I haven’t forgotten you. Though sometimes it feels like I have…

 

I

 

Five years of obsession and searching have brought me here. Five long years and I have a name at last. It’s not an answer but at least it’s a new question.

The Pitch Dark Theatre.

It’s not much to look at now. It’s one of those old, colonial types. Never really cared for architecture myself. That is more Therese’s thing. She loves old homes. Always going on about the Georgians, Gothic Revivals and Queen Annes. Yeah, this could be a Queen. Those are her favourite and this has vestiges of that gingerbready look. I have a feeling she wouldn’t be too fussed about this one, though.

It squats on the ridge like some fat vulture hungrily eyeing the street. Its long windows are boarded and shut to the crashing surf still audible despite the wind. Half the shutters have fallen off rusted hinges and the few that remain batter against the brick side. At one time it was probably fancy like a governor’s house or a hotel. It isn’t much now. The only sense of colour to represent its regal construction is in the blocky graffiti sprayed across its wall. But even that is sparse.

Few weeds sprout on a front lawn too dry to entertain grass for a spell. The barren ground is an oddity given the heavy clouds overhead. The smell of rot permeates the air and the boards sag underfoot. Paint peels and flakes but reveals nothing beneath other than more blighted black wood.

And then there is that damnable police tape snapping in the air. The edges are frayed. The words are faded. Someone put this up then couldn’t be bothered to return and take it down. It’s like the whole town has condemned the place, marked it off and quarantined it.

The message is clear: stay away.

But I can’t. There’s something about the name. I hold my phone before the facade, looking over what it once was. The Internet still has pictures of it back when Maryhill was proud of the monument. Bright cornerstones encased the red brick with inlaid terracotta panels and a large disposed set of windows with arched upper sashes and a gabled roof. Asymmetrical oriel windows pop from its otherwise flat side with impressive set ornamental frames that would have certainly been a big draw back in the day.

Now, they are more like pustulating blemishes bulging from the skin and ready to burst. Ornamental chimneys rise behind the single, oddly placed tower as though the roof has grown a row of crooked teeth. The whole front curves and buckles at irregular angles like the ground is trying to dislodge and pitch the entire misshapen thing into the sea.

And while it was bright and decorated in the photo, now it is all black. Thick, choking paint runs over everything, right down to the fish scale shingles so that a sense of form and depth is utterly lost amongst that unending nothingness.

I snap a photo anyway.

I take a look about the street before ducking beneath the tape. It is unnecessary but after five years of questionable searches and more than a few awkward conversations with local authorities, some habits are hard to shake. No one really walks by this old building though. I haven’t seen a single soul even look its way from the lower roads.

The wood groans as I pass. There’s no front door anymore. Pieces of scattered, broken wood are the only hints to the theatre’s final night. I enter the foyer without any resistance, picking a path amongst the construction half forgotten in the curved entrance. The hallways are open to me, all doorways eerily empty of their teeth. Wind whistles through the building’s vacated bones as litter and dirt spreads from the passing of rodents and birds.

I make my way forward. Despite the dirt, the only thing that stands out as peculiar is the walls. They’re covered in wide streaks of bright white paint. It seems like someone had come through with ambitious intentions despite the animals ruining the effort. Lines stripe the ceiling too, as though to scrub the offending black wholly from existence. As I proceed deeper, however, the effort dwindles. Solitary lines are all that remain until I step into a central courtyard eerily untouched by this mysterious renovator.

It’s a strange design. Where should lie the heart of the house rests a cobbled square with a covered walkway that circles its perimeter. There’s a visible chill in the air as numerous passages lead to this small, open space. Looking up, I can see the persistent grey sky heavy with rain clouds too full to break. Silhouettes of the square chimneys feel like a penning fence, their throats long drained of any smoke.

Without the mad renovator’s touch, the effect of that black paint is heaviest here. It oozes from every post, brick and stone. Only the single shaft of light overhead can penetrate that gloom. The air is thick as though it carries twisting chains that wrap about my ankles and wrists. The windows overlooking the yard are just as dark and unnerving.

But nothing is worse than that stairwell.

It’s little more than a slit in the ground like a tear in the very earth. Darkness almost bubbles forth from its gaping cavity and there’s an oppressive silence that deafens my senses. Looking upon that hole I’m unable to shake a powerful sense of dread.

Naturally, I turn and poke amongst the side passages.

I don’t know how long I wander. Each room I step into is just like the last. It’s as though I’m witnessing the frozen battle between two eternal forces. Black and white paint hangs from every surface. Where expensive rugs and ornate furniture should be there is nothing but those naked walls clashing in their two tones. The borders and mouldings are lost amongst careless brush swipes. It’s impossible to say who is winning.

And no matter where I wander, I always emerge in that dreaded courtyard. Even as I attempt to navigate myself away from it, the curious twisting corridors and small, numerous blank rooms always end by disgorging me into that pit of darkness. There’s nothing here on the main floors. I can’t even say that the place has been ransacked. It’s almost as though there was nothing ever here.

The fifth time I enter the courtyard, I look up to the sky to see it darkening just like the house. A shudder runs down my spine as my eyes are inextricably drawn towards those hollow, descending steps. I haven’t checked the upper floors yet and by now I’m not certain I even want to explore them.

