Part 1: Ghosts of Florentina

Victoria Turner- NPC Widowed shipping magnate	David Highfield (Bill) Ghost Hunter	Everett Larkin (Leslie) Kingsport Reporter	Celeste Anderson (Orin) Debutante/Singer

Kingsport, Massachusetts is an artists’ colony and seaside resort, drawing the ritzy Bostonians and New Yorkers alike. High-brow and high-class. Except with it now fall season, the beaches have closed with the tourist season ended.

Thursday, Oct 8, 1925: “Ring. Ring. Hello, is this Mr. Highfield? This is Victoria Turner. I telegrammed Mr. Harry Price in England and he informed me you are his apprentice ‘Ghost Hunter’. I’m a patron of the arts and am considering backing a project to refurbish the old Florentina Theater here in Kingsport. Well, there’s a bit of a delay because of ghosts they say. I’m hoping you’d come over to possibly expel or purge the place before I invest more money.” David was intrigued, “I’m flattered Mrs. Turner by your request AND Mr. Price’s recommendation. Tomorrow you say? 7pm Gala Fundraiser hosted by Raymond Barton. AND a séance afterwards by a madame Rochell? I’ll be there with my bowtie on. Oh, coat and tails? I’ll try to find a tuxedo rental but no promises. I’ve only been in Salem 4 months but am learning you Americans are not so accepting of us …colored folk.”

Victoria reached out to another source, “Hello, Mr. Larkin. Remember that interview I gave you last year for your article about the shipping industry? Well, now I have a favor to ask of you. I need you to investigate our old Kingsport theater under refurbishment. Before I go all in as an investor, I’d like to know if there’s any truths to its ghost. Why the delays. Use your reporter instincts to delve deeper. Come as my guest to tomorrow’s gala fundraiser. I’m hoping you can present the theater as a worthy philanthropic cause. Or expose Mr. Barton’s fundraising efforts as more a con job.”

Henry, Victoria’s chauffeur, drove her into town where she happened to spot, “Celeste? What are you doing back from Europe so soon? My, you look fabulous! I’ve an idea: would you mind joining me tomorrow as my guest? It’s a fundraiser for the arts. Mr. Barton is renovating the old Florentina Theater here in town. Did you ever perform there? Oh, heavens my. How silly of me. You’re much too young; that place hasn’t been open for 19 years. Who knows, there may be theater managers or even film makers there. It IS a gala event. A chance for you to show…your resume.”

Everett jumped out of his chair, startling the other Kingsport Reader newspaper staff, “Hot damn, I’ve got an exclusive.” First stop-City Hall for possible records and blueprints of the theater. It took some persuading [06 extreme] to get the city clerk to stay open long enough, “I know it’s already 3:22pm but if you could point me in the right direction?” The stern-looking Mrs. Drake glared over her horn-rimmed glasses and was about to deny his request, till he mentioned the theater. “The Florentina?! Oh, I so loved going there with my husband Herbert. Well, just this one time. Let me show you.”

Within an hour, Everett already had a list of the theater’s prior owners. History showing the land used to be a working farm until it was consumed by the expanding city limits. When it became lots for small private homes. Till 1878 when the wealthy Theodore Frye built the Florentina Theater (with his own money) for his younger wife Lucille. Who happened to be a singer. Grand performances. Till her death in 1890. Her obituary listed she died at home in her own bed due to illness. Which crushed poor Theodore. Emotional strain led to financial mismanagement and foreclosure turning the property over to the banks. Many failed restarts till the theater closed permanently in 1906.

David too used the remaining Thursday hours to do his research at the Arkham Library 30 minutes up the road from Salem.

