THE HANGING HILL PLAYHOUSE—CHATHAM, CONNECTICUT
A PANDEMONIUM PRODUCTION
Pandemonium.
There was that word again.
Zack had to find a dictionary.
Or talk to Meghan.
After all, she knew what “vicariously” meant. Maybe “pandemonium” was one of her vocabulary words, too.
71
All around him, actors were acting, singing, and laughing but Reginald Grimes wasn’t paying any attention.
It was nearly noon and he was thinking about his grandfather: Professor Nicholas Nicodemus. A brilliant man who had failed so miserably.
Hakeem had told him the story: how the great one had blundered when he’d attempted to throw open the doors to the underworld and had completed only half of the resurrection ritual before being hauled away by the authorities to live out the rest of his days in an insane asylum!
“From the top again?”
“Hmmm?”
“Would you like us to take it from the top again?” the composer asked from the piano bench.
“Yes. Again! From the top.”
He’d work the cast hard today. Wear them out. Exhaust them with vocal gymnastics and grueling dance routines. He’d run this rehearsal like an aerobics class in a sauna! He’d tell Hakeem to turn off the air-conditioning, let the room fill with the unrelenting humidity of August’s dog days. After six more hours of strenuous exercise, every bone-weary member of this cast and crew would be too exhausted to venture back to the theater tonight and interfere.
Meghan and Derek he would dismiss early, as there was no pressing need to fatigue or drain them. Besides, the boy needed time to work on his new lines.
It was Monday.
That meant the theater would be dark. There would be no performances of Bats in Her Belfry. No audience. No uninvited interlopers.
In just over seven hours, Reginald Grimes would succeed where his forefather had ultimately failed!
The music stopped. The singing ceased.
“Lunch break!” said the stage manager.
“What?” said Grimes, sounding half-asleep.
“Lunch break, sir. You said you wanted to take an hour break at noon?”
“I suppose I did. Meghan? Derek? You two are done for the day. Go work on your lines.”
“Yes, sir!” said Derek.
“I will see you again at seven,” said Grimes. “The rest of you, be back at one. We will begin to choreograph the dance numbers. Be sure to wear your gym clothes. I want to see you sweat!”
“That’s one hour for lunch!” said the stage manager.
The cast and crew shuffled out of the rehearsal room.
“Hakeem?”
“Yes, Exalted One?”
“Turn off the AC!”
72
So far, Judy wasn’t impressed with her brilliant director.
He didn’t even pay attention during the read-through. Jeff Woodman, the actor playing the father, kept calling Curiosity Cat “Monstrosity Cat” and Grimes hadn’t said a single word.
She approached the head table.
“Mr. Grimes?”
He didn’t look up. He was still completely engrossed in that big leather book, the one with Professor Nicholas Nicodemus embossed in gold letters on the cover.
“So who’s Professor Nicodemus?” she asked.
That got his attention.
He looked up. Stroked his mustache with a single finger.
“My grandfather. It was a stage name, of course. Professor Nicodemus was one of the greatest magicians who ever lived! He even performed here.”
“When?”
“During vaudeville. Back in the 1930s.”
“What’s in the book?”
“Secrets. Illusions.”
“I see.”
“Enjoy your lunch, Mrs. Jennings.”
His jet-black eyes went back to the onionskin pages of his blasted book. He tilted it up toward his chest so Judy couldn’t read what was written inside.
Shaking her head, she left the rehearsal room and went into the lower lobby, where the rest of the cast and crew were milling about, making lunch plans.
Who was this Professor Nicodemus?
What had he really written in that leather-bound book that was so fascinating?
“Meghan?” she asked. “Do you know how to find the library?”
“Sure. It’s two blocks west on Elm Street. My mom was going there this morning.”
“Great. Maybe she can help me.”
“Do what?”
“Some quick research.”
“Cool. You want me to tell Zack where you went?”
“Thanks. Do you know how to find him?”
Meghan gestured toward the door that led into the basement. “I have a pretty good idea.”
“I thought the janitor said downstairs was off-limits.”
“He did. But, well, as you might’ve heard, the janitor didn’t come to work today.”
Judy smiled. “I see. Enjoy your afternoon off. Tell Zack I’ll catch up with him around six. And, Meghan?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t break anything down there.”
73
Wilbur Kimble dragged himself across the closet floor.
He had been locked up in the dark for nearly a full day. He was thirsty. Starving. Too weak to even speak, let alone cry out for help.
The closet door was so warped it made a tight seal along the bottom edge where it met the concrete floor. No light seeped in under it and the key was still down the drain, where he had dropped it when the sizzling ghost in the electric chair had made him all kinds of jumpy.
Wilbur Kimble was trapped. There was no way out.
His jailor, the spook who called himself Mad Dog Murphy, had vanished, threatening, of course, to come back.
He leaned against the closet door, closed his eyes, and dreamed of Clara—the one ghost he wished would come visit him.
“O, magnus Molochus.”
Kimble almost had a heart attack! Someone was out in the basement reciting the words!
“Nos duo vitam nostram damus ut vos omnes qui hue arcessiti estis vivatis.”
This couldn’t be happening! The words! Spoken once again by a young boy. That pampered Hollywood brat Derek Stone!
Kimble attempted to pound his fist against the door but he couldn’t find the strength to lift his arm.
“Help.” His cry came out as a scratchy peep while the boy, oblivious to Kimble’s presence in the nearby closet, pressed on.
“Puer et puella, puri et fideles, morimur ut vos resuscitet.”
Puer et puella. Boy and girl.
Puri et fideles. Pure and true.
Kimble knew these words.
Could translate them from the Latin, because they were the very same words Professor Nicodemus had made him utter the day Clara died.
Now someone had brought the words back into the Hanging Hill Playhouse.
Kimble had failed. He hadn’t scared anyone away.
The moon would be full tonight, and the children—a boy and a girl—would still be in the theater.
Soon they might never be able to leave!
74
Derek sneezed.
The dust in this basement was abominable; breathing was like inhaling a sack of airborne plaster particles. He was surrounded by all manner of dust-covered trunks and theatrical props: a barber pole; a papier-mâché crown; whiskey barrels; a couple of baskets; and a fake pig, a wax apple stuck in its mouth, sitting on a silver serving platter.
He sneezed again. Wiped his nose. Sneezed some more.
Derek knew he needed to stop doing that.
He needed to memorize the new script. Mr. Grimes believed in him. He couldn’t let down the one person in the world who actually thought he might be good for something besides sitting on the couch eating Doritos!