Memoirs of a Designated Theatre Ghost
I yawned, vaguely considering the cliché inadequacies of the phrase of "BOO!" Yet such things are to be expected, I suppose, when one transcends the mortal plan, ascending to a supposedly brighter phase of existence, yet is caught up in a stereotypical mishmash.
I suppose your soft, half-capable brain is going "What?" so I think I am going to have to simplify this story for you. Ahem: I'M DEAD. Now, must we carry on like this? You, wondering if there is any credence to this phantom narrator, and I wondering if there is any small amount of neurons firing off in your skull.
So, with all of the pleasantries out of the way, I presume you will be wishing to know two main things: one, how did I die, and two, is it interesting enough to keep your attention. Sadly, I marvel at how this generation of American youth has become so…disturbed? Is that the correct word? No matter. My name is Travis Nash, or was, if you wish to get technical. I was born in 1906, and lived a happy, fulfilling life—until I died anyway.
And this is what I have been building up to; what you have been waiting for. Oh, I know! The suspense is killing me! Oh wait, I'm already dead. My life came to is sad, depressing, sorrowful, tragic (etc.) end in 1929, at the Tivoli theatre, which had been opened six months previously on Christmas day.
I bumped into someone, fell down some stairs, and poof, presto chango, here I am. Not the tale of romance and horror and mystery you were hopping for, I'm guessing? No matter, my afterlife is much more interesting than my life ever was. I guess you could call me the DTG: the Designated Theatre Ghost. Doesn't every majestic, old theatre have to have one chain-ratting, basement-dwelling, eerily-moaning resident ghost? It just adds to the atmosphere, if you know what I mean. Nothing like keeping guests on their toes, lest they stray around a corner, see my transparent ghostliness, and suddenly require a new pare of knickers.
Now, contrary to popular belief, I did not die in the theatre fire—considering that it took place around 55 years after I died. But I guess my perishing in the flames would cast some sort of shadow over the place, making it darkly desirable and mysterious, anything to draw in the tourists.
I rather do enjoy spending my time in the basement—that's where the dressing rooms are. One positive thing I can say about recent generations. The women are…physically gifted. I spend hours down there, drifting from room to room, observing the strangest things. Oh, let me tell you about the time that one brunette snuck that muscular lion-tamer from the circus down here—the things they got into! There was that one time with the fichus…or am I remembering the incident with the pair of scissors…no matter, I suppose I should keep this PG-13 anyway.
If you want some practical advice from this side of things, I would have to say number one on the list—around here anyway—is to avoid that Purple Bishop fellow. He only comes out every twenty years or so, but trust me, you do not want to tango with him.
And—sadly—that is all I have to say. My afterlife is uneventful, which makes one think that my life life must have been truly dull and abysmal. In fact, it was. But ta-ta for now. Stop by again, I just might have written more.