Except he took longer to find the same information [failed Library/failed push]. He read the same Kingsport Chronicle newspaper articles written by Stanley Carter. One about a ‘ghost’ stopping work on the theater. Missing tools, vandalism, strange singing. Barton himself interviewed, claimed not to have heard the singing. But he did tell the story of Lucille hanging herself in the theater. Lilac her favorite scent. How the ghost is scaring off his workers. The ghost rumors repeated by famed magician “The Grand Mystic Ramun-Set.” Another article detailed the theater’s history and intricate design. And thus, laborers skilled working with plaster for the copula and tera-cotta tiles. Which meant Italians and Portuguese laborers.

Celeste did her own research. Trying to find juicy tidbits to enliven her conversations at tomorrow’s gala event. Who designed the theater? Any notable performers in its hay-days? Any gossip? Famed Italian Francoise Ferantini based the theater on ‘The Cathedral’ in Florence, Italy. Its arched domed and copula most in need of repairs. Bostonians filled the theater to hear opera from Regina Pacini or tenor George Hamlin.

Or laughed at the comic opera ‘HMS Pinafore’ by Gilbert and Sullivan. But her most titillating discovery was the rumor Lucile had an affair with a young actor. Discovery, depression, failed marriage: she hung herself in the theater. Now haunting the place.

Friday, Oct 9^th: David used the morning hours to look up madame Rochell. A newspaper article about her séance for none other than Mimi Vanderbilt. Even the English had heard of THE Vanderbilts! Looking up her phone number, “Hello, madame Rochell. I understand you will give a séance tonight. I’ve dabbled in the occult myself. My mother was a mystic and bequeathed her tarot deck to me. I was hoping you might give me a little insight into the supposed ghost of the theater. Oh? You walked the stage and felt cold spots and smelled lilac? You heard her voice? I too will be at the gala event and hope I can be there for the séance. Thank you. I look forward to meeting you too.”

7pm: ‘The SeaShore Inn’. Such a plain name. Furthest from the truth. Long circular driveway past the sweeping steps up to the entrance. White marble. Grand veranda overlooking the bay and the wealthy’s yachts. Limousines lined up waiting their turn for their occupants to step upon the red-carpet. Rich and famous. Tuxedos and black bowties, flowing gowns and diamond necklaces wrapped in mink coats: dressed “to the nines”. Some even came as flappers or wore a turban to do their Gatsby impression. Over 250 guests. Wine and alcohol flowed despite the prohibition. And there was the broad-shouldered handsome Raymond Barton greeting them all, “So glad you could come.” Followed by his ‘Bolshevik’ joke told for the millionth time.

Everett was the first to join Victoria at her table, “Let me introduce you to my niece Ana and her husband Russell Kincade.” Everett’s eyes stayed focused on the couple as he reached for champagne glasses from a passing waiter. Music flowed throughout the grand hall making conversation somewhat difficult. Till there was a hiccup and pause in the orchestral music. All eyes turned toward the entrance…where an African entered dressed in his ill-fitting tuxedo. David didn’t skip a beat, “You are too kind with your attention. I did not know my fame preceded me.” The awkwardness relieved when Victoria spoke up, “David! So glad you could make it. Come, please sit with me.”

The music just started back up when there was another murmur as another ‘man’ entered unescorted. Celeste beamed in her tuxedo and makeup holding her long cigarette-stick, “It’s the latest craze in Europe. France, Berlin, and now Kingsport.” The women in the crowd flowed to her side to get the latest fashion insight. But Celeste quickly turned the conversations to the theater so she could share her juicy tidbits of gossip. Oohs and Aaahs and a “Scandalous!”

Raymond Barton

Madame Rochell

But there were still enough eyes to see Mr. Barton step toward the entrance to escort another woman, mid 30s, dressed in an Indian sari with a large gemmed headband. “Madame Rochell, please come sit at my table.”

Minutes later Raymond was at Victoria’s table. The man was smooth. And knew his financial audience. He smothered her with kisses and pleasantries. And Victoria ate it up. She knew how to play the game in front of an audience. “Raymond, it’s a wonderful thing you restoring the theater. It’s a crime it hasn’t been tended all these years. Now tell me Ray-ray, what is this story of a ghost holding you up? I invited Mr. Highfield to help look into it. He’s a ghost hunter. Maybe he can convince her to move on.”

