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Show me a theater that doesn’t have at least one good ghost story, and I’ll show you a cemetery without any graves. Lambert Playhouse is just one of those places. It contains more paranormal activity, than there are stories to tell.

It was bright winter afternoon, when I walked into the dark theater. The smell of wet paint wafted the air, as my eyes adjusted to the shadows. I was scheduled to meet my old acting teacher Vance Gilmore in the auditorium. When I told him I was writing a book on the paranormal, he insisted on an interview.

While waiting for his arrival, I listened for any unusual sounds coming from the woodwork. I heard no spectral footsteps, and no cold spots, I did smell the sweet fragrance of lilac, as a young lady stepped from behind the curtains. A thin waif of a girl with blond hair falling to the small of her back. Her skin was the color of sandalwood, and she was dressed like 1970. She wore a turtle neck shirt, a mini-skirt, and black patent leather boots. I didn’t see the color of her eyes, until she walked off the stage and came toward me. Her eyes were crystal blue with specks of gray.

“I hear you’re wanting to know about our ghost,” she said.

I smiled, but the girl didn’t smile back.

“Vance, must have told you I was coming.”

“No, he didn’t tell me anything about it, but I overheard him talking.”

“What’d he say?”

“He just mentioned you were coming by that’s all…He might be detained, so is there anything I can do for you?”

“What can you tell me about the theater ghosts?”

“The truth,” she replied, “The real truth and nothing more.”

She sat in the row behind me, and I turned to face her. Her answer intrigued me.

“Everything you’ve heard about this theater is true,” she said, “the cold spots…the missing costumes…the unexplained shadows,” the she laughed, “Even the floating skeleton.”

“The floating skeleton? Vance never told me that one.”

“Only the dead know that story.”

She looked up at the ceiling, collected her thoughts, and smiled.

“You’re going to love this one,” she said, “One night after a dress rehearsal the janitor was sweeping up the stage, when suddenly he hears this awful crash in the prop room. He went to investigate and found that a plastic skeleton had fallen off its hook. Already creeped out because it was Halloween, he hangs the skeleton back on the hook and goes back to work.

A few minutes later, he gets this feeling that he is being watched. His goose bumps migrate from head to toe. He slowly turns around and there staring him in the face is the same skeleton he hung up a few moments earlier. He jumps like a scaled cat, but that’s only half the story. The skeleton is floating several inches off the floor. No strings, no special effects, just floating as if it has a mind of its own. The man’s eyes get as big as cue balls, then the skeleton extends it hand, ‘Hey Mack, thanks for the lift,’ it says, then turns and floats back to the prop room.”

I laughed.

“That’s a good one,” I said, “That’s rich. What happened next?”

“The janitor died of fright.”

“Stage fright,” I quipped.

“You could say that.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” she replied, “He died of stage fright.”

“I’m surprised Vance didn’t tell me that one. He knows more about this theater than anyone else.”

“But some of us know much more…It’s like I said…Only the dead know that story.”

She stared at me for a long moment, holding me with her crystal blue gaze, then she vanished into thin air.

This short story was written by Paul Martin Mulroy as part of our Writer’s Corner.