Galoyra
Geloyra, the uneasy soul, drifted through the dusty velvet curtains of the Grand Majestic Theatre. Even in her spectral form, the scent of old wood, grease paint, and a hundred years of applause clung to her. This was her sanctuary, the culmination of a lifetime dedicated to the stage. But now, the scent was tainted with the harsh tang of sawdust and steel, the smell of destruction.
Killan, the theatre’s new owner, had arrived, full of youthful ambition and modern ideas. He saw only a dilapidated building, ripe for renovation and rebranding. Geloyra saw sacrilege. He planned to tear down the proscenium arch, replace the plush seats with stadium seating, and install garish neon lights. Each hammer blow felt like a personal assault.
The fire, a tragic accident years ago, had claimed Geloyra’s life and ravaged the theatre. But her spirit remained, bound to the very bricks and mortar. She couldn’t let Killan desecrate her legacy.
So, she began her reign of terror. It was minor at first: tools disappeared, paint cans inexplicably overturned, blueprints vanishing from tables. The builders grumbled, dismissing it as carelessness. But as the days wore on, the incidents escalated. Scaffolding collapsed (harmlessly, she ensured), wiring sparked ominously, and heavy objects shifted and swayed with unseen force. Each incident was a warning, a ghostly finger tapping them on the shoulder, urging them to leave.
One by one, the builders deserted. Killan, a man of unwavering determination, refused to be deterred. He attributed the mishaps to shoddy workmanship and disgruntled former employees. He hired and fired, promising bonuses and threatening legal action. But the theatre, or rather, Geloyra, had other plans.
Eventually, only Killan remained. He stood amidst the debris, his brow furrowed in frustration. “This has to stop,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. He couldn’t understand why she so spooked everyone. He had ordered a pizza, grabbed some drinks, unrolled his sleeping bag, and decided to spend the night. He figured things might finally get done if he was there, overseeing the work.
He settled down, taking a bite of his pizza. Suddenly, a spotlight, still precariously hanging, detached from its mooring, swinging wildly and narrowly missing Killan’s head.
“Okay,” Killan shouted, adrenaline coursing through him. “Where are you? Show yourself! What is your problem with my theatre?”
The air grew cold, prickling the skin on his arms. A low, mournful groan echoed through the vast space.
At that moment, Geloyra, with an angry ghostly voice, shouted, “It’s not your theatre!”
Killan jumped, startled. He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. “Show yourself!” he repeated, his voice trembling slightly. He grabbed a flashlight and flicked it on, aiming it into the shadows.
Slowly, a light began to coalesce in the centre of the stage. It pulsed and shimmered, gradually shaping itself into a figure. Killan watched, transfixed, as the apparition solidified.
A ghostly vision stood before him, radiating an ethereal glow. She was a beautiful woman, draped in a tattered black cape. Her black hair flowed around her shoulders, framing her face with a mix of sorrow and fierce determination. But her eyes truly captivated him – black, bottomless pools that seemed to hold centuries of stories.
Killan stood with his mouth agape, the flashlight trembling in his hand. He had heard the rumours, the whispered tales of the theatre’s resident ghost. But he had dismissed them as superstition. Now, staring into the eyes of the spectral woman, he knew the stories were true.
“O-Oh,” he stammered, finally finding his voice. “Geloyra.”
“Leave my theatre”
“I want to make this theatre come alive again”
“NOOO, you’re trying to erase me from its existence”
“No, I don’t, Geloyra. I want your memory to live, I want this theatre to come alive again, please Geloyra, let me show you”
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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