re worried.”
“I…I think I will sleep in a chair.” She’d heard too many stories about what foreign troops are capable of doing to stragglers to let her guard down.
“Suit yourself. I’m outside the door if you need m— if you need someone.” He subconsciously scratched his black hair, walking off without looking back. “Fresh air, at least. G’night.”
“Goodnight,” she muttered, plopping down on a green velvet seat cushion. Snowy jumped onto her lap, spinning around twice before settling in for some much-needed shuteye. She scratched behind his brown ears and rubbed the wiry fur on his white belly, feeling herself start to doze off.
…
“Herkommen! Snowy!”
The yelling from outside of the theater jarred the soldiers awake, especially so when yelled in German. Heath, having gotten less than two hours of sleep after switching with George during the night, rolled over on his stomach. “Whumph-estha?” he mumbled into a coat. Kip yanked it out from under his face, smacking him with it.
“In English, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine, what is that?”
“Dunno,” came a groggy George from the other side of the mattress. “Ilsa was getting up to…to…”
He suddenly sat upright and jumped out of bed, much to the others’ confusion. Socks slapping against the carpet, he hastily sped through the lobby and out the front doors. There was Ilsa, panic-stricken and whistling at the top of the steps, clear for anyone to see or shoot at.
“Hey!” he exclaimed angrily, grabbing her wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?” She easily broke from his grip. “Snowy is gone! I woke up to feed him but he…!”
“Alright, alright,” he sighed, placing a hand on the small of her back, turning her around to lead her inside, “can we please continue this search inside?”
By the time they got back to the auditorium, Kip and Heath were sitting up on the floor, waiting for an explanation.
“Has anyone seen Snowy?” asked George, rubbing the sleepy look from his face.
“Who?” the two asked in unison.
“The dog! Mr. Weisz’s dog!” Ilsa cried.
Now it was George’s turn to ask, “Who’s Mr. Weisz?”
“He…it doesn’t matter.”
Heath stood up, arms held out in a calming gesture. “Ilsa, I’m sure he’s fine. He probably found a way out and went exploring. Dogs aren’t meant to stay locked inside.” He paused, looking into the distance. “Like my English shepherd, Ernie. A social recluse, he was…”
Everyone stared quizzically as his mind drifted off elsewhere.
“Heath’s right,” said George, “He’s probably out sniffin’ through people’s trash. They always come back.”
Looking green, she nodded and headed toward the lobby to think. Once she was past the auditorium doors, George patted his empty stomach, dropping to a knee to dig for rations in his bag.
“D’you still have those crackers, Kip? I’ve been wanting –”
He felt a hand on his shoulder – Heath’s. He looked very solemn, which gave George a sense of dread deep in his stomach.
“George.” He checked over his shoulder, frowning. “I found him.”
“Oh… Well, why didn’t you say anything? She’s worried sick, poor girl.”
Sighing, the next words were drawn out heavily. “He was dead. On the steps after we switched for the night, no heartbeat or anything.” No one spoke for a moment, letting the truth set in.
“Somethin’ he ate?” offered Kip.
“I don’t think so,” Heath said in a hushed tone, pushing up his glasses.
“Well,” whispered George, “where is he now?”
“I took care of it. Is it wrong that I didn’t tell her? She just seemed so upset, I didn’t want to make it worse…” While George reassured him, Kip went about setting up the radio in the middle aisle. Knobs and dials were adjusted once again until the deafening static lowered several notches. He put the handset to his ear.
“Lieutenant Thackery? Hello, is anyone there? This is Private Kip Smith.” A response came.
“Private Smith, this is Lieutenant Thackery. Is there a problem?”
“No, sir, just wanted to inform you we found lodging on the north side of the city. How soon can we expect the reserves?”
“We’ve had a change of plans,” the lieutenant said briskly. “It may be an additional few more days before we can get there. Got new orders from the higher-ups ‘Round Saturday.”
Kip dropped his head in defeat. The others shared a look, Heath mouthing “Saturday?”
“Thank you, sir. We’ll contact you if anything comes up.” And that was the end of it. The long quiet that followed was broken by George.
“Well. That was a lot to take in before breakfast.”
…
The next two days, by comparison, passed smoothly. It became a routine of waking up, nabbing food from the concession, brushing teeth and combing hair in front of the obnoxiously lit mirrors in the lobby restrooms, exploring the building, taking carefully scheduled naps at a time in the chairs, the boys tipping their helmets down to block the light while resting.
