The halls were dark—despite my attempts to make the lights flicker ominously. Honest-to-god, I would swear someone was purposely attempting to hinder my hauntings that night. But still, I made my designated rounds.
The bathroom was my main focus tonight: I casually unrolled all of the toilet paper and left all of the faucets turned on—come morning the water will have leaked out of the bathroom and turned the hallway carpet mushy, releasing all sorts of lovely odors, I am certain.
Actually, things had been rather quiet that night. Drifting about, I did not see Boobless, Ugly, Gayboy, or the Rutabaga. Even the Raisin had limped his bony ass out of there. All of the movie showings had been cut short, and everything was eerily still. And I know about eerie stillness—what do you expect? I'm DEAD.
The control booth was locked, but if I went about letting locked doors stop me, well, I wouldn't be much of a terrifying, chain-rattling, basement-dwelling specter would I? I rifled through the film wheels, tossing aside the latest blockbusters in search of The Little Mermaid. No such luck. No one appreciates the classics anymore, do they? I lost my train of thought immediately when I saw a small, blinking red light. Upon closer inspection, it revealed itself to be a small camera on a tripod, tucked away into a corner.
There had been a strange bunch in the theater earlier, with all sorts of packages and boxes, but I had thought them merely a bunch of theatre geeks setting up for a show. I like it when special shows are put on at the Tivoli. Tripping the actors and causing them to break their legs is ironically funny.
My plans for Saturday night were in the can then. So, having deprived me of a proper show, it was only amicable that they provide me with an alternate means of entertainment. So, abandoning my search for The Little Mermaid, I picked up instead a hard-core porn film that one of the teenage staff had managed to get a hand on (I really don't want to know how—it's very difficult to come by pornos on a film-reel, trust me, I know). Feeding it through the projector, I started it playing, and then moved the tripod out into the theater, where it would record one and a half hours of kinky shenanigans.
I had only seen about half of it—I stopped at the part where they were discovering truly unique uses for a life-sized stuffed Kangaroo and a bottle of spray-butter. I do have my moral standards—though breaking old men's hips can be quite fun, I daresay.
Now, it was about 12:18 am at this point, and I became aware of people entering the front doors of the Tivoli. I left the movie to run through the credits—I really did not want to see that a man named 'Henry Hugedong' had played kangaroo violator #3—and went to investigate.
Several people—dressed in black, of course—were entering the building cautiously in front of a camera crew, and a woman with long black hair (with the brown roots showing) was saying, "We, the Chicago Paranormal Research Society, are here at the Tivoli Theatre, built at the turn of the twentieth century."
Fact check: there, she was correct—I would know (that was when that fat bitch pushed me down the stairs and deprived me of a long, boring, horrible life).
"We are searching for signs of supernatural activity here, where staff and employees report unexplainable happenings: film reels playing in the middle of the night, footsteps, a spectral mist, voices." Her voice dropped an octave, "Even possession."
At this point, after the footage had been dropped off at the studio, I'm sure the editors would go for a close-up on her face and play some disturbing, creepy music. But you have to admit—it all sounds pretty impressive when you spell it out like that. On second thought, I'm putting that on my resume. Who knows, maybe I'll get bumped from theatre ghost to urban legend!
"Cut!" someone yelled. The camera drooped towards the ground as they cut the film, and right as I was about to do my old standby of the evil-mist for the camera. Now, at this point I was faced with a dilemma: either I play the demure little ghostie trapped on the mortal plane and lament uproariously about my precarious situation…or I could continue on being a ghostly hooker with a fichus up her ass.
Needless to say, I chose option "B."
Tonight was going to be fun.