Phantom of the Operetta by John C. Bunnell

Author:John C. Bunnell [Bunnell, John C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Ghost, Fantasy & Magic, Fae, Gilbert & Sullivan, Sidhe
ISBN: 9781601740441
Publisher: Uncial Press
Published: 2008-03-14T07:00:00+00:00

As he sang, in an unusually resonant tenor, he began drawing objects from a large black bag and setting them out on a work-table: assorted jars and phials--"Love-philtre? We've quantities of it!"--a grinning skull--"We're keeping a very small prophet!"--an old-fashioned telescope--"Facts astronomical"--a thick tome with brass hinges--"He'll find it all ready in stacks!". As he finished the second chorus, he rapped the book sharply.

And I felt an unexpected shudder of genuine magical energy.

I nearly struck my head on the low ceiling of the director's box as I jumped from my seat, but I didn't need a concussion to see the whirl of supernatural colors weaving themselves around the book and its bearer. It might appear to be Peter Morgenthaler on stage, but the performance wasn't his. It belonged to the spirit that had borrowed Peter's body, most likely by channeling itself through the copy of the script that had vanished from Lyle's bag earlier in the week--one Roderick Riley, class of '25 or '26.

With that knowledge, a jigsaw of other insights organized itself into a mostly tidy picture in my head. Fortunately, my box had two exits, and I took the one that led directly into the rabbit-warren of corridors and cubbyholes backstage. Actors and tech crewfolk glanced at me curiously as I passed them. I nodded politely back without speaking as I hurried down one hallway after another. I paused briefly outside the costume shop, fixing my intended destination firmly in mind. I had been given a full tour of the building when I'd first arrived on campus, but I had not strayed far from the stage since.

Then I was off again, turning down a half-darkened corridor and following it to its end. The door I wanted was locked, but my passkey opened it silently, and I padded quickly down a set of dusty stairs into the prop cellar. There was a light switch at the bottom of the steps, and I flicked it on before entering the main storage area.

The huge room, ill-lit even with four overhead bulbs, was loaded haphazardly with set pieces, furniture, assorted scenery, and miscellaneous knick-knacks. A suit of armor stood beside a Wild West saloon's bar, an Indian totem pole rose next to a background painting of a Chinese pagoda, and an enormous umbrella stand had been crammed with flags, walking sticks, swords, and parasols. Two doors were visible, one at the room's far end and one along the right-hand wall, half-hidden behind a faux French armoire. Dust was almost everywhere, eddied and whorled in odd patterns, and a musty smell lingered over all.

None of this, however, was what I was looking for. Weaving my way between nightstands and telephone tables, easy chairs and wooden rockers, I followed a faint but discernible tendril of psychic energy to a point along the wall halfway between the stairs and the armoire. A tall, shallow bookcase stood in front of me, stocked with dummy volumes designed to resemble a large collection of classical literature.

"Cliché," I said dryly.

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