Afternoons consisted of eating supper together onstage or in the seats, more nightly routines in the restrooms, then bedtime (by night two, the boys realized what was making Ilsa uncomfortable, and from then on let her have the mattress to herself). The window from nine until supper was spent freely: Heath liked trying on the costumes, dressing in Greek togas and heavy wool uniforms from the American Civil War; George frequented the catwalk for some quiet magazine-reading time;
Kip observed the ropes and levers, pulleys and switches found backstage and lazed on the viewing balcony, and Ilsa, with nothing else to do, walked around and visited each of them. She didn’t like straying too far from the herd because of the strange noises upstairs. It was a soft scuttling that the boys passed off as mice in the attic. Early on, she only heard it once or twice in the morning, but by Wednesday, that had doubled. She knew the Emerald was too upscale to have a pest problem, which for her only verified the accounts of theatregoers who reportedly heard ghostly footsteps and felt a watching presence overlooking them.
On Thursday evening, they dined on canned tuna and saltines. Heath took the blunt prop knife beside him to split his fish in half, looking Kip’s way for any kind of reaction, but he didn’t even look up from his food.
“What? Aren’t you gonna whack me on the head, tell me ‘Don’t play with your food, idiot’?”
“Too tired. George, would you mind?”
George nodded, ate another cracker and gave Heath a good thump on his skull. Thanking him, Kip got up, groaning from the pressure on his knee.
“G’night everyone; I’m up first,” he yawned, climbing down from the stage.
“Uh, you sure you’re up for it?” asked George, wary of Kip’s lack of alertness. “We can switch if you want.”
He simply waved the suggestion off and swaggered toward the double doors, grabbing a rifle leaning against a velvet seat and slinging it across his shoulders. As they watched him walk away, Heath stared intently at the receding figure. “You know… if I squint and tilt my head – really hard – he almost looks like John Wayne.”
As Ilsa washed her face with a hand towel in the women’s restroom, she considered finishing up in the men’s with Heath and George. The noise from upstairs hadn’t gone away, and she was starting to spook herself, especially now that Kip – clearly the muscle of the group – would take the first shift. She never took her eyes off the mirror, afraid the Phantom Green would sneak up behind her if not. That night, they all slept on the makeshift mattress at Ilsa’s request. Body heat and George’s soft snores blowing on the back of her neck seemed to do the trick. Sleep came easy.
…
A bright, green smear of light danced across their eyelids, softly nudging them awake. George opened and shielded his eyes from the dome’s rays, and for a split second, he was totally at peace. Well-rested. In truth, the fact that he slept so well was nagging him.
“Heath,” he groaned, voice hoarse with sleep, “Hey, Heath, how come you didn’t wake me up for my shift?”
“Mm,” Heath mumbled, rolling over and accidentally whacking Ilsa with his arm. “Kip, why didn’t you wake me…up…?” He blindly reached for Kip, but his hand only connected with a wool coat. He opened his eyes. The air grew tense as he slowly rose upright from the bed, looking around. “Kip?”
He felt himself break into a cold sweat when no response came, and poked George and Ilsa until they got to their feet with him. “Something’s wrong; it’s not like him to just go somewhere without -”
Ilsa shrieked, eyes nearly popping out of her head. She clapped a hand over her mouth and pointed to the left side of the auditorium, to a limp body slumped across a chair directly under the balcony.
Collective cries raised from the group as they ran over to the corpse; receding strawberry blonde hair, strong back muscles – it wasn’t until George gently turned the head toward him and recognized Kip’s rugged features that all hope for the body to be a complete stranger’s was lost.
“…He’s dead,” George cried, his voice shaking. He dropped the wrist he had held to check for a pulse, easing it down rather than letting it swing. “He’s… he’s really dead…”
Ilsa threw herself into Heath’s shoulder, sobbing. “How, George?” Heath whispered, embracing Ilsa.
“It was the Phantom!”
Both turned toward Ilsa, who broke away from Heath’s shoulder, wiping her eyes and pointing up at the balcony. “Look at the broken railing…Just like the caretaker.” George felt hot with rage. He stomped over to Ilsa, shoving a finger in her face.
“Shut up. Right now. Or if you don’t, I swear – If I hear another word about this Phantom, whom I shouldn’t even have to be telling you you’re too old to believe in, I will throw you out in the street myself!” He paused, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. “You are not using him for one of your ghost stories.”
Her face twisted in fury, Ilsa spat at him with the loudest, most commanding voice any of them had heard her use. “What will it take? How many more will have to die for you” she jabbed a finger in his chest, making him stumble, “to understand?! Your friend is dead! You storm into my city, my home, and presume to tell me what I should and shouldn’t believe in?! You are a stubborn man and you’re going to get us all killed unless -”
“Unless what?” he dared, getting close enough to feel her breath hit his face. “Unless I take the word of a German?”
Ilsa, astounded, clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth would break, but she was beyond caring. Her unbroken stare was ice cold. Heath dropped his head, a tear rolling off his nose. George turned his back to them, hands on his hips. He sniffed to keep his composure.
