Turning on our flashlights, we make our way out of the box and back to the ground floor.

For a supposedly haunted place, I expected to be more afraid. Instead, there's only an odd sense of anticipation that blooms within me with each step I take. If this ghost is real, then so is the one from the previous night—or so I tell myself.

The night air is cool and moist. Despite the continuous use of the theatre since its inauguration, there's still an old, musky smell clinging to the walls. While the main auditorium has been entirely restored, the rest of the theatre not so much. The vintage wallpaper in the hallways is one peel away from falling down, the various decorations adorning the walls and the ceiling chipped and discolored. Once upon a time, this would have been a vibrant, ostentatious place. It's still ostentatious, but in a way that speaks of decadence and decay—perhaps fitting considering its history.

"We should check backstage," Thea suggests. "The article mentioned the sighting of the ghost was on the stage. Maybe we can sense something there."

While Thea and Cer go down the stairs that lead backstage, I remain rooted on the spot in the middle of the stage.

My mouth parts in awe at the grandiose view of the auditorium from the center of the stage. I imagine that every seat is filled, their eyes on me as they follow my every move. There's a sense of exhilaration—of fear laced with excitement.

Is this how stars feel when they perform?

Is this how Olive Thomas felt?

"Luce?" Thea's voice rings out and I shake myself from my reverie.

"Coming," I call out, turning to leave.

I back away slowly, somehow unable to tear my gaze away from the sprawling empty seats.

The wooden floor creaks as I place my weight on the heels of my feet. The sound vibrates in the silence of the auditorium, and I wait for fear to seep into my bones. I wait for many things—a sudden drop in the temperature of the air, the foul smell of sulfur, the flickering of lights and all the Hollywood signs that point to a ghost infestation. Most of all, I stare intently at a spot in the back of the auditorium, almost as if willing the ghost to show itself. Alas, I may have watched one too many movies.

My lips quirk up and I shake my head at my own foolishness. I pivot, rotating on the ball of my right foot.

A gust of wind hits my face, but I welcome the breeze. It's only when I blink, my eyes fluttering open, that I come face to face with a red, mottled mass of skin. There are no eyes, just scar tissue that had never mended properly. A mouth with rotten teeth slowly opens, the movements of the jaw emitting a low, clanking sound, almost as if it's popping out of place.