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Story: Welcome to Gothic
The remote village of Gothic, California
On scenic Big Sur
Early spring, this year
“The currents are strong today.”
“No, dear, they were stronger yesterday.”
Wendy Giordano stopped in the entry of Vintage Gothic Encore Clothing Shop—motto: Not Responsible for Haunted or Possessed Items—and soon-to-be-opened bookshop, located in the former Gothic Palace theater, to listen to the owners, two sisters, squabble. She smiled.
“No, they weren’t,” Minnie insisted. “Today is the day something will happen. Or tomorrow. But not yesterday.”
“Obvious!” Mabel snapped.
“It’s time, Mabel. Nothing’s obvious.”
In Gothic, California, an iron plaque outside the Live Oak Restaurant proclaimed the local legend:
On stormy nights, Gothic is said to disappear. On its return, it brings lost souls back from the dead.
The isolated village encouraged the woo-woo aspect of their Big Sur locale; woo-woo was good for business, good for the annual Gothic Spring Psychic Festival’s publicity and the annual Gothic Garden and Flower Show. With the Pacific Coast Highway regularly washed out by a series of ocean storms and the only road in the winding and environmentally fragile Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, they needed all the help they could get.
For Wendy’s money, if anyone could be psychic phenomenon specialists, it was the O’Hall siblings. They looked like twins: white-haired, round soft-apple faces, kind blue eyes that could turn sharp in an instant. Ageless, although Mabel frequently made it a point to remind Minnie she was the younger by eleven months.
Right now, Mabel huffed away from Minnie toward the front door of the shop and greeted Wendy as she stepped inside. “Hello, dear, that fog is dense this morning, isn’t it?”
“Damp, gray and moving as if it was alive,” Wendy agreed. Currents, she thought, and shivered.
Mabel shut the door firmly behind them.
“What are you here for today?” Minnie asked. “You brought your biggest shopping bag, so I know this isn’t a mere visit.”
“Although we love that, too.” Mabel beamed. “You know you’re one of our favorite people.”
“I love you both, too.” Wendy hugged them warmly. “I heard you talking about the Gothic time currents like you know something about them. Were you two born here?”
“No, dear, no one is ever born here. We’re all called,” Minnie assured her.
Whatever that meant.
“We have been here for a long time.” Mabel poured a mug of hot coffee, stirred in a generous dollop of cream and sugar, brought it to Wendy and offered it with one of her rare and wonderful smiles.
Wendy took it and sipped, closed her eyes and appreciated the toasty smell and rich taste of the real thing. She ran Bendy Wendy’s Yoga, Self-Defense and Workout Studio, Gothic’s only such studio, and in theory she didn’t approve of caffeine, cream and sugar. “I only indulge when I’m here.”
“No guilt!” Mabel’s admonishing finger rose. “You can work out an extra ten minutes today.”
Wendy regretfully put the mug down. “I don’t have an extra ten minutes today.” Between the locals and the periodic influx of tourists, she was always on the go and she made a good living. Important for someone with her background.
“It doesn’t matter. You look very fit.”
Wendy suspected the women didn’t approve of her formfitting spandex jumpsuit that displayed every curve of every muscle, but she considered herself a walking advertisement and . . . well . . . she looked good and she knew it.
“I’m throwing a party for my young karate masters, ages seven to twelve, and we’re going to play dress up a parent.”
Both women stopped bustling and shot her inquiring glances.
“I put one item in each bag, either clothes or a prop. The kids scale the obstacles, grab a bag and run back to their parent. They open the bag and dress their designated parent in whatever is inside. When we run out of bags, we’ll take family photos and have cake. The kids will love it!”
“Not so much the parents, I suspect,” Minnie said severely.
“Probably not. One of my kids is new, and his mother is a single parent. She informed me she couldn’t be there for the party, so I’m going to stand in for her and that’ll lessen any potential embarrassment for her son.” Wendy grinned. “And for any dignified parent.”
Mabel clasped her hands. “Everybody will love that!”
“Oh, I know.” Wendy didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about her dignity. She began looking around the shop for the most extravagant pieces for her costume bags.
