Bride of the Rat God by Barbara Hambly

the dogs bounding happily before her and rushing off to sniff everything in sight. “Up there,” she said as Norah and Hraldy climbed out on her heels. “All the studios rent it because it’s got the most gorgeous courtyard, straight out of the Arabian Nights. In fact, I thought Frank ought to use it for a movie about the Arabian Nights. I mean, after Robin Hood, he could make a big picture about the Arabian Knights meeting the Knights of the Round Table...”
    She drew her furs more closely about her, though the evening, by Manchester standards, was mild.
    “Isn’t that terribly inconvenient for the owners?” asked Norah, going back to the second car and taking the awkward bundle of light stands Alec handed out to her. Blake Fallon, likewise bundled in fur, had already disembarked and now went to catch up with Christine on the long stone stairway, followed by Zena Franklin, Christine’s autocratic hairdresser. Hraldy and Mary DeNoux, the wardrobe mistress, each took a magazine of spare film; the flute and cello players—the celloist had switched from piano—handed their instruments to Alice, the violinist, and lent a hand with the reflectors. Mindlebaum himself carried his camera as if it were a fragile and cranky baby, which was exactly what it was.
    “The owners are glad to get money for it,” he said as they climbed innumerable steps to the squat gate at the top. “They can’t rent it and won’t live in it. It’s supposed to be haunted.”
    “Rubbish,” Hraldy declared. “We film here for Job, film wedding feast of his daughter— which your Mr. Brown cut out also—and where is ghost, eh? Show the ghost on film, and I will believe ghost.”
    Chang Ming, after solemnly balancing on three short legs to baptize the base of the steps, bounded after the procession. Over the walls, Norah could see lights and hear the faint exchange of voices from those who had been sent ahead to properly deck the set with chrysanthemums and hangings suitable to the queen of Babylon’s gardens. Black Jasmine, dashing back from an investigation of another driveway, added his mite to Chang Ming’s efforts, then tried unsuccessfully to follow the party up the stairs. Norah deposited her burden beside the gate and went down to get him.
    “There may not be a ghost,” remarked Alec, who waited for her at the top, “but every time I shoot here—and I’ve shot seven pictures in this courtyard—I make sure I get at least five extra takes, because something’s going to go wrong with at least half of what I do. Other cameramen say the same. I know two major stars who refuse to film here at all, and at least six stuntmen.”
    “Why?”
    The gate was opened from within. As the lights from the house fell upon it, Norah gasped, realizing that what she had thought was wood was in fact solid bronze, embossed with intricate arabesques. Beyond, instead of the Grand Guignol of cobwebs and horror called to mind by the talk of ghosts and haunting, the courtyard lay like a dream of Omar Khayam’s, its tiles embossed with flowers and its walls decorated with exquisite bas-reliefs of bulls and winged gods, priests and maidens bearing tribute, all half-hidden behind stands of bamboo and banana, trailing roses and bougainvillea. Every vine and tree in sight, of course, sported the ubiquitous chrysanthemums, and the tall stands of the lights with their trailing cables running back into the house somewhat marred the magic of the place. Still, Norah could see why every epic of ancient passion was filmed here.
    Beyond the door—a scaled-down replica of one in the British Museum’s Persian collection—she could hear Christine’s voice. “My God, can’t we get some heat in here? I swear if I put on all thirty of my costumes for this film one on top of the other, I’d still freeze to death....Oh, Butterpie, Mama’s going to take care of you, don’t be nervous, princess...” Buttercreme, Norah deduced, had as usual made a beeline for