Matinees With Miriam. Vicki Essex

      Something metal clanged. A crash, and one of the boys yelped.

      In the pitch black, Shane sensed movement. A pair of doors leading to the auditorium banged open, and a blast of cold air hit him.

      The red exit signs flickered. A dark something glided soundlessly across the lobby, and Shane’s chest seized. He caught sight of the boys, the three of them heaped in a pile on the floor, staring wide-eyed at the approaching figure in black.

      And then it spoke.

      “Get. Out.”

      The lights went out again. From beneath billowing black robes, the outline of a skeleton glowed neon green.

      The boys screamed. Shane squinted against the strobe light flickering from within the empty vending machine, catching the stop-motion-like progress of the teens as they tripped over each other sprinting toward the front door.

      One of them paused to look back, the way an emboldened and inexperienced lion cub might when facing an angry badger.

      The shadowy figure stopped. It raised its arms. A series of soft cracking noises punctuated the piano melody. The boy yelped as bright green globs exploded on his chest and arms.

      Was that ghost using a paintball gun?

      The doors burst open as the three trespassers stumbled out. The wraith stood there a moment longer, then drifted toward the exit. It set the bolts on the top of the door, then locked a large dead bolt.

      Shane was still plastered to the corner when the figure turned around. It pulled out a smart phone and hit a few buttons. The strobe light stopped, and blinding emergency floodlights turned on, washing the lobby in dirty brown light. A second later, the piano music ceased. The figure in black wasn’t quite so menacing now. It stood barely five-three, draped head to toe in filmy, artfully ragged cloth. Not an inch of skin showed, not even the small, delicate hands. An indigo-hued black light hung from a chain around its neck, which explained how the skeletal figure could be seen in the dark.

      This was no ghost.

      Relief and amusement swamped him. He stepped out from the corner and cleared his throat. “Miriam Bateman, I presume?”

      He thought catching her off guard would shock her into revealing herself. He was wrong.

      With lightning reflexes, the figure raised the paintball gun and pulled the trigger.

      * * *

      MIRA HAD NO tolerance for trespassers. Why anyone thought they could simply waltz into her theater to hang out, drink beer and piss against the walls like a bunch of animals...

      The little bastards were lucky she didn’t own a real gun.

      The paintball gun huffed a fierce volley of Day-Glo green pellets at the remaining intruder. Not only would he be cleaning the stuff out of his clothes for days, but he’d probably have some nice bruises, too. The sheriff wouldn’t have a hard time finding him or his friends.

      As the first volley hit him square in the chest, he twisted away, hands shielding his head, exposing his ribs and thigh to the assault instead. He reeled back as she stepped forward. The closer she got, the worse the impact would hurt.

      She let go of the trigger briefly. “Get out,” she gritted, though it didn’t have the menace the voice-changing app on her phone gave her. “You’re trespassing. The sheriff is on his way. Get out or I’ll put one through your eye.”

      “I followed those boys in here. I thought they were causing trouble—”

      “I’ll cause you trouble. Get out!” She pulled the trigger again. Three paintballs hit him square in the crotch. His face contorted, his mouth opened in a silent scream and, eyes crossed, he collapsed.

      Mira lowered the gun. He wasn’t getting up. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t faking his agony. Crap. That wasn’t good. She put the gun aside and dialed the sheriff, filling him in on her situation.

      “I’m driving as fast as I can, Mira,” Ralph McKinnon told her gruffly, “but I’m still about ten minutes out. I called Arty. He’ll probably get there before me.”

      “There was a fourth one, Ralph. Older guy. I shot him in the nuts with my paintball gun. He’s down.” She kept her gun pointed at him and leaned in far enough to ascertain if the man was still breathing. He had his hands cupped around his crotch and his eyes squeezed shut.

      Only a little remorse broke through her self-righteous fury. He was wearing a fairly nice gray suit and a pink tie, all of it now splattered with neon green paint. Clearly he hadn’t been with those punks. Not that it excused him from breaking into the Crown.

      The sheriff sighed. “I should never have given you those shooting lessons.”

      “Hey, you were the one who was all about standing your ground.”

      “Does he need an ambulance?”

      “Hey, you,” she said to the stranger. “Do you need an ambulance?”

      The man gurgled something that sounded like a no.

      “Nah,” Mira told Ralph. “But get over here quick. If he tries to get up, I might have to unload on him again.”

      “Please don’t.” The man rolled over and looked up at her with wide eyes. “I just wanted to drive those kids off.”

      “I’ll see you soon, Sheriff.” Mira slipped her phone back into her pocket, muzzle still trained on the man. He was dark skinned with jet-black hair and large, dark eyes. No rings on his fingers, so he wasn’t married—no wife to come after her in case she’d accidentally neutered him.

      She hefted the paintball gun menacingly. “So you’re, what, a good Samaritan?”

      “I’m Shane Patel from Sagmar Corp.,” he said hoarsely, easing himself up. Worried he might try to disarm her, she brandished the paintball gun. He raised his hands. “Are you Miriam Bateman?”

      Mira realized she still wore the head-to-toe wraith costume. He wouldn’t have recognized her anyhow—she didn’t have much in the way of a social media profile and preferred to stay anonymous online. All the same, she kept the cowl and veil on.

      “Why are you here, Mr. Patel?” She recognized his name, of course. All those letters from the property developer had gotten on every last one of her nerves.

      “I wanted to speak with you personally.” He sat up, his knees pinched together protectively. Contrition inched onto his face. “I wanted—”

      “I already told you, the Crown’s not for sale. Sheriff McKinnon will be here shortly to escort you off my property.”

      He straightened, ready to argue. “My associates—” She gestured with the muzzle of her weapon, and he got the hint, cutting off his sales pitch sharply. “It was rude of me to call on you so late,” he amended hastily. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. Seriously, I meant no harm. I was only driving by when I saw those kids.”

      Doubt stirred inside her. He hadn’t tried to hurt her or damage the Crown as far as she could tell. Nor did he seem to be trying to burn down the place to expedite the sale of the property—she’d heard stories of developers doing just that. His nice suit was ruined, and he’d probably be covered in bruises tomorrow. She’d be lucky if he didn’t press charges against her.

      She lowered the gun. “Sorry about your suit,” she said reluctantly. “You can send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”

      “Not to worry. It was in need of a little color anyhow.” He got to his feet. “I’ll wait for the sheriff. I can give him a description of those guys who broke in.”

      “That’s not necessary.” She didn’t want him there any longer than he had to be. “You can go.”

      He looked around, lingering, as if waiting for an invitation to sit and have a coffee.

      “You’re