Raymond didn’t miss a beat, “I appreciate your concerns. I’m hoping madame Rochell can contact this ghost and settle her conflicts that delay her journey to the other side. Indeed, I hope your David can assist. Meanwhile, the work would go faster if I can gather more donors. Like yourself. Trying to keep those skilled workers on the job is hard enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” As he left, Everett and Celeste disagreed about the ghost. “Suicide? No, the obituary listed her cause of death as illness, dying in her own bed.”

8:10pm: “Thank you ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming and your generosity. Please, keep eating and enjoying the music and conversation. Excuse me as I have another event with madame Rochell at the theater. We hope to say goodbye to our little ghost problem.” But his words only got the crowd moving, “Oooh, how exciting! May we join you?” Raymond had to apologize, “I’m sorry. Health and safety code. There’s no seating inside except the few seats I’ve arranged. But when the theater does open, I’ll invite madame Rochell back just for you.” Victoria invited her guests, “You are part of the invited onlookers Raymond spoke of. You can ride with me in my limo.” By 9pm, a half-dozen limos choked Hawthorne street in front of the Florentina Theater. Far out of place to the surrounding shanty houses in the back.

Barton had to warn his audience, “Sorry, but there is no gas or electric lighting. We are in the middle of changing to all electric. All I can offer are these kerosene lanterns.” He held the double-doors open as the small crowd entered. Taking notice of the lavish new door fixtures. And red-carpeted entrance and brass fixtures. The luxury and ambience muted by the smell of sawdust and fresh paint, “Remember, we’ve only been at work 4 months. Still a long way till completion. Careful where you step and sit.”

Madame Rochell was already on stage near a table, seeking volunteers to join in the séance. Victoria, David, Everett, Celeste, and an investor’s giddy wife stepped forward. David focused on the table and surrounding area per his Stage Magic knowledge [failed]. He did note Rochell’s right-leg would bump against a table leg. Classic manipulation chance but poor lighting to confirm anything. Everett took note of the stage trapdoors. The lanterns and her flashlight barely penetrated the darkness above such that she could barely make out the outline of the overhead catwalk. As for Celeste, she mentally placed herself onstage as if in a show. She tried to imagine the crowd excitement. She spied the imitation Florentine sculptures that lined the seating area.

“Now everyone hold hands. Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Try to get in a joint rhythm to help build my energy as I contact my mystic guide, Chief Potawanka. Once I make contact, remember to only ask Yes or No questions.” For those watching, Rochell’s eyes fluttered and her head rolled side to side as she let out a shallow exhale. “Come to me, oh my mystic guide to the spirit world. I seek the one who is trapped in this setting. Ask her to present herself to us so we may release her from her bonds to this place.” Rochell’s voice became deep and manly but spoke an unknown language. Native American? Soon her voice became sing-song, “I am here.”

Victoria asked, “Are you haunting the theater?” Yes. “Are you angry about the renovations?” Yes. “Why are you haunting the place?” Silence. “Remember, yes or no questions.” David [Parapsychology-extreme] knew Rochell was performing classic parlor tricks; he just couldn’t prove it at the moment. Even Everett got the sense she was acting. Celeste was the first to notice… the scent of lilac and cold air. She quickly glanced over her shoulder but saw nothing. She asked, “Did you die in the theater?” Yes. “Do you want your husband’s dream to fail?” Yes.

And that’s when some heard a high-pitched squeak, followed by a rattling noise above. “CRASH!!” The table jumped inches off the stage as a heavy sandbag bounced off its middle. Rochell screamed. Whether she jumped or was knocked back by the concussion of the impact. Victoria shrieked which drew Barton rushing to her side. Both of them genuinely scared. All three of them. Celeste studied the rope end still tied to the bag: dry rot and frayed. Not a clean cut, “I’d almost guess it was gnawed on by rats.” David was already under the table looking for evidence how Rochell tripped the bag. [Spot -fail 95]. [Stage Magic-fail] He failed to find the source of the lilac scent: no crushed vial nor fireplace billow. Everett was already in action, finding the ladder to access the catwalk above. “Rat poop and tracks along the railing. As if it’s a superhighway. Wait, 2 more sandbags up here. Careful as I lower them.” Celeste tried to watch Everett above with her opera glasses, but it was too dark.