“Kip must’ve gone up to the balcony after his watch for a minute, probably to let you sleep a little longer, Heath. He was exhausted last night. Probably stumbled and fell over the railing.” They stood in silence, knowing it didn’t fully make sense, but not wanting to consider any other possibilities.
Heath was the first to leave for the lobby; Ilsa, headed for the same, crept up beside George. Tears of anger were running down her face. “You’re a fool if you believe that.” The only one left inside the theater, it was George’s turn to weep for his friend.
…
It was a grim afternoon: the remaining boys cut a strip of fabric from the curtains to wrap Kip’s body, the best they could do for the time being. They carried the body outside, laying him down behind a pillar as a temporary resting place until the reserves could take him with them for an honorable funeral. The only thing resembling noise at supper was the crunch and soft chewing of saltines. The sun was setting, dissipating the green halo left by the skylight and shrouding them in a seemingly colorless environment.
When Heath, sick to his stomach after taking one bite of a cracker, finally came out of the restroom, George called him over to help with the radio. The signal this time was horrible, Lieutenant Thackery’s words unintelligible. “Whaddya–sccccchhh—dead?–sscchhh–How’d–“
They did everything they could, but the signal only got worse. After several minutes, they finally gave up and shut it off.
“Never could work this bloody thing…” George muttered.
Heath stood closer and spoke in a hushed voice. “George. Maybe we really should leave. I know they’re coming tomorrow but this doesn’t feel right.” Suddenly a loud noise came from upstairs, a banging. Now it wasn’t just Ilsa whose heart skipped a beat.
“…There’s those rats again,” breathed George. Even he was having a tough time convincing himself of that.
“Oh, I can’t stand it!” cried Ilsa, holding her face in her hands. “Look in the attic!”
“Fine. Ilsa, you come with me so you can see for yourself how ridiculous you’re being. Heath, will you be fine out here?”
He gulped, not at all comfortable with that. “I’ll holler if I need anything.”
They took the staircase near the ticket booth. The wooden steps creaked with their collective weight, and it wasn’t helping that Ilsa was practically latched onto George. They reached balcony-level, shuddered, and went up one more level until they reached the scuttle door of the attic. George pulled on the attached string, and they both yelped as a hatch door swung down with an attached ladder.
“Ahem,” he coughed, removing his hand that had been held out to shield Ilsa. “Up we go. After you.”
After climbing the ladder, they stood partially hunched in the large attic, looking for anything that might be lurking. It was dim and the air felt stale with floating dust. George led the way, examining every little thing in storage, stooping down to point at the floorboards.
“See? Not even the Emerald is immune to pests.”
“But…mouse traps? That’s what was making all the noise?”
“Feel free to search for yourself.”
“No,” she shook her head, “it’s just… well, if it was the traps, why aren’t there any mice in them…?”
A shout sounded from downstairs. They shared a look. Quickly they went back down the hatch, past the balcony, back on the lobby floor. George threw the auditorium doors open, Ilsa following closely behind. He wanted to shout so badly, call out for his friend, but his fear kept all words choked down.
“Oh, thank God…” George sighed in relief, seeing the light to the dressing room behind and to the right of the stage was turned on. Climbing onstage and pulling Ilsa along, he found himself mostly speaking just for the comfort of hearing himself talk.
“I bet he found a spider on one of the costumes, maybe the Indian chief one. Probably cut himself on that stupid fake sword.” Ilsa tiptoed in, not really listening to him.
“Y’know,” he continued, heart still beating in his throat from adrenaline and fear, “you’ve never really talked about what you’ll do after this is all over. I’m sure Thackery will let you come along with us, out of the countryside at least. I can’t make any promises if you talk his ears off or yell at him, though… It’s funny, I -”
Suddenly he let out a pained noise, throwing his hands up to cover his ears from Ilsa’s horrified scream, a sound that chilled George to the core. He ran inside to see Ilsa fall to the ground in a faint. For there was Heath, sat slumped in a chair in front of the vanity mirror – a dagger plunged in his heart so deep and twisted, it struck clean through the back of the chair. His mouth hung open, blood dribbling from the corner of his lips, eyes wide in pure horror under crimson-splattered glasses.
George rushed to his side, but seeing that he was too late, took slow steps back, ferociously pulling his hair at the roots in a mad convulsion. The back of his feet hit the unconscious form of Ilsa. He dropped to his knees, her white skin soaked with sweat as he tried desperately to shake her awake. In that instant, the banging from the attic happened again, this time coming just outside the dressing room and the loudest it had ever been. In that moment, George knew true terror.
At least, he thought he did, until a looming presence compelled him to turn around, and he was met with the dark barrel of a German rifle.
