The Phantom Theater
Halima Niazi
The theater opens one night a year.
Every October, under the light of a full moon, people travel from all over the country to experience the show. It is the only reason their little village hasn’t been dusted off the map. The theater is said to put you in a trance and transport you to another dimension, from sunset till dawn. But there is something strange about it. When day breaks, no one can remember what they saw inside, as if those snippets of memory had been sealed off the moment they left the building.
People crowd in front of the theater, shoulders pressed together, breathing each other’s air. Among them is a young woman named Violet. Her inky hair drapes around her scarf, which she pulls over her chin to keep out the crisp, autumn wind, though her cheeks and nose are already flushed.
Thirty minutes till sunset, she thinks.
Violet is no stranger to the theater. Her family had a tradition to go together, but between her father’s passing, her mother’s mourning, and her brother leaving for university, this is her first time coming in a while, and her first time coming alone.
She feels like a foreigner as she takes in the beauty of the theater. Tiered limestone walls are decorated with columns and statuary. They meet a glinting, jade dome, which tapers upwards to a gilt ballerina, her arms raised into the air.
The sun falls like a scythe and color bleeds onto the sky.
Suddenly, there is a thud, and the crowd’s conversations turn into whispers, settling into silence. Heads turn to the massive double doors, which swing open in one glorious motion. Awed, Violet makes for the entrance, but she is shoved back by people pushing their way in. Squeezed between bodies, she whispers a couple of futile excuse me’s and nudges her way through gaps within the crowd. As she frees herself from the last of the mob, she heaves a sigh.
Violet crosses the threshold, and a chill tremors through her, echoing within her hollow body, tingling against her bones. She follows the line of people through a foyer, rounds a couple hallways, and ends up in the auditorium.
There are no chairs. Just an oak hardwood floor, polished enough for her reflection to gaze up at her. She trails the walls, the gold patterns embellished within them, and the lights illuminating the room. She takes back her previous words. There are chairs in the boxes—and an enormous chandelier, dangling from the engraved ceiling.
Pillars surround the theater, like a cage keeping the guests in or ribs protecting a heart.
The heart of the theater.
Footsteps come from the stage. Violet flips around to see a woman slip through the curtains. A lace mask covers her eyes, curved at the nose to resemble a snout, and two long feathers protrude outward mimicking the shape of ears. She has a grayish pallor, as if a fog has been cast only on her. The woman spreads her arms with an ancient, feline grace.
“Welcome to the Phantom Theater! I would like to thank you all for coming out tonight, from close and afar. Before we continue, though, I must mention a few rules. First, kindly hold your applause until the end of a piece. Second, from now until dawn, the doors will be shut, and no one will be permitted to leave under any circumstances.”
Whispers pass between mouths, confusion and complaints take shape.
The woman gives a red-lipped smile. “And with that, let the show begin.”
Smoke bursts from the stage, and when it dissipates, the woman has vanished. In her absence, there are instruments (an organ, three trumpets, a group of drums, a string orchestra, and a row of flutes) but no musicians to be seen. The instruments appear normal. That is, until they begin moving. The movements are small at first, a little twitch of the violin bow or jerk of a drumstick. Then, the instruments float a couple inches above the stage, and then, they begin playing, sound pouring out of them.
The audience gasps, the woman’s words already slipping their minds.
“Mommy, look! The instruments! The instruments are playing themselves!” a little boy beside Violet says. Her heart aches. Years ago, she must have looked at music with the same twinkle in her eyes, clutching her mother’s dress. Nowadays, her wraith-like mother confines herself to the limits of her bedroom, sick with sadness. Her comforting features have been replaced by distant eyes, cold hands, and a feeble voice.
Music conquers the room. It starts soft, then builds in intensity. The instruments fill each other’s gaps and strengthen each other’s sounds, like waves crashing over one other. Some guests begin dancing, in pairs or alone.
Violet closes her eyes and listens: to the rhythm, the tune, the flow. She lets the music flood her mind and drown her thoughts. Like the finest wine, its taste is enhanced the longer it is left to sit. Once she is drunk on it, she begins dancing.
Violet hears gasps and opens her eyes, head tipped toward the ceiling. She sees ghosts or perhaps spirits dancing in the air above the crowd. Wisps of memory from centuries past. They seem unaware of the guests below them, all except for one female spirit, who meets Violet’s eyes.
The spirit motions with its chin for Violet to follow before flying off. Violet hesitates, but childish curiosity, a feeling she has missed so much, has her feet running after it. The ghost guides her into a hallway and up a set of stairs. Violet’s steps are concealed beneath the beat of the music, each step and note synchronized.
Dun, dun, dun, dun, dun.
She twirls around to the next set of stairs.
Dun, dun, dun, dun.
Once she reaches the top, the spirit glides through a door left ajar. Violet creaks it open and enters. She realizes the spirit is no longer there. Dread overtakes her.
“Looking for something?”
Violet tenses. Behind her stands the woman with the feline mask.
“Um, no, I just…got lost?”
The woman holds out her hand. It is so pale.
“Let me help you.”
Violet’s hand trembles as she takes the woman’s. Nothing happens. Violet relaxes. The woman squeezes her fingers, and Violet feels a surge of energy tugging on her soul, dragging the life out of her and into the woman. She tries to pull her arm away, wailing, but the woman’s grip is like shackles on her wrist. Violet’s mind goes to her family. She remembers sitting on her father’s shoulders to reach flowers in the trees as her brother lay reading a book in the shade, the scent of her mother’s cooking filling the air. A tear trickles down her cheek.
Violet’s body shatters, the shards blown away in the wind.
The wrinkles on the woman’s face minimize, a youthful blush is brought to her cheeks, and the vibrancy of her hair is restored. She dusts off her palms and stares down her nose at the spot Violet once stood.
“How else would the show go on?”
Halima Niazi is a sophomore from Montville, NJ, class of 2026, with a major in Cell Biology and Neuroscience and a minor in Creative Writing. She enjoys drawing in her sketchbook, overdressing for no special occasion, and clacking away at her laptop keys. She has dreams to publish a series of fantasy novels in the near future.
This story was written in a Creative Writing course taught by Professor Paul Blaney, who selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.