We go to the nearest convenience store and stock up on essentials—water, some non-perishable food, and a few snacks. Next, we stop by one of those touristy shops and get some hoodies and mini flashlights with NYC on them. Cer pays for everything in one-hundred-dollar bills, just like he did at the restaurant. I don't know where he got that money from, but I'm not about to ask. Given their cluelessness about how things work in this world, I wouldn't be surprised if he robbed a bank. And since I'd rather not become an accessory to yet another crime, I'll gladly embrace my ignorance.

With a little under one hour to spare until the show starts, we go to a coffee shop across the theatre and wait. As we order some refreshments, I notice that Cer is monitoring Thea's choice closely, grunting in approval when she asks for a lemonade. I get the same, while Cer orders plain water.

After we get our beverages, Cer slides a few pieces of paper on the table, nodding at us to have a look.

"A short history of New Amsterdam Theatre," I read aloud the title of what seems to be a newspaper clipping.

"There wasn't a lot of information available, but this should give us a starting point," he mentions as he leans back.

Thea comes closer to me as we sift through what her brother found.

"Here's a mention of a ghost! A man claims to have seen a lady in a green beaded dress holding a blue bottle and walking through walls a few months ago," I read off the page. "He recognized her as former silent film actress, Olive Thomas." There's a brief biography of Olive Thomas, once a Broadway superstar. "It seems she died of an accidental poisoning in 1920."

"That's odd." Thea narrows her eyes, shooting a subtle look at her brother. "What type of poisoning?"

"Apparently, she ingested a mercury bichloride mixture that had been prescribed for her husband's syphilis," I add as I peruse some of the details.

"Syphilis? What's that?" Thea inquires innocently.

"It's a sexually transmitted disease. Now it's treatable with penicillin, but in 1920 that hadn't been discovered. Mercury was the de facto treatment back in the day, but it was also highly toxic. Poor girl, I can't imagine the torment she must have suffered after ingesting the mercury..." Just thinking about it makes the hairs on my body stand up. Such a cruel way to die—and she didn't die immediately, either. She languished for days on a hospital bed before her final demise.

"You humans have such diseases?" Thea blinks in surprise.

"Welcome to being human," I mumble under my breath.

"An accidental death doesn't seem like prime material for a haunting," Thea continues, picking another newsletter slip from the table. "Look here. She didn't even die at the theatre. She died in Paris. That makes it even more unlikely for a haunting."