The ghost light stood alone on stage, casting its pale white light out into the emptiness of the Orpheum Theatre. We sat up in the darkened mezzanine, where the light barely reached, passing a pint of whiskey between the two of us and finishing a bag of cold popcorn.
“Mike, any chance you want to tell me what we’re doing up here?” I took a swig from the bottle and handed it back to him. “It’s been a long day of set up and rehearsal, and I’d like to get some sleep.”
“Shhh shhh shhh. Look down.” He craned his neck out and pointed his finger down to the orchestra seating below us.
As if on cue, a girl in her late teens stood up from her seat with an echoing giggle. There was an unearthly glow about her as she began to dance in the aisles.
“That one of the chorus girls?” I asked, uncertain of what I was seeing.
“That’s Mary. The theatre’s ghost. She’s been around forever.”
“That’s absolutely mad, Mike.”
“I know.” He looked over at me, a wild glint in his eye. “I want you to find a way to work her into the show.”
In the Orpheum, seat C-5 can sometimes be a little colder than any other seat in the building. That’s because it belongs to the Orpheum’s ghost, Mary. Supposedly she’s the ghost of a young girl that died in a car accident in front of the theatre. She’s been known to open doors, play the organ, and give people the shivers as she passes through the audience.