Tracked by Terror Read Online Free Page B
Author: Brad Strickland
cakes of theatrical makeup, sponges, bottles of lotions and jars of creams, and a few stubby pencilsâeyebrow pencils, he supposed. He took one of these, and he took one of those ever-burning candles from a wall sconce outside the dressing room.
In its pale yellow light, he could see a bulletin board hung over with hundreds of pieces of paper. Inspecting them, Jarvey found lists of actors and parts for hundreds of plays. He didnât recognize a single title: The Romanâs Revenge; Hearts in Conflict; Rolloâs Seaside Holiday; The Sorrowful History of King Harold; The Play of Ghosts and Shadows; others by the dozen. Some of the papers looked fresh and crisp, but many others had curled and yellowed with age.
Jarvey pulled four or five of the playbills down from the board, choosing ones that had been concealed by layers of later ones. The backs of the lists were blank. He had a pencil, and now he had paper. Maybe he could leave notes for Betsy. Maybe she would find them and then find Jarvey again.
After all, if she had stumbled into a doorway opening off that maddening corridor, she just might wind up here. Come to that, Jarvey thought, she might even have found her way out of this odd theater, if it had a way out.
He shivered, remembering how the crowd of people had abruptly, impossibly, evaporated into thin air. How the doll-creature had shattered and yet had tried to drag itself after him with its crumbling arms, crawling over its own fallen jaw.
Jarveyâs imagination was racing again. What if the theater wasnât real at all? What if the people were spirits, what if...
What if it was all just a theater of ghosts and shadows?
4
Merely Players
H ours of searching led Jarvey to only one discovery. He opened a door backstage and found himself in the same corridor he and Betsy had started in. There was the door to the loo, just opposite. If Betsy had stumbled onto this doorway, she had stepped right into the shadows behind the stage. And what had happened to her?
Jarvey knew she was resourceful, quick and smart. He told himself she could get out of any trouble, that she could handle danger. He couldnât help smiling when he remembered how, back in Lunnon, Betsy was such an expert thief that she could steal food right off the table without anyoneâs noticing. Sheâd be all right on her own. She didnât really need him to help her survive. Still, he needed her, and he didnât know what he would do if he couldnât find her again.
The Grimoire knew. It whispered to him to open the book, to get out of here, to leave her behind.
âNo,â he said to himself, not to the Grimoire. That was one thing he couldnât do. But he was tired. He found a place to hide, crept into it, and curled up to grab what sleep he could.
A stranger haunted his dreams, a man with thin arms and a bloated face, an evil face. In all the dreams, Jarvey hid from the man, and the stranger searched for him, swiveling his head, his eyes glaring. The dreams took place nowhere that Jarvey could identify, just shadowy landscapes. And in each dream, the evil man seemed to come a little closer. In the last, Jarvey seemed to be standing behind a tall chain-link fence, like the one on the baseball field where his team played. He heard the links jangling, and looked off into the distance to see the dark-suited man clinging to the opposite side of the fence, creeping along like a human spider, his white face turning from side to side as he looked for Jarvey.
Jarvey woke with a gasp and then realized it was just another nightmare. He took a few deep breaths, turned on his side, and hung in that warm, drowsy place between sleep and awareness, wondering who the man in those disturbing dreams could be. He had the strangest feeling that he should have recognized the face, yetâ
A voice from outside his hiding place broke into his thoughts: âNow remember, all, the key with comedy is to keep it moving fast
In its pale yellow light, he could see a bulletin board hung over with hundreds of pieces of paper. Inspecting them, Jarvey found lists of actors and parts for hundreds of plays. He didnât recognize a single title: The Romanâs Revenge; Hearts in Conflict; Rolloâs Seaside Holiday; The Sorrowful History of King Harold; The Play of Ghosts and Shadows; others by the dozen. Some of the papers looked fresh and crisp, but many others had curled and yellowed with age.
Jarvey pulled four or five of the playbills down from the board, choosing ones that had been concealed by layers of later ones. The backs of the lists were blank. He had a pencil, and now he had paper. Maybe he could leave notes for Betsy. Maybe she would find them and then find Jarvey again.
After all, if she had stumbled into a doorway opening off that maddening corridor, she just might wind up here. Come to that, Jarvey thought, she might even have found her way out of this odd theater, if it had a way out.
He shivered, remembering how the crowd of people had abruptly, impossibly, evaporated into thin air. How the doll-creature had shattered and yet had tried to drag itself after him with its crumbling arms, crawling over its own fallen jaw.
Jarveyâs imagination was racing again. What if the theater wasnât real at all? What if the people were spirits, what if...
What if it was all just a theater of ghosts and shadows?
4
Merely Players
H ours of searching led Jarvey to only one discovery. He opened a door backstage and found himself in the same corridor he and Betsy had started in. There was the door to the loo, just opposite. If Betsy had stumbled onto this doorway, she had stepped right into the shadows behind the stage. And what had happened to her?
Jarvey knew she was resourceful, quick and smart. He told himself she could get out of any trouble, that she could handle danger. He couldnât help smiling when he remembered how, back in Lunnon, Betsy was such an expert thief that she could steal food right off the table without anyoneâs noticing. Sheâd be all right on her own. She didnât really need him to help her survive. Still, he needed her, and he didnât know what he would do if he couldnât find her again.
The Grimoire knew. It whispered to him to open the book, to get out of here, to leave her behind.
âNo,â he said to himself, not to the Grimoire. That was one thing he couldnât do. But he was tired. He found a place to hide, crept into it, and curled up to grab what sleep he could.
A stranger haunted his dreams, a man with thin arms and a bloated face, an evil face. In all the dreams, Jarvey hid from the man, and the stranger searched for him, swiveling his head, his eyes glaring. The dreams took place nowhere that Jarvey could identify, just shadowy landscapes. And in each dream, the evil man seemed to come a little closer. In the last, Jarvey seemed to be standing behind a tall chain-link fence, like the one on the baseball field where his team played. He heard the links jangling, and looked off into the distance to see the dark-suited man clinging to the opposite side of the fence, creeping along like a human spider, his white face turning from side to side as he looked for Jarvey.
Jarvey woke with a gasp and then realized it was just another nightmare. He took a few deep breaths, turned on his side, and hung in that warm, drowsy place between sleep and awareness, wondering who the man in those disturbing dreams could be. He had the strangest feeling that he should have recognized the face, yetâ
A voice from outside his hiding place broke into his thoughts: âNow remember, all, the key with comedy is to keep it moving fast
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