Fic: Curtain Call
Title: Curtain Call
Author: seraphim_grace
Recipient: buriedchild
Rating: Gen
Warnings: One instance of mentioned violence.
Summary: A haunted theatre in the middle of nowhere and the star that’s not quite ready to leave.
“So this theatre is haunted, right?” Dean asked, drumming out the beat to “When the levee breaks” on the leather steering wheel of the Impala.
Sam looked at his brother from the newspaper on his knee, fingering his bangs out of the way. “Yep, says here there’s been ten deaths in the last five years alone, all night watchmen, found at the door with their fingernails ripped off.”
“Trying to get out?” Dean asked. The building in front of them didn’t look haunted, to be fair it didn’t look much like a theatre, and certainly not a phantom of the opera theatre. It was a white concrete box in the middle of a busy street. It had posters advertising the last musicals outside the box office, and wasn’t even boarded up.
“Looks like it.” Sam agreed.
“It’s just,” Dean looked at the building, “it’s not the usual sort of dump. Are you sure you have the right address.”
The look Sam gave him Dean privately referred to as bitchface number four, which was saved for occasions when Dean doubted his ability to perform mundane tasks like tying his own shoes.
“I told the agent we were looking to buy some real estate in town to turn into offices and we have an appointment in an hour or so, plenty of chance to go around with the EMF.”
“No point,” Dean said, sitting back in the car seat, “look.” Just behind the building was a mobile phone tower. It would cause their equipment to give false readings. “We’d be better off with a dowsing rod, book, bell and candle.”
Sam flashed him bitchface number one and folding the news paper, stuffing it into the glovebox and sitting back to wait on the agent.
The agent gave off two immediate impressions, both of which were later proved false. One that he was British, the tweed suit and comb over being largely to blame for this, and the other that he was incredibly gay. After a small period of knowing him this was proved to be a gross understatement.
He had a story for every step he took about the theatre, built in the fifties on the site of a much older theatre, a wooden one, which burned down in ‘52 and as much as Sam listened to the old man prattle on, and on, and on, he couldn’t hear about terrible deaths that would cause this sort of violent haunting. It was one thing for a ghost to scare it’s victims to death, but ripping off the fingernails was personal.
“And there’s the supposed haunting?” Dean said as he bounced up and down a little on the creaky floorboard.
“Oh the dead nightwatchmen, you’ll be fine as long as you don’t have a night shift, har har.” The agent laughed. “And besides a pair of strapping young men like yourselves," he leered, “I imagine together you could see off most things.”
“We’re brothers.” Sam corrected him as he was looked up and down lasciviously.
If anything it just made the leer broader.
“Just out of curiousity what was the last show played here?” Dean asked, “with the theatrical theme we were thinking about giving the different offices different names, yanno.”
And the agent did know because he smiled broadly. “Oh, it was the local amateur dramatics society performance of “HMS Pinafore” by Gilbert and Sullivan. Went down splendidly, the critics were amazed, why even my nephew the accused murderer attended, just behind the critics in fact, polishing his hunting knife as he hummed along. The reviews were sparkling.”
“I’m sure,” Sam agreed.
“But still, with the dead night watchmen, we would want more information before making an offer. It is, quite frankly, a deal breaker.”
“Of course.” The agent agreed. “But nothing I’d particularly worry about, heart attacks happen, and none of the men were in their prime.” He looked about, “oh this place has some grand memories, before it was burned down it was a popular stop on the national tour of many great companies. It will be a shame to see it turned into offices, but no one comes here anymore. And frankly, the town could use the jobs.”
Sam nodded. “If we could borrow the keys until the morning, give us a good chance to go over the place, check the utilities, measure the rooms, that kind of thing.” For a moment the agent looked a bit worried. “Of course, you can stay with us if you’d like.” The agent went grey, it was a peculiar shade usually reserved for the meat inside microwavable burritos.
“No, no,” he said, “the doors lock automatically when you close it, you stay here as long as you like, and just push them to make sure when you’re done. I tell you, this place isn’t haunted, I mean there’s no such things as ghosts,” both brothers forced a laugh, “but it can be a bit creepy, all those old backdrops and costumes, it’s no wonder people think odd things about it, but being here, all on your own, with the shadows and the sceneries, it’s no wonder they got themselves into a panic and up and died. You boys phone me in the morning with your decision, okay, and let me know if you need more time.” He rolled his shoulders, “there was this one time when I was rehearsing for my role as Ralph Rackstraw where I could have sworn, but was proved mistaken, to hear a woman singing Wagner, of all things.”
