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He hated stuff like that, but it all came with the territory. When you were a producer on any project, you tried to take care of the small stuff, unburdening the creatives as much as you could. Hiring people was part of the process, and so was keeping them happy and productive.

So even though he wanted to hit the hay and zonk out, he crossed the dining room and then the few steps down into the basement. A small stage had been erected there, with a large pull-down projector screen, so the 100-seat theater could double as a private screening room.

They’d been using the theater for rehearsals and script readings, before they went out and rehearsed at the park, where the production would eventually be staged once all the pieces were in place. Until then, the theater was the creative hub of the project.

“Marisa?” he called out when he entered. The lights were doused, but there was one lone bulb lit on stage. Weird. And a little creepy. “Marisa? You wanted to talk to me?”

He crossed the room and mounted the stage, wondering where the damn girl could be. Would be typical, of course, for her to have some imagined or real emergency, only to completely forget about it a minute later.

Probably boyfriend trouble. Being away from home, and staying with a bunch of other young people at a fancy mansion in the Hamptons, things tended to get a little out of control. Add to that the stacks of weed these kids consumed, and it was a miracle Bard in the Park didn’t turn full-on Woodstock. It was the kind of stuff Con had to deal with on a daily basis. Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t have stayed in the Marines. He sometimes hated these so-called creatives. Bunch of nutcases, every last one of them.

He was surprised to find a bunch of cats seated on stage. Weird. Wherever he turned these days, he seemed to encounter cats. They were staring at him, unmoving, those eyes unblinking and frankly more than a little scary, the single bulb reflected in those dark orbs.

He had never admitted it to anyone, but he hated cats. They gave him the creeps. The way they could just stare at you, as if looking straight into your soul. Brrrr.

“Marisa!” He yelled. “Where the hell are you?”

Suddenly, from the wings, a figure stepped forward. He gulped when he recognized her as… Dany Cooper! She even had the knife still stuck in her chest, blood oozing from the wound, as well as from her lips, and when she spoke, it was with a haunting undertone.

“Why did you do it, Con? Why did you kill me? I thought you loved me?”

“I—what—this isn’t happening,” he stammered, staggering back. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, I’m real, Con. As real as you. I can’t seem to find peace. Not until I know why you did it. Why, Con? Why did you kill me? I liked you. I know you liked me. You kept saying it all the time. And sending me those gifts. Those expensive perfumes, clothes, underwear…”

“I did like you—I mean I still do—I… Oh, God!” A creature suddenly scurried through his legs and he yelped, then fell to the floor. He watched with dread as Dany approached.

He couldn’t help but notice how pale her face was—so horribly pale, all the blood having drained from it and out of that wound.

On the floor there was a steady drip-drip-drip of blood as she walked.

“Why, Con?” she repeated. “Can’t you see? I need to know. Why did you kill me? I still had so much to live for. So much talent. So much life. Wasted. Because of you.”

“I didn’t—I don’t…”

“I was so young. And you killed me. You destroyed me. You’re responsible…”

“It’s your own damn fault!” he screamed as another cat scurried past him, then hissed, and moved on. This wasn’t happening! Was he going crazy? He must be. Ghosts didn’t exist, did they? But Dany seemed awfully real. There was even some dirt caked to her hair, and the side of her face. Even her clothes, the same clothes she was wearing when she died, were streaked with mud. She’d dragged herself here straight from the grave!

“Why did you kill me, Con?” she said, repeating the same mantra, as she drew inexorably closer to him, still that steady drip-drip-drip of blood. Thick, dark liquid oozing out of her, now flowing from her mouth—out of the corners of her eyes—her nose—her ears!

“Stop! Don’t you come near me!” he yelled, crawling back towards the edge of the stage. “You brought this on yourself. You didn’t want me. I asked you again and again. I would have given you everything. Not like Wolf. That loser would never have left his wife for you. Never! He couldn’t. She was his lifeline. His financial backbone. Without his wife, he was nothing, and the company was nothing. I told you, but you wouldn’t believe me. You kept hoping he would leave his wife but I told you—he wasn’t going to do that.