The Waking Moon

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jack had been living in the old Cooper Theater, an abandoned cinema on Pikes Peak Street, which had closed down with the rise of the multiplexes. Most of the businesses for two city blocks were derelict, which made the area feel like a ghost town.

Not wanting to blow Jack’s cover, Samson had given me a ratty old coat to wear, and told me to tuck my hair into a green knit ski cap that smelled like mothballs.

“The homeless are as invisible as the dead,” he’d said.

We paused in front of the theater, and I looked up at the ruined façade. The old neon sign above the marquee was shattered. The plywood that shuttered the doors was weatherworn and riddled with dry rot. The cases that once showcased the movie posters were papered in old fliers and tagged with graffiti.

We turned the corner and then hooked down an alley, which bisected the block. It was narrow and deserted, the kind of alley where girls’ bodies turn up in dumpsters. Still, I forced my feet to move, following Sampson until we stood at the back door of the theater. The old man shot a glance up and down the alley, then yanked on the door. The wood had swollen over time, and it resisted. Finally it popped open with terrible screech.

Inside it was very dark. I could hear the violent pounding of my heart as if it were beating in my head. Sampson groped around until his hand found the slit in a heavy velvet curtain. He pushed his way through and held back the curtain to let me pass. 

“Go on,” he said, nudging me forward.

I stepped hesitantly into the vast space of the old theater. There were candles stuck onto the arms of the aisle seats, flickering in the darkness. It smelled musty from the years of enclosure. But there was another smell, faint and pleasant and familiar. Musky cologne.

“Jack!” Sampson called. “It’s your old buddy come to see you!”

I gazed into the shadows, waiting. There was a moment of humming silence. Then a voice drifted down from somewhere, though I couldn’t tell where.

“Sampson?”

It was husky and young, and seemed to be coming from up high. My eyes darted back and forth, searching.

“That’s right, son.”

After a moment, he stepped through the doors at the back of the theater, a broad shouldered silhouette against the candlelight. He slowly descended the sloping aisle and came into view. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a white tee shirt. His hair was mussed, as if he’d just been woken up. He blinked at us, still groggy. When he saw me, his eyes flashed anxiously back to Sampson.

“Who’s this?”

Samson laughed. “I brought someone to see you, kid.”

“Sampson...”

Before I knew what was happening, the old man had pulled me from the shadows, yanking the cap from my head. Long curls tumbled down around my shoulders. Jack’s eyes widened.

“Paulie,” he whispered. “My god, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Sampson stood there grinning, pleased with himself. “Well, then. I think I’ll haul my old self out of here.” He gave Jack a roguish wink. “Told you she’d turn up, didn’t I.”

He turned and made his way to the door.

“Hey,” I called after him, panicked. “Where are you going?”

“I’d say my work here is done,” he said.

“Can’t you just stay a little while?” 

Sampson gave me a funny look. “Sweetheart, let me tell you something… You should fear the taxman. You should fear the policeman. You should fear the crazy man. But have no fear of the dead man. Especially this one, who is as smitten with you as a dopey puppy.” With that, he slipped through the curtain. The back door slammed closed with a thud, which echoed through the vast, empty space.