“Die Walkure?” Dean asked hopefully as his brother boggled at him even knowing the title of one Wagner song, let along in German.
"No, Der fliegende Holländer,” the agent corrected, “it sounded like, but I couldn't swear to it, Spin, Spin fair maiden, strangest thing, of course I imagined the whole thing, and it only lasted for a short while, but it gave me a terrible fright. Why I haven’t listened to Wagner since, and in my youth I was a great fan.”
“Wagner’s cool.” Dean agreed. “Nice and loud.” Sam was convinced at this point that the fairies had come and swapped Dean with an impersonator, because his brother didn’t like classical music, let alone Opera, unless it was performed by Bugs Bunny, and even then he wasn't the sort to know it was Wagner that it was lampooning. He might have recognised Ride of the Valkyries in Apocalypse Now, but this was obviously not Dean talking. “Great for.” He cut himself off.
“Fucking,” the agent agreed with a shark’s grin looking Dean up and down, who swallowed nervously. “Now I do have other appointments so I’ll be leaving the two of you, make sure the doors are locked when you’re done, they will latch automatically. Ciao.” And looking for all the world that he had a hellhound chasing him the agent left.
By dark the theatre was a completely different place, a place of shadows. Dean thought, as he munched a mouthful of extra-salted potato chips noisily, that with the right lamps, the stage would look fabulous. But right now, in the pitched darkness with only his flashlight on to give some lights, the backdrop looked sad and broken like a well-forgotten actress.
“Dean, I have to ask,” Sam said, breaking the silence. “Wagner?”
"Ah, Wagner,” he started to speak, “did I ever tell you about Clarissa and the Hummingbird, I trust you know what the hummingbird is?”
"I know what a hummingbird is." Sam cut him off, because he knew it was a sexual position but other than that he didn’t know, and he really didn’t want to. He was once again reading a clipping of papers he put on his knees with the help of flashlight. At least he didn't give Dean his infamous bitchface number one hundred twenty so Dean could give him his jerkface number three although Sam didn't see it.
"Have you tried it with Die Walkure?" Dean pushed his luck. “Totally changed my opinion of opera, even went to see it, of course didn’t pay too much attention.”
Sam finally looked up from reading material, heaving a sigh. "TMI Dude..."
"Hey, you asked." Dean flailed. He balled the empty chip package. "What's the odd the ghost won't show up tonight?" They had their ammo and stuff ready, well-prepared for the worst.
Sam had gone back to his papers clipping. "Then we just have to come back tomorrow night, and the next and the next." Sam muttered.
Dean scrunched his nose. "You know I'm not particularly interested..."
There was a sudden chill at the nape of his neck. Sam looked up again from his papers. Dean slipped his fngers into the handle of his rock salt gun. He was going to lift up the gun but Sam's hand in his prevented him to do so.
"Sush." Sam hissed. "Listen."
Dean tilted his head, sharpening his hearing.
It started like the sound of the wind to him. however it slowly took shape of a female's high pitched voice.
"Charlotte Dunham died in the fire that took down the original theatre." Sam whispered as the voice became more melodious. "It happened during the performance, during the closing act of The Flying Dutchman. Everybody managed to exit but she wasn't so lucky. She was the one playing Senta."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Or she decided not to leave because she hadn't finished." He could make out the words now as the singing went on.
"Yeah, that could be the case," Sam nodded.
"So, what are we waiting for? Let's get over this with quickly, I'm tired."
"No, no, no, just wait a little more." Sam jerked his chin towards the stage. “She’s not doing anything wrong just now, and well.”
“First opera?” Dean scoffed, but Sam was rapt.
The dusty, well-worn curtain on the stage fluttered softly despite the fact that there was no wind, and Charlotte Dunham, or her ghost to be exact, showed up like a hologram, transparent and floating. She stood at the center of the stage. wearing long, white chemise of all things, her golden hair down and glowing. She sang like she knew she had audiences, like she didn't know she had died, like she did it solely for the two of them, she sang with all her heart.
Spin, spin, fair maiden...
She sang like she lived for that but her face hollow and her eyes sad.
Her voice and the way she was singing made Dean remember about the women of his life: his mother; Ellen, Jo, Cassie, Carmen, Lisa...
"Shit," he muttered under his breath.
