999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [291]
They hired him on a probational basis, but Dominic didn’t mind the qualification. He made a point of being on time and very meticulous in his work. As the weeks passed, he felt a growing warmth in his heart for the Barclay; it became a haven of safety and security—a place where he could live with the old dreams.
When his diligence was rewarded with a permanent position and a raise in salary, he was very happy. He began coming early to watch current productions, and he learned the theater jargon of the stagehands, actors, and directors. The dreamscapes of the theater became real to him, and he absorbed the great tragedies, laughed at clever comedies.
But late at night, when the crowds had dispersed, was the time he loved the best. He would go into the main auditorium and listen to the lights cooling and crackling behind their gels, and think about that night’s performance—comparing to past nights, to what he figured were the playwright’s intentions. For the first time in his life, he was happy.
But then something changed. The feelings of not being alone started to grow out of the shadows, growing more intense …
… until tonight, and he felt that he could bear it no longer. There was a small voice in his mind telling him to run from the place and never return.
No, he thought calmly. No more running. Not ever again.
Above his head, the cantilevered balcony hung like a giant hammer ready to fall. He stepped into the main auditorium and listened to the darkness. The aisle swept down towards the stage where the grand drape and act curtain pulled back to reveal the set of the current play. Pushing a carpet sweeper slowly over the thick pile, Dominic noticed how truly dark the theater was. The exit light seemed dim and distant. Row upon row of seats surrounded him, like a herd of round-shouldered creatures huddled in deep shadows.
The entire theater seemed to be enclosing him like an immense vault, a dark hollow tomb. He knew there was something there with him. Acid boiled in his stomach, his throat caked with chalk.
Looking away from the empty seats back to the stage, he noticed that something had changed. Something was wrong.
The set for the currently running production was Nick’s Place—a San Francisco saloon described in Saroyan’s The Time of Your Life. But that set was gone. Somehow, it had been struck and changed overnight. An impossibility, Dominic knew, yet he stared into the darkness and could make out the configurations of a totally different set.
Walking closer, his eyes adjusting to the dim illumination of the Exit signs, Dominic picked up the details of the set—a shabby, gray-walled living room with a kitchenette to the right.
Dumpy green chain with doilies on the arms, a couch with maroon and silver stripes, end tables with glass tops and a mahogany liquor cabinet with a tiny-screened Emerson television on top.
It was a spare, simple room.
A familiar room.
For an instant, Dominic recoiled at the thought. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. But he recognized the room, down to its smallest details. As if the set designer had invaded a private memory, the set was a perfect replica of his parents’ house. The house which had been located where the theater now stood. As Dominic stared in awe and disbelief, he could see that there was nothing dreamy and out-of-focus about the set. He stood before something with hard edges and substance, something real, and not distorted by the lens of memory.
Without thinking, he stepped closer and suddenly the stage lights heated up. The fixtures on the set cast off their grayish hues and burst into full color. An odd swelling sensation filled Dominic’s chest, almost becoming a distinct pain. The pain of many years and many emotions. The thought occurred to him that someone might be playing a very cruel joke on him, and he turned to check the light booth up above and beyond the balcony. But it was dark and empty.
The