I convince myself that it would be too dangerous in a building this neglected without a flashlight. I poke amongst the corridors until I find the one that leads out. I don’t even bother hiding my sigh of relief as I duck beneath the police tape and hurry down the path to the street. I pause before the driver’s door to look at the Pitch Dark Theatre in the deepening twilight. It’s like a shadow now but of what I cannot say–just a dark smear across a dark sky.

I get into the car and drive, thankful for the shine of my headlights.

It feels like another wasted day. It feels like another dead end. Nothing to show for my work. Nothing to confirm these nagging doubts latched in the back of my mind. I was certain this would be it. Looking at the building felt like I finally caught my break.

The rest of Maryhill is unremarkable colonial nothingness. It’s a village forgotten by time. The small, squat homes are bleak and lifeless. The few inhabitants on the street huddle against the terrible wind rolling off the waters, clutching their torn plastic bags as they shuffle for the recluse of their small lives. It’s a dead town at the end of a very dead trail.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time to give this up.

I’m turning the car towards the highway when something catches the corner of my eye. I slam the brakes and screech to a stop.

There, beneath the pale light of a local hotel is the worn, beaten Volkswagen with the telltale dent above its back right wheel well. I’m in shock as I fumble for my phone. I’m flicking between photo albums before I even realize I’m parked in the middle of the street. I signal and turn into the hotel’s parking lot, taking a space two down from the Volkswagen. I find a picture of the old car, parked beneath the cherry tree. It looks better then and not just because of the two girls sitting in its open trunk smiling for the camera. Their feet dangle over the licence plate but I can still make out enough of it.

BAHC-353.

I climb out, pausing just long enough to look up and down the street. Nobody wants to brave this weather this late in the evening. As I move around the car, I look towards the hotel entrance. All the windows are dark like most of Maryhill but a small, fluorescent Open sign flickers in the corner of the front glass.

I crouch by the back plate, wiping some of the mud away.

BAHC-353.

My heart is pounding. This is it. I look back at the hotel.

It’s a small place. Certainly less grandiose than the Pitch Dark Theatre. It’s covered in that quaint country white paint though the wind and sea salt has caused it to peel in places. The roof sags beneath its own dissolution. The curtains are frilled, stained and faded. Perhaps it would have been lovely back in the seventeen hundreds. Now it was much like the rest of the town–living well past its natural life.

I open the front door. The soft chime of bells ring overhead. The wind groans after me, causing small papers to flutter of a nearby stand. I slam the door shut, bending to pick up the mess I’ve inadvertently made. They are travel brochures though none of the pictures on them look like Maryhill. They’re all colourful villages filled with smiling people.

“Can I help you?”

The question is more accusatory than polite. A young girl sits behind an awkward counter blocking a half open door to the back rooms. An empty pot rests beside her, nothing in it except dry dirt and a wooden dowel to support the faded idea of a flower.

She’s a young thing, barely old enough to be working a counter and certainly not old enough to be working this late. Her eyes are cold and bored; it is the vacant stare reserved only for those in that obnoxious stage of teenhood where their minds possess the singular thought that they amongst all others know everything but can’t be bothered to share any of it.

“Busy day, eh?” I ask. It’s a lame attempt to liven the mood.

She’s duly unimpressed.

“Not here, no.”

“That your car out front?”

“I don’t have my licence yet.”

“It’s a guest’s then?”

“The hotel doesn’t have guests anymore.”

She keeps that dead stare and, though those empty eyes rest solely in a young thing’s face, I can’t help but shift beneath them. The floor creaks with my weight as I search for an unassuming route of enquiry.

“A co-worker’s then?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Look, I just want to talk to whoever drives that Volkswagen in your lot.”

She shakes her head, a few strands of dirty brown hair falling loose. She adjusts them before she speaks.

“There’s no car in the lot.”

I try not to grit my teeth.

“Yes, there is.”

“There isn’t.”

I look out the window. Even with the lacy curtains, I can still see the outline of the car sitting plain as day in front of the hotel. God damn kids.

“Look, it’s really important that I speak to the driver of that vehicle. So, either you tell me who it is or I’m going to knock on each of these doors until I find whoever brought it here.”

I wave my hand down the side hall where the guest rooms clearly lie. She shakes her head but says nothing more, looking down to the faded pages of a book behind the counter.

“Fine then!”

I turn but have only taken three steps before I hear that telltale thrum of an engine igniting. I look out the window to see the vehicle’s lights angling towards the street.

She doesn’t even look up as I wrench open the door and burst into the night.

I fumble my keys, half distracted watching the Volkswagen pull away. A light fog is rolling in from the sea and I’m just slamming the door as the first tendrils wrap about my car. The engine stutters several times.

Not now. Not today.

“Come on!”

But even as the car shakes to life, I know I’m already too late. The wheels squeal as I spin onto the road and tear down the street. I’m looking down every side lane as I pass but there’s nothing here now–only fog and darkness.

I circle Maryhill’s main road twice. It’s not that large. But there’s no sign of the Volkswagen. It’s like it wasn’t there at all. My stomach’s growling by the time I give up.

I have to pass the hotel on the way out of the village. I restrain myself from raising my finger. It’s not like she’d see it anyway.