"This is the closing Act where supposedly Senta threw herself to the ocean to prove that her love to The Flying Dutchman was genuine." Sam said looking up from the papers in his lap.
Dean watched as Charlotte climbed an invisible stairway to stand on an invisible ship deck and then she stopped singing but she turned to look at her very small audiences, she had a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and then she jumped and suddenly disappeared into thin air.
Frowning, Dean turned to look at Sam. "Let's go." He got up, grabbed the gun. He was happy that the song had ended for he thought he had started having the hallucination that the ghost of Charlotte was singing for him, like he was the Flying Dutchman himself.
Sam stood up reluctantly and reached for his gun.
As they padded closer, Charlotte showed up again and she looked content. Sam stopped and so did Dean because Sam blocked the way.
They watched slowly Charlotte floated high and higher as if there were invisible strings pulling her up, and as she disappeared into the ceiling, the curtain moved to close.
"I'll be damned," Dean snorted.
"Dude, could you wait a minute?" Sam snapped. "There's something odd here."
"Yeah. We just lost her and we might have come back tomorrow night or the next or the next."
"No." Sam pursed. "I think that's what she wanted.”
"What?"
"She only wanted to finish the show, in front of her audience. The night watchmen couldn't provide that, they were too scared to stay and listen and that's why she was angry and killed them and she came back again and again wishing that the next time she would be luckier."
"And you figured that how?"
"She didn't come for our throats."
"Maybe she's scared of the shotguns and is waiting now for us to let our guard down."
The curtain fluttered open again, showing Charlotte at the center of the stage, this time she was wearing heavy dark blue velvet gown, and roses fluttered down. Sam recognized it for what she was and stood up, clapping. She looked happy and she smiled as she looked at them and she whispered, “Thank you” as she bowed.
And the curtain closed again, then it and the finery of the theatre was gone. “Told you.” Sam snarked.
“Still say we could have shot her, at least once.” Dean groused.
“Probably, we could visit a Hannah Montana concert and shoot at her.” Sam was grinning.
“Absolutely.” Dean said, “if that’s not demon possessed I don’t know who is. I’ll load up on the rock salt and you can get the glitter.”
“Jerk,” Sam said bumping his shoulder with his brother.
“Hey, you’re the one who suggested going to a Hannah Montana concert.”
Author: seraphim_grace
Recipient: buriedchild
Rating: Gen
Warnings: One instance of mentioned violence.
Summary: A haunted theatre in the middle of nowhere and the star that’s not quite ready to leave.
“So this theatre is haunted, right?” Dean asked, drumming out the beat to “When the levee breaks” on the leather steering wheel of the Impala.
Sam looked at his brother from the newspaper on his knee, fingering his bangs out of the way. “Yep, says here there’s been ten deaths in the last five years alone, all night watchmen, found at the door with their fingernails ripped off.”
“Trying to get out?” Dean asked. The building in front of them didn’t look haunted, to be fair it didn’t look much like a theatre, and certainly not a phantom of the opera theatre. It was a white concrete box in the middle of a busy street. It had posters advertising the last musicals outside the box office, and wasn’t even boarded up.
“Looks like it.” Sam agreed.
“It’s just,” Dean looked at the building, “it’s not the usual sort of dump. Are you sure you have the right address.”
The look Sam gave him Dean privately referred to as bitchface number four, which was saved for occasions when Dean doubted his ability to perform mundane tasks like tying his own shoes.
“I told the agent we were looking to buy some real estate in town to turn into offices and we have an appointment in an hour or so, plenty of chance to go around with the EMF.”
“No point,” Dean said, sitting back in the car seat, “look.” Just behind the building was a mobile phone tower. It would cause their equipment to give false readings. “We’d be better off with a dowsing rod, book, bell and candle.”
Sam flashed him bitchface number one and folding the news paper, stuffing it into the glovebox and sitting back to wait on the agent.
The agent gave off two immediate impressions, both of which were later proved false. One that he was British, the tweed suit and comb over being largely to blame for this, and the other that he was incredibly gay. After a small period of knowing him this was proved to be a gross understatement.
He had a story for every step he took about the theatre, built in the fifties on the site of a much older theatre, a wooden one, which burned down in ‘52 and as much as Sam listened to the old man prattle on, and on, and on, he couldn’t hear about terrible deaths that would cause this sort of violent haunting. It was one thing for a ghost to scare it’s victims to death, but ripping off the fingernails was personal.
