CHAPTER ONE
A S BRIAN AND SEAN Quinn locked their bikes to the rusty railing outside the old Culbertson Theater, Sam Miyako, Brianâs best friend, rode up and jumped off his bike. He jerked a thumb toward the ambulance and police car that were parked at the curb behind the handful of curious onlookers who had gathered in front of the theater.
âI came as soon as you called me,â Sam said breathlessly. âWhatâs going on?â
A paramedic trotted out of the theater and flung open the ambulance doors. The crowd leaned forward expectantly.
Brian asked Sam, âDo you remember reading about Clyde Marconi? Heâs the developer who wants to tear down this block of buildings and build a supermall.â
The Culbertson Theater was located at the end of a row of old brick buildings that had been boarded up for nearly ten years. The area had been deserted when shoppers and sightseers became drawn to the more modern and convenient malls and restaurants on the other side of Redoaks. A recent editorial in the local Redoaks newspaper had complained that the buildings were an eyesore and demanded that something be done to revitalize the old part of town.
âAbout fifteen minutes ago,â Brian explained, âMr. Marconi telephoned Dad. One of Mr. Marconiâs inspectors was onstage in the Culbertson Theater when a sandbag fell and hit his shoulder.â
âYour dad told you that?â Sam asked.
Brian smiled. âWell, not exactly. Dad wrote down the facts of what Mr. Marconi said on a pad of paper. The pen he used left an imprint in the soft paper. After he left, I rubbed a pencil over the paper and was able to reproduce the message.â
âCool,â said Sam. âBut why did Mr. Marconi call your dad?â
Sean broke in. âLast week he hired Dad to investigate some accidents in the theater.â
âAccidents?â Sam said. âLike what?â
âA stair railing suddenly broke,â Sean answered, âand Mr. Marconi fell. Later he nearly got squashed by a large stage flat that had been propped against the wall, only he jumped out of the way in time.â
âWhatâs a stage flat?â asked Sam.
âYou remember that school play we were in last year?â Brian said. âWell, a flatâs a piece of scenery thatâs fastened to a wooden frame.â
âYeah,â said Sean, grinning. âLike that door that got stuck and wouldnât open when it was supposed to.â
Brian nodded. âWell, in this case Mr. Marconi didnât think the broken rail and the falling flat were unrelated accidents, and he doesnât think the falling sandbag was, either. Heâs sure that somebodyâs doing this stuff on purpose, and heâs worried about the safety of his crew if he gets approval from the city council to tear down the building.â
Sam narrowed his eyes and made his voice sound scary. âMr. Marconi is right. They werenât accidents. Everybody knows the theaterâs haunted, so you can blame the ghost.â
Sean stiffened. âGhost? What ghost?â
âCut it out, Sam,â Brian said. âSean and I are here to help Dad with his investigation. We havenât got time to listen to another one of your ridiculous stories.â
âYeah,â Sean added. âWeâre not little kids anymore, you know. Iâm nine now. Anyway, nobody believes in ghosts.â The fact is, Sean did believe in ghosts, especially the kinds of ghosts that always appeared in Samâs stories. Sean couldnât help it. The scarier the story, the more he believed it.
Sam grinned. âIt isnât a story. Itâs true. The ghost suddenly appears onstage, and he has claws for hands and eyes that burn like fire and⦠Ouch!â
A tiny elderly woman who had been standing nearby rapped Sam sharply on the shoulder with the handle of her umbrella. âNonsense,â she declared. âHoratio was
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