Built in the glory days of the thirties, the theater had once been a palace indeed. The ceiling was decorated with Egyptian motifs and gilded with gold leaf. The pillars had been carved and painted to look like the columns of Karnak. Framed and faded old movie posters decorated the walls. Even now, the smells of real butter and popcorn permeated the air. Wendy knew in its day the building had been a marvel. Not so much now; it showed its age, but like Minnie and Mabel kept its charm alive with three well-dressed wax figures of silent movie stars. Wendy thought the mannequins were creepy, but they attracted a lot of tourist attention.
The wall between the lobby and auditorium had been removed. The now-open space was the shop area where the sisters kept an ever-changing stock of designer clothes that attracted a diverse clientele—people with pretentions, people who loved to dress up and, possibly the most important source of income, Hollywood costume designers looking for inspiration.
Mabel got right down to business. “You’re looking for wigs, feather boas, dramatic swishy cloaks?”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” Minnie said. “When Maeve Lindholm closed the theater in December 1941—Pearl Harbor forced the closing, you know—all the props and costumes were hung up or packed away backstage, and they’ve never been completely cleared out.”
Mabel clasped her hands over her heart. “There are trunks back there that have never been opened!”
“Wow.” Wendy looked at the stage, rising seven feet above the main floor and sectioned off from the space by a painted plywood wall. “How do I get up there?”
“I’ll take you,” Minnie said.
“No, dear, I will,” Mabel countered. “You know I’m more familiar with backstage.”
“How will I ever become familiar if I don’t—”
“One of us has to stay and mind the shop!”
“And it should be you!”
The sisters reminded Wendy of two bees buzzing crossly around each other.
The front door opened bringing a surge of people, chatting and laughing, ready to shop.
“The tour bus must have pulled in,” Mabel said.
Minnie consulted the small antique watch that hung around her neck. “They’re early,” she said in patent disapproval. “We’ll both need to be here to handle the customers. Wendy, can you find your way around backstage by yourself?”
“Of course!” Wendy tingled with anticipation of such an adventure.
Mabel took Wendy by the arm. “This way.” She led her through a series of industrial folding room dividers and into the other half of the floor space. The newly constructed bookshelves gave off a fresh lumber smell, and everywhere boxes of books stood open. Mabel stopped to allow Wendy to get a good look. “The bookshop will specialize in theater arts and history, of course, but we expect our primary sales to be in books about the occult and transformations and all the things Gothic is famous for.”
“The currents,” Wendy said.
“Exactly.”
“What does Madame Rune think of that?” Just up Gothic’s winding street, the flamboyant Rune ran Madame Rune’s Psychic Readings and Bookshop.
“It was her idea. She’s moving her bookshop over here for us to handle. In exchange, she’s taking some of our more gaudy items to sell in her store.” Mabel’s eyes gleamed with delight. “We have a lead on the wax figure of Maria Ouspenskaya as Maleva the Gypsy fortune-teller in The Wolf Man!”
Wendy gave a blank stare.
“You’re too busy to watch old movies, and that one is from the 1930s. But if we manage to land the figure, it’s going over to Madame Rune’s shop, too. Anyway, we’ve found cross-pollination increases everyone’s sales. All we have to do is find the time to set up the shelves!” Mabel led Wendy to a locked door. “Go backstage and hunt. Remember to be careful. In its day, before it was a movie theater, this place was Maeve Lindholm’s fully functioning playhouse where she and her movie actor friends would perform to lure the public to the area. There are trapdoors and ropes and curtains and props everywhere.”
“I’ll be careful,” Wendy promised.
“Open the trunks and take whatever strikes your fancy. We’ll square it with you later.” Mabel pulled a big, old-fashioned iron key from her leather belt bag, unlocked the door and opened it with a creak that would have done the Addams family proud. “Lock the door behind you. Tourists try to sneak in everywhere.” She handed Wendy the heavy key and gave her a push.
Wendy stumbled inside.
With a resounding thunk, Mabel shut the door, and for a moment, it reminded Wendy of a prison door closing . . . forever.
She looked up the dim, narrow stairs into a swirl of dust lit by some unseen window or skylight.
Or had the fog crept backstage in the theater?