Raymond Barton stepped forward, “I’m sorry folks. I must ask you to leave for your own safety. Like I said, we have a LOT of repairs and restoration to make. You can join me back at the SeaShore Inn for drinks.” Everett spoke up, “Could we possibly come back tomorrow for a tour?” Whatever Raymond was about to say was overridden by Victoria, “Tremendous idea! Say noon? Is that alright Raymond? Now let’s go get those drinks.”

Saturday, Oct 10^th: Everett cursed as he opened the newspaper, “Damn it. Carter got the jump on me and has already reported last night’s séance scare. Excuse me while I go prep my camera flash-powder for today’s pictures inside the theater.” Celeste excused herself too, “I want to checkup on Victoria and see if she’s recovered. Quite a scare with that sandbag just missing us.” Leaving David to ponder, “Who can I call to checkup on this madame Rochell?”

David remembered the Arkham librarian’s interest in the occult. “Ring, ring. Heather, this is David. Yes, I thought you might recognize my accent. Say, what can you tell me about a local madame Rochell? [Stage Magic -02 extreme] Bored housewife who began with a ‘Ouija board’ and graduated to the parlor circuit. Thanks. I owe you.”

After the ‘wellness check call’, Celeste thought to track down some of the theater workers. “Plastering sounds like a unique skill. Local Italians or Portuguese. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Within an hour she was already behind the theater along the clapboard housing. She spoke enough Italian… to learn an Irishman named O’Malley was the foreman. “WAS. Died a few days ago. Walking home from the job between these houses when some roof slates fell and caved in his skull. Damnedest coincidence. Yeah, we’re superstitious. If that had happened on site at the theater, then we might have walked out like the paper said. But we no walk out. Why they say that? To blame us.”

The bricklayer Jacimo continued his rant, “That Barton fella. Come around asking for laborers. Offers good pay. But never pay on time! We gotta chase him down. Disappears on Friday and we gotta wait till Monday. No money for weekend. Then back to work. Place filthy. Rats everywhere. I musta killed 20 with one swing of my shovel. Bad luck. Tools missing, lunches stolen. Who steala my meatball sandwich?! They blame us. In basement, we repairing floor and find an old tunnel. O’Malley tell us to clear it out. Old bottles, jars, clothing, books, trash. O’Malley find something he save for himself. Said he was gonna sell it. He and Barton took the books to sell. Take, take, take. But they no give. Week no pay. Barton still owe us.” Celeste kissed him on the cheek goodbye. Jacimo added, “I go up to his office for pay. He playing phonograph. Woman singing. Beautiful voice. THAT the singing we hear. No ghost as paper say.”

Noon: Barton was waiting with lanterns and key, “I’ve business to attend. Hopefully I can be back by 4pm. Please stay out of my office on the 2^nd floor but you are welcomed to have a look around.” As he drove off, David offered, “His last words were to have a look around. Which supersedes his office comment. Fair game.” Everett offered his theory, “Insurance scam. I’ll check his office for the policy.” Celeste countered with, “Ponzi scheme (Charles Ponzi the infamous 1920 swindler). Pocketing cash from his donors. Let us know if you find his books. Meanwhile, David and I will checkout the stage and wait for you before going to the basement.”