“And there’s the supposed haunting?” Dean said as he bounced up and down a little on the creaky floorboard.
“Oh the dead nightwatchmen, you’ll be fine as long as you don’t have a night shift, har har.” The agent laughed. “And besides a pair of strapping young men like yourselves," he leered, “I imagine together you could see off most things.”
“We’re brothers.” Sam corrected him as he was looked up and down lasciviously.
If anything it just made the leer broader.
“Just out of curiousity what was the last show played here?” Dean asked, “with the theatrical theme we were thinking about giving the different offices different names, yanno.”
And the agent did know because he smiled broadly. “Oh, it was the local amateur dramatics society performance of “HMS Pinafore” by Gilbert and Sullivan. Went down splendidly, the critics were amazed, why even my nephew the accused murderer attended, just behind the critics in fact, polishing his hunting knife as he hummed along. The reviews were sparkling.”
“I’m sure,” Sam agreed.
“But still, with the dead night watchmen, we would want more information before making an offer. It is, quite frankly, a deal breaker.”
“Of course.” The agent agreed. “But nothing I’d particularly worry about, heart attacks happen, and none of the men were in their prime.” He looked about, “oh this place has some grand memories, before it was burned down it was a popular stop on the national tour of many great companies. It will be a shame to see it turned into offices, but no one comes here anymore. And frankly, the town could use the jobs.”
Sam nodded. “If we could borrow the keys until the morning, give us a good chance to go over the place, check the utilities, measure the rooms, that kind of thing.” For a moment the agent looked a bit worried. “Of course, you can stay with us if you’d like.” The agent went grey, it was a peculiar shade usually reserved for the meat inside microwavable burritos.
“No, no,” he said, “the doors lock automatically when you close it, you stay here as long as you like, and just push them to make sure when you’re done. I tell you, this place isn’t haunted, I mean there’s no such things as ghosts,” both brothers forced a laugh, “but it can be a bit creepy, all those old backdrops and costumes, it’s no wonder people think odd things about it, but being here, all on your own, with the shadows and the sceneries, it’s no wonder they got themselves into a panic and up and died. You boys phone me in the morning with your decision, okay, and let me know if you need more time.” He rolled his shoulders, “there was this one time when I was rehearsing for my role as Ralph Rackstraw where I could have sworn, but was proved mistaken, to hear a woman singing Wagner, of all things.”
“Die Walkure?” Dean asked hopefully as his brother boggled at him even knowing the title of one Wagner song, let along in German.
"No, Der fliegende Holländer,” the agent corrected, “it sounded like, but I couldn't swear to it, Spin, Spin fair maiden, strangest thing, of course I imagined the whole thing, and it only lasted for a short while, but it gave me a terrible fright. Why I haven’t listened to Wagner since, and in my youth I was a great fan.”
“Wagner’s cool.” Dean agreed. “Nice and loud.” Sam was convinced at this point that the fairies had come and swapped Dean with an impersonator, because his brother didn’t like classical music, let alone Opera, unless it was performed by Bugs Bunny, and even then he wasn't the sort to know it was Wagner that it was lampooning. He might have recognised Ride of the Valkyries in Apocalypse Now, but this was obviously not Dean talking. “Great for.” He cut himself off.
“Fucking,” the agent agreed with a shark’s grin looking Dean up and down, who swallowed nervously. “Now I do have other appointments so I’ll be leaving the two of you, make sure the doors are locked when you’re done, they will latch automatically. Ciao.” And looking for all the world that he had a hellhound chasing him the agent left.
By dark the theatre was a completely different place, a place of shadows. Dean thought, as he munched a mouthful of extra-salted potato chips noisily, that with the right lamps, the stage would look fabulous. But right now, in the pitched darkness with only his flashlight on to give some lights, the backdrop looked sad and broken like a well-forgotten actress.
“Dean, I have to ask,” Sam said, breaking the silence. “Wagner?”
"Ah, Wagner,” he started to speak, “did I ever tell you about Clarissa and the Hummingbird, I trust you know what the hummingbird is?”
"I know what a hummingbird is." Sam cut him off, because he knew it was a sexual position but other than that he didn’t know, and he really didn’t want to. He was once again reading a clipping of papers he put on his knees with the help of flashlight. At least he didn't give Dean his infamous bitchface number one hundred twenty so Dean could give him his jerkface number three although Sam didn't see it.
"Have you tried it with Die Walkure?" Dean pushed his luck. “Totally changed my opinion of opera, even went to see it, of course didn’t pay too much attention.”
