Last fall, after unsuccessfully auditioning for dozens of New York shows, I finally received a role in a musical being produced by a Florida theater. Pay wasn’t great, but I received free housing, a meal stipend, plus the chance to escape part of the frigid New York winter.
I was assigned in a small ranch-style house. 1 story, plus an attic. Two bedrooms, one bath. I was to share it with two other New York-based actors, Samuel and Justin. Didn’t sound too bad on paper—I’d be having much more space than I did at my Astoria apartment. That was until I got to meet my housemates.
Samuel (he became super pissy if you called him Sam) was truly insufferable. In 1974, he had a very small role in the Broadway musical Shenandoah, and, despite not appearing on Broadway since then, constantly bragged about his single appearance. He often interrupted rehearsals, offering unsolicited advice to both the director and the cast members. Back at the house was even worse. He recited (more like yelled) Shakespearean monologues at all hours of the nights.
Justin, who I shared a bedroom with, was 25, a few years older than me. He constantly whored himself out of Grindr, inviting a string of creepy old men over every night. He claimed that he was averaging about $5,000 a week, much more than he was making with the show. He was nice enough to give me $500 of that, but he was still not an ideal roommate.
The two of them were bad enough. But there was apparently a third housemate.
Almost immediately after moving in, I began hearing noises coming from the attic in the middle of the night. At first I thought nothing of it, thinking it was just some squirrels or possums. Compared to the noise from Samuel and Justin, it was a minor inconvenience.
Then, about a week after moving in, after a rehearsal, Justin and I arrived back to find a waltz playing from the attic. After locating a ladder and a flashlight, I (since Justin was too scared) climbed into the attic for the first time.
It was smaller than I thought it would be, maybe 200 square feet. I swung the flashlight beam, looking for the source of the music. I couldn’t find it, but the floor was littered with the carcasses of dozens of rodents and birds. Besides some insulation, the only other thing in the room was a wooden chest, pushed up against a wall. I crawled over to it and opened it. Inside was an old record player. I quickly pulled up the needle and made my way back towards the ladder, the floorboards creaking like they were about to collapse.
“There was an old record player up there,” I told Justin. “A squirrel or something must have turned it on somehow.” But I didn’t believe it. And neither did Justin.
A few weeks later, after the play had opened, Justin, Samuel, and I returned home after the evening show. Samuel was in a bad mood, since the local paper failed to mention him in their review. A few minutes after arriving, he started screaming, accusing Justin and me of eating his cauliflower chips, threatening to call the police.
“Did you eat his chips,” I asked Justin, when Samuel had finally calmed down.
“No, cauliflower chips are gross. You think it was the attic ghost?”
“There’s no ghost. The senile old fool can’t remember the five lines he has, there’s no way he remembers what he ate.”
After the show the next night, arriving home I thought I saw a figure in the attic window. I tried to convince myself that it was just a trick of the light, just a shadow. But I couldn’t.
Around 2am that night, after Justin’s customers had all left, Samuel was reciting one of his monologues.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen” he screamed. “Lend me your ears. It was a grievous fault, I come to bury Caesar for the noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious.”
“How did a fool who completely bungles one of the one of the most famous monologues manage to get a any sort of role?” I asked Justin.
“What’s that from?” asked Justin
“Julius Caesar” I sad incredulously.
“Oh, is that Shakespeare.”
“You’re serious?”
He nodded.
“Weren’t you a theatre major?”
“Musical theatre, gurl. Had to take a Shakespeare class, but I just read the Cliff Notes. I remember Bottom though, that name cracked me up every time.”
“Don’t call me girl,” I told Justin.
“He was my friend, faithful and just to me.” Samuel continued. “O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars..”
“Mixing up plays now,” I said. “It’s amazing—”
Suddenly, Samuel started screaming. Blood curdling screams for nearly a minute, before silence fell over the house.
“Was that part of the monologue?” Justin asked.
“Nope. We should probably check on him,” I responded.
“Can we wait till the morning, it’s dark and I’m the type of gay who reads the synopsis since I’m too scared to see horror movies.”
I sighed. “I wasn’t aware that was a type.”
“Oh it is, gurl.”
“I told you not to call me girl. Come on, let’s check on him.”
“Can we have some fun first?” Justin begged.
“Justie, I fucked you in the dressing room during intermission, and you had three guys over tonight. You’re fine.”
“Yeah, but I’m horny. Plus those guys were all bottoms. They all say they are vers tops, but haven’t met one yet who doesn’t want to bottom.”
“How about we check on him, then we will have some fun.”
We walked over to Samuel’s bedroom. The door was closed. I knocked but received no response. I opened the door. On his bed, Samuel lay, a dagger in his chest. Fear overtook me, but I did my best to remain calm. I didn’t think he killed himself. I thought it was the poltergeist in the attic, who did more than play waltz music and eat cauliflower chips. My hands shaking, I called 911.
