Rosaline

What was different about that night? It must have been the moonlight, streaming through the hole in the roof. The tiles had been damaged in a hailstorm. A fierce northern wind had blown away the tarp.

As I stepped onto the stage, I noticed a figure standing frozen in a pool of moonlight. Closer inspection revealed a marble statue of young woman dressed in Renaissance garb. Her flowing gown was perfectly rendered, from the ruffle around her low cut bodice to the wide, dangling sleeves. Her carefully coiffed hair was decorated with lilies so lifelike they could have been real.

If only the artist had spent as much time on the woman as her clothes. Her face, while perfect, was bland, the kind of countenance that is easy to forget.

"Who left that here?" I wondered aloud. Our next scheduled production was Chekhov. The statue seemed a more suitable prop for a Shakespearean play.

"Rosaline," someone whispered.

I jumped. "Who's there?"

No answer. Slowly, I turned around. The shadows were thick. There were a dozen places where someone could hide. Trying not to show my fear, I crept towards the front of the stage. The leap into the orchestra pit wrenched my ankle, but that did not stop me from running at full speed to the ticket office. There I locked the door, then dialed 911.

Predictably, the intruder was gone by the time the police arrived. After checking out the premises, the officers advised me to get the locks changed. They offered to escort me home, but now that the lights were on, the deserted theater no longer seemed frightening, and I declined.

Had I only imagined the voice which whispered a woman's name? Rosemary? Rosalinda? No, Rosaline. The name seemed familiar, though I could not place it.

As I was preparing to leave, I noticed that the statue was missing. So there had been someone here after all. Probably one of the production crew. No burglar would bring a statue only to steal it. Poor thing. I had probably scared her as much as she had scared me. I say "she", because the voice that spoke to me from the darkness was too high pitched to belong to a man.

As I locked the front door, I made a mental note to tell the manager to get someone to fasten the tarp back onto the roof. However, the next day was hectic. I was too busy to remind anyone about the hole in the roof, much less question the cast and crew about who had been in the theater the night before.

It was after seven before I finished. A gathering storm had brought an early night fall. In the distance I heard thunder. Recalling that I had left the windows of my car rolled down, I grabbed my purse and hurried towards the front door.

As I crossed the stage, something caught my eye. It was the statue again, illuminated by a beam of moonlight just as it had been the night before.

Close inspection revealed that this statue was not the same one I had seen last night. This one's head was tilted to the side, and one hand was extended. Someone had brought a second statue and placed in here on the stage for me to find. Why?

The hairs bristled on the back of my neck. I clutched my car keys more tightly. If necessary, I could use them as a weapon.

"Is someone here?" I asked. My voice did not betray my fear.

"Rosaline." It was the voice from the night before. A woman's voice. I relaxed slightly.

"Where are you?"

"Here. In front of you."

I frowned. The only thing visible in the shadows was the statue standing in the moonlight. On a hunch, I reached forward. Instead of stone, my fingers brushed silk. So the "statue" was really a mime.

"Is this an audition? Are you looking for a part? If so, you need to come back during the day. I'm just the set designer--"

"A part," she echoed. The bland, beautiful mask that was her face did not alter. "I want a story of my own."

"A leading role? You'll have to talk to the director."

As if it was a great effort, she shook her head slowly. The lilies in her hair released their perfume. The material of her gown rustled. "Not a role. I had a role, once. Ice maiden. Perpetual virgin. I scorned Romeo. He turned to Juliet."

"Rosaline. As in 'she is rich in beauty, only poor that, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.' That Rosaline? She never appears on stage. How could you have played that Rosaline?"

"I was never a player. That was the problem." The white faced woman extended her hand a fraction of an inch more until her fingers touched mine. Her skin was icy cold.

I snatched my hand away. "Who are you? What are you?'

Colorless lips parted as if t to speak, but at that moment thunder crashed.Storm clouds covered the sky, blotting out the moon. As the beam of white light disappeared, so did the young woman who claimed to be Rosaline. By the time I found a light switch, she was gone.

Fortunately, the storm was over quickly, and the water damage was minimal. Next day, the manager had the roof repaired. I told him to be on the lookout for a strange young woman with experience as a mime, but she never showed up asking for a part.

The production was a great success. My set designs were widely praised, and as a result I was invited to take part in an open air production of " A Midsummer's Night Dream."

Though there was a half roof to keep rain off the outdoor stage, the sets were still exposed to the elements, so I had to be careful in the materials I used. Since some of the scenes would be staged in minimal light, to simulate the atmosphere of a forest at night, I decided to check out the visual effect of my set design by moonlight.

The theater was located on the grounds of a small, private college. Just to be safe, I brought my Doberman, Freddie. He searched the bushes, sniffing for raccoons and other nocturnal animals to chase while I examined my sets.

It was a clear night. The air was sweetly scented with honeysuckle. Not long after sunset, the moon rose over the trees. Moonlight bathed the stage in white gold, bringing my sets to life.

Freddie barked.

"Shhh!" I told him. "It's just an animal."

The dog whimpered.

"What is wrong with you---?" That was when I felt it too. The air had gone from warm to cool. The smell of honeysuckle had been replaced by the funeral scent of lilies.

Slowly, I turned. There, on the stage, stood the young woman who called herself Rosaline. Her hair and costume were the same as before. Her face was still completely white. When I touched her outstretched hand, I found her skin to be as cold as marble. Just to be certain, I touched her cheek. Ice cold.

"What are you?" I asked.

"I am Rosaline," she replied. Even her voice was cool.

"I didn't ask your name. I asked what you are. Are you a ghost?"

Her lips barely moved. "To be a ghost, one must die. To die, one first must live. I have never lived."

"So what are you?"" I demanded again.

"A dream. An excuse. A name. I am the reason why Romeo went to the party and met Juliet. I am the catalyst that set the play in motion--and I am nothing."

"What are you doing here?"

"I am doomed to be cold and beautiful forever, a spirit which walks the stage at night, visible only when moonlight touches the boards. Will you help me?"

"Help you? How?"

"Give me a story of my own. Free me from this curse. Let the ice maiden thaw."

I considered her words. "You want me to write you a play? But if you are only visible by moonlight, how can you perform it before an audience."

"Let another bring the role to life, as so many actors have given life to Romeo, Juliet, Mercutio and the others. Write a play and call it 'Rosaline.' Tell the story from my point of view."

"I don't know. I'm a set designer. I have never written anything--"

"Please." For a moment, she looked almost human. Her eyes were wide and swimming with silvery tears. She bit her lower lip.

What could I say? "I'm no playwright, but if it will release you from this curse, I'll write you a story." But what would I write? "Let's see," I mused aloud. "Why would a beautiful young woman vow never to marry? Because she has had a bad sexual experience? Rape? Incest? Maybe you were sexually abused by your father. No, too cliche. How about this? Rosaline scorned Romeo, because she was a lesbian. Also, she was secretly in love with Juliet. What a twist."

A single cloud passed over the moon. As its silver light vanished, it took with it the beautiful, pale Rosaline. However, in my mind, she grew more real as I began to imagine her story...

Bio:McCamy writes speculative fiction with elements of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Her long fiction can be read on her web site at http://www.nationwide.net/~taylorjh.

E-mail: taylorjh@nationwide.net

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