Sam finally looked up from reading material, heaving a sigh. "TMI Dude..."
"Hey, you asked." Dean flailed. He balled the empty chip package. "What's the odd the ghost won't show up tonight?" They had their ammo and stuff ready, well-prepared for the worst.
Sam had gone back to his papers clipping. "Then we just have to come back tomorrow night, and the next and the next." Sam muttered.
Dean scrunched his nose. "You know I'm not particularly interested..."
There was a sudden chill at the nape of his neck. Sam looked up again from his papers. Dean slipped his fngers into the handle of his rock salt gun. He was going to lift up the gun but Sam's hand in his prevented him to do so.
"Sush." Sam hissed. "Listen."
Dean tilted his head, sharpening his hearing.
It started like the sound of the wind to him. however it slowly took shape of a female's high pitched voice.
"Charlotte Dunham died in the fire that took down the original theatre." Sam whispered as the voice became more melodious. "It happened during the performance, during the closing act of The Flying Dutchman. Everybody managed to exit but she wasn't so lucky. She was the one playing Senta."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Or she decided not to leave because she hadn't finished." He could make out the words now as the singing went on.
"Yeah, that could be the case," Sam nodded.
"So, what are we waiting for? Let's get over this with quickly, I'm tired."
"No, no, no, just wait a little more." Sam jerked his chin towards the stage. “She’s not doing anything wrong just now, and well.”
“First opera?” Dean scoffed, but Sam was rapt.
The dusty, well-worn curtain on the stage fluttered softly despite the fact that there was no wind, and Charlotte Dunham, or her ghost to be exact, showed up like a hologram, transparent and floating. She stood at the center of the stage. wearing long, white chemise of all things, her golden hair down and glowing. She sang like she knew she had audiences, like she didn't know she had died, like she did it solely for the two of them, she sang with all her heart.
Spin, spin, fair maiden...
She sang like she lived for that but her face hollow and her eyes sad.
Her voice and the way she was singing made Dean remember about the women of his life: his mother; Ellen, Jo, Cassie, Carmen, Lisa...
"Shit," he muttered under his breath.
"This is the closing Act where supposedly Senta threw herself to the ocean to prove that her love to The Flying Dutchman was genuine." Sam said looking up from the papers in his lap.
Dean watched as Charlotte climbed an invisible stairway to stand on an invisible ship deck and then she stopped singing but she turned to look at her very small audiences, she had a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and then she jumped and suddenly disappeared into thin air.
Frowning, Dean turned to look at Sam. "Let's go." He got up, grabbed the gun. He was happy that the song had ended for he thought he had started having the hallucination that the ghost of Charlotte was singing for him, like he was the Flying Dutchman himself.
Sam stood up reluctantly and reached for his gun.
As they padded closer, Charlotte showed up again and she looked content. Sam stopped and so did Dean because Sam blocked the way.
They watched slowly Charlotte floated high and higher as if there were invisible strings pulling her up, and as she disappeared into the ceiling, the curtain moved to close.
"I'll be damned," Dean snorted.
"Dude, could you wait a minute?" Sam snapped. "There's something odd here."
"Yeah. We just lost her and we might have come back tomorrow night or the next or the next."
"No." Sam pursed. "I think that's what she wanted.”
"What?"
"She only wanted to finish the show, in front of her audience. The night watchmen couldn't provide that, they were too scared to stay and listen and that's why she was angry and killed them and she came back again and again wishing that the next time she would be luckier."
"And you figured that how?"
"She didn't come for our throats."
"Maybe she's scared of the shotguns and is waiting now for us to let our guard down."
The curtain fluttered open again, showing Charlotte at the center of the stage, this time she was wearing heavy dark blue velvet gown, and roses fluttered down. Sam recognized it for what she was and stood up, clapping. She looked happy and she smiled as she looked at them and she whispered, “Thank you” as she bowed.
And the curtain closed again, then it and the finery of the theatre was gone. “Told you.” Sam snarked.
“Still say we could have shot her, at least once.” Dean groused.
“Probably, we could visit a Hannah Montana concert and shoot at her.” Sam was grinning.
“Absolutely.” Dean said, “if that’s not demon possessed I don’t know who is. I’ll load up on the rock salt and you can get the glitter.”
“Jerk,” Sam said bumping his shoulder with his brother.
“Hey, you’re the one who suggested going to a Hannah Montana concert.”