About fifty minutes later, two obese cops and a team of paramedics arrived at the house. They introduced themselves at Detectives Lopez and Parsons.
“Is he dead?” Detective Lopez asked, with what I identified as a Cuban accent.
“I think so,” I said. If he wasn’t when I called, he is by now.
“Stay here and don’t move,” Det. Lopez ordered, pointing to a couch in the living room. “If you try to leave, we will charge you with obstruction.”
The two detectives went away to Samuel’s bedroom.
“Lovely man,” I remarked, when they were out of earshot.
“Are we going to go to jail,” Justin cried to me.
“It was self-inflicted. The man was losing his mind,” I said, trying to remain calm, even though inside I was truly terrified.
“I’m scared,” Justin said.
I was also scared, but didn’t want to admit it. “Why, I’m sure you will be very popular in prison with your skill set. Bet you won’t have any trouble finding tops there.”
“Please, just hold me,” he said crying. And I held him.
An hour later, I saw the paramedics carry Samuel’s body out. Shortly after, the two detectives returned to us.
“Why are you crying,” Det. Lopez asked Justin. “Was he your lover or something?”
“No, he’s just upset,” I said.
“I don’t think I asked you.”
“Just trying to be helpful.”
“I’ll give you some helpful advice. You keep your mouth shut unless I ask you a question.”
I didn’t respond.
“Do you not understand English or something, punk?” Det. Lopez asked. “Answer me.”
“Yeah, I understand you perfectly. In addition to English, I’m fluent in Pig Latin.”
Det. Lopez got up into my face. “Let me tell you something, I don’t take kindly to punks like you. You think you’re tough? I could knock you out cold with one punch.”
I started laughing. I didn’t mean to, but the idea of that fat fuck trying to fight me was just too much.
The detective’s face further reddened. He grabbed my shirt collar with his pudgy fingers and raised his other hand.
“Relax,” Det. Parsons yelled. “Everyone’s stressed, just calm down.” Reluctantly, Det. Lopez let go of my shirt and sat down. “Here’s what going on. The scene is very suspicious. I’ve been a detective for over 40 years, and in that time I only saw one suicide by stabbing. This looks like a homicide.”
“The man was crazy,” Justin yelled.
“I think I know what happened,” Det. Parsons said. “He made a pass at you, and you denied him. He became angry, so you stabbed him. Seems like a case of self defense. Admit it, and your lives will be a lot easier.”
“I want a lawyer,” I said.
“You have that right, but all that does is make you look guilty. For if you are innocent, why wouldn’t you tell us what happened. We’re going to take you down to the station to ask you some more questions.”
The waltz started playing again from the attic.
“Can you hear that?” asked Justin. “There’s a ghost in the attic. He did it. He killed Sam.”
“Is someone living in the attic?” Det. Parsons asked.
“I told you, there’s a ghost.”
“I’ll check it out,” Det. Lopez said. “Make sure these lovebirds don’t go anywhere.”
Det. Lopez slowly, and with great difficulty, climbed the ladder to the attic.
“Are you OK up there, Sergio?” called Detective Parsons, after a few minutes of silence. As a reply, his decapitated head fell from the attic, bouncing down the ladder.
Detective Parsons, moving quicker than I thought possible for a man his size, ran towards the ladder. He climbed it with one hand, his gun in the other. His body was halfway into the attic, when I heard a horrific scream. His corpse, cleaved in two, fell to the floor, landing by Det. Lopez’s head.
Justin was shaking uncontrollably.
“Try to relax,” I said. Inside I wasn’t relaxed. I was just as scared as he was.
“Relax? There’s a homicidal ghost in this place, and if we somehow survive it, we’re going to go to be executed. No one is going to believe us”
He had a point. But I had to do something. Adrenaline pumping, I managed to overcome my fright. I ran over to where Detective Parsons’ gun lay and picked it up. Bullets wouldn’t kill a ghost, but I had a feeling it might not be a ghost. I remembered the figure I saw in the attic window. The attic window. When I was up there, I saw no window. There must be a hidden chamber up there, inhabited by a crazed squatter
I fired several shots randomly through the ceiling and began climbing. When my head was through the opening, I looked around. Det. Lopez’s headless body lay a few feet away in a puddle of blood. No sign of a ghost. I kept climbing.
Suddenly, the chest opened and a wild man sprang out, wielding a samurai sword. He was naked and looked crazed, his beard nearly down to the floor. I fired a shot but missed. My second shot hit his arm, but he kept on coming. My third shot hit him in his shoulder, but didn’t slow him down. I tried to fire again. Out of ammo. The wild man was nearly at Detective Lopez’s body. I tried to scurry down the ladder, but he was moving too fast. Suddenly, the floor gave way, and he fell with a cry.
Shaking, I climbed back down, where the man lay in a pool of blood, having fallen on his sword. He was still twitching, still making inhuman sounds of pain, but he would be dead soon. Or so I hoped.