But the office door was locked. Everett walked outside to the nearest pay phone to call an associate, “Is Frank in? Hey Frank, would you mind coming over to the theater. I need help with a stuck door. If you know what I mean. Larceny? Don’t be so callous. [Persuade-hard] I’m about to forget my coat in a room and need help retrieving it. $25 no questions? See ya soon.” 45 minutes later. “Wait around; I might need something else unlocked.” The room was lavishly furnished. Mahogany trim, hand-crafted desk. And a paper-sleeve phonograph beside the gramophone. The record already on the turntable, labeled Opera – Aida. Everett saw the connection, “Hello Lucille.”

“Frank, how are you with desks and wall safes? No, I don’t plan to take anything. Just checking. Fine, another $50 but you’ll have to wait.” The wall safe was disappointing but revealing, “Only $300 cash. Can’t pay workers with just that.” The desk: “Here’s his ledgers. It doesn’t take an accountant to see where he’s ‘robbing Peter to pay Paul’. Bankrupt. Ponzi. Yep. Surprised to see no insurance payments. Well hello; cheap bottle of lilac perfume. Trying to make excuses to delay the project?”

Meanwhile, Celeste and David explored the stage. Enough daylight to see into the catwalk. Beside the stage were dressing room, rigging room, and lighting. Trashed with mildewed costumes and broken set pieces. Abandoned. Below the trapdoors was brick flooring. As David walked to the edge of the stage, he saw a doorway leading out. “Hey, come look at this. The transom window has been jimmied open. More damn rat chewing!” Celeste shuddered [Sanity check] at the thought of trained rats. David felt around the window ledge, “Nope. Thought I might find food crumbs or cheese used to get the rats to specifically chew there.”

Celeste poked her head outside, “I see a trail of rat prints. There are saucers and teacups set out here. Someone is feeding them! Can rats be trained to gnaw on command?!” [another sanity shudder] David didn’t comfort her when he thought out loud, “If that was the case, then that someone could have made the rats loosen the roof tile that came crashing down on your Mr. O’Malley.”

Everett led Frank to the door to wait. “Hey, Celeste, can I borrow $50? Thanks.” David led the trio down into the basement with his flashlight in hand as Everett shined a lantern. “Woo. Wait! [Spot-extreme] There’s a piece of wire stretched across the step ankle high. Trip trap. Careful. I’ll keep my light on it as you step over. Come on down.” But as David looked closer at the trap, he realized intricate sailor’s knots. And not enough room for human hands to tie off the wire. “RATS??” [Sanity check] David’s flashlight quickly swept from the wire to scan the basement (leaving the others to fend for themselves with the wire location).

Where he saw 4 sets of beady red eyes staring… then blink out.

Everett tried to reason, “He could have used tweezers. Or tied the knots first then drove in the nails. Quit trying to freak us out.” Celeste already had her 22 pistol out. David felt naked without his own; so, he grabbed a hammer from a workman’s bench (#15). [Spot] “Shit! The rats have chewed on these too. Tricky bastards. Right below the metal head. It would have busted off at the first swing. Missing tools AND sabotage.” David picked up a wrench instead, giving another to Everett. Everett moved toward a metal-doored room at the back (#18), “Film vault. Looks recently repaired. Has a dumbwaiter with cables instead of ropes to carry film to and from the projectors above.”

Celeste was drawn to a big pile of trash (#17), “This must be what Jacimo said they pulled out of the tunnel.” She dug thru it, finding scraps of paper with Latin calligraphy. And also, a piece of brass-plated metal with ‘H. Coyne’ stamped on it (which she stuffed into her purse).

All of them were drawn to the 2 doors laying flat on the floor (#19). “Could that cover the tunnel?” Everett pulled out a ready-strike match and a strip of his camera flash-paper, “I’m ready to see what’s inside.” David gripped his wrench tighter as a waft of ammonia assaulted his nostrils, “Rat piss! There’s a generator over there. Let me try to start it.” [Electrical repair] “Shit! Those little bastards chewed thru the wiring. Who trains rats to chew thru wires? Or construct elaborate trips? What the hell is going on?!”

They all stared into the tunnel void when the flat doors were moved. The orange-colored brick stairwell inviting them downward.