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The air here at the bottom of the stairs seemed dense; it was hard for Wendy to catch her breath.

The sensation of being trapped, shut in a dark closet, quickly grew.

She needed to out of here before something jumped out and shrieked, “Boo!”

Wendy fit the heavy key in the lock, turned it and locked herself in.

Rather than bounding up the stairs in her usual style, she moved cautiously.

Which, she assured herself, wasn’t because it felt as if she would confront some unhappy theater ghosts, but because of Mabel’s warnings about trapdoors and curtains and props.

When she got to the top, the vista opened up to show her a backstage littered with boxes and trunks.

It looked as if everything had been abandoned in a panic.

Feather boas, wide women’s hats and draped netting hung on hooks.

She collected those, and the tear-away gathered skirt and bustier that made up some medieval costume.

She forgot her trepidation; this seemed like a treasure hunt, and as she gathered each item it tickled her imagination.

She threaded her way through the dusty velvet curtains to the stage where, yes, theater ghosts lingered.

She faced the plywood wall that separated the stage from the shop, where the audience should be.

Surely the voices of the tourists in the clothing shop should carry this far .

.

. but back here, it was so quiet she could hear only the floor creak when she took a step. Wendy had lived in Gothic for six years, but never had she had a moment when she thought the local legend was true . . . until now.

The currents were strong, indeed.

Giving in to impulse, she caught up the cape draped across a trunk, flung it around her shoulders, faced the plywood and took a low bow.

She faced stage left, and took another bow, stage right, and another.

She could almost hear the roar of applause, which made her laugh at herself.

Removing the cape, she wrinkled her nose at the musty smell and placed it in her bag.

She’d have to hang it out and beat the dust off it before the game, but the kids would love it, and she loved those kids. She wanted them to enjoy a carefree childhood, to laugh, to know no one could hurt them and that they were loved.

The single onstage steamer trunk called her name, figuratively, she assured herself, so she started there.

It had been well-packed; the leather straps had been pulled through the buckles, tightly fastening the domed lid. She worked the leather free, flipped the metal clasps, and with an inhale of anticipation, she opened the lid.

Wendy expected a flutter of moths or a funky smell, but instead it smelled like . . . the theater, a smell she knew well from her high school years:

greasepaint and that indefinable sense of excitement.

She’d never been an actor, never wanted to be, but to be involved in make-believe had made her a part of something bigger than herself, something that gave people pleasure.

She’d been a stage manager, a stuntwoman, and yes, a costume designer, and now she reached into the contents and pulled out a long, blond wig.

“Wow,” she whispered.

Wendy shook it and no vermin fell out, so she placed it on her head and reached for the next piece, a skimpy leather skirt.

She knotted it around her waist, took the companion piece, a leather halter, and tied it around her chest.

She went to stand in front of the mirror; her dusty rose jumpsuit molded her shape and with the blond wig and the costume, she looked like some Hollywood producer’s concept of Tarzan’s Jane.

Cool.

Wendy still needed to gather props. She could get everything she needed out of that one trunk, so she headed back and leaned in. She didn’t take off the costume—she figured Mabel and Minnie would get a laugh out of that . . .

From behind her, Wendy heard a whistling noise. Before she could turn, something heavy and hard struck her on the back of the head. The light changed. Stars swirled in a vortex.

She collapsed into the trunk and realized—oh, God, the trunk had been placed on top of a trapdoor. She fell. And fell. And never hit bottom.