 The man in the alley drew her from the world, like a straw. She had passed him on several occasions on her way home from work. Each time, he had smiled at her, revealing tiny, sharp teeth under a thin black mustache. Each day, he looked the same, wearing a brilliant blue tweed suit, red shirt, purple shoes, black top hat, and white gloves. Each day, he stood at the end of a garbage-strewn alley, amidst the filth-and-split trash bags, waiting to smile and tip his hat as she crossed the alley's mouth. Each day, she passed, her eyes lingered a little longer on the gaudy figure. Each day, her feet tarried a little more as she crossed between Goldman shoes and rental tax services. Each day, the image of that exotic man whispering secrets in her ear behind his white clad hand flitted past her mind's eye more and more. Until the day, her lingering eyes guided her feet one foot after the other down the alley of red brick and refuse. It was as if he were some distant horizon that she, for a moment, thought she could reach. She found his grinning face at the end of the alley, startling. It caused part of her to jump. She likened the sensation to a noise that rouses you out of sleep or that moment in a dream when you realize you're dreaming. Out of the seamless stream of grinning faces that flowed through her vision each day, his was the only face that her eyes could really see. All the other faces, all the other voices, all the other moving bodies had begun to blur. Her daily routine, her bagel, her jog, her shower, her walk to work, her work, her walk home had begun to wear and fade. Her life was a record and it was beginning to crackle, hiss and skip. Her work at Goldman's shoes was not something she enjoyed. She worked so she could exist and she existed so she could work. It was a fruitless existence and she knew it. The faces that she saw each day, coworkers and customers, grinned, greeted. But each grin looked painted on and each greeting sounded like a recording made ages and ages ago. Sometimes she likened her daily routine to a haunted house carnival ride. She was sitting in a car that was rolling on a track never to detour or deviate. She would watch the same animatronic robots move and preset motions as she looped the track over and over and over. He whispered secrets in her ear in a voice that smelled of garlic and felt a velvet. He told her where to find what she was looking for. The doors were exactly where he told her they would be. They stood tall and weathered. The entrance to South Fulton's magnitude theater. It had been closed for years, maybe decades. She had never known it to be open. The marquee would have said closed had it not been missing the O. It was bordered in faded red, ancient, long dead, incandescent bulbs lying the edges, some broken, others missing. There were poster displays no longer promoting traveling bands, magicians, and plays. The windows were bordered over. She reached out and touched the cracked paint blistered door. She expected a jolt, a crackling static shock maybe, or a fiery sizzle. But at her touch, a seeping cold breathed up her arm. Her fingers ran down the weathered surface of the worn brass handles and curled around the cool, slick metal. Part of her expected the doors to be locked. Why wouldn't they be? What irresponsible person would leave a dilapidated building unlocked? She pushed. The right door swung inward, scraping along an already worn path in the wooden floor. Water washed over her as if the theater exhaled. It was thick and smelled of mildew. She held her breath on impulse and stepped into the dark. Dust coated the wooden slots of the floor, dim light from the rain-clouded sky outside slipped in through the boards on the windows and revealed the expansive entrance room. There was a coat check in the corner in what looked like a podium fixed at the top of a short, broad flight of stairs. She could imagine people flowing up those steps in a jostling, murmuring swarm. She imagined lots of black evening cloaks, monocles, white gloves, and top hats. White gloves and top hats. Hello? She said. The sound of her voice evaporated as it touched the air as if the theater that had lain silent for years had absorbed it. She approached the steps, her footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust. She wondered if there had ever been carpeting perhaps red and gold with symmetrical Persian designs. She ascended the stairs, walked past the podium and deeper into the dark where the dim outline of the door to the auditorium stood. She swallowed and closed her eyes. She pushed the door open. Inside, a multitude of empty seats faced a lush red curtain illuminated on stage by unseen spotlights. The entire room was without blemish or dust as if the theater had never gone out of business. On the right side of the stage, sitting on a short wooden stool was the man from the alley. His clothes were the same and bathed in the brilliant stage lights, their outlandish extravagance dazzling her eyes. I honestly didn't think you'd come. He said as he walked down the aisle towards the stage, the echo of his velvet voice filled every corner of the room. She said nothing and mounted the steps at the end of the aisle. The man remained seated. What do you think? He swept his arm upward towards the enormous red curtain. Once again, she said nothing. She crossed the stage toward him, the sounds of her feet no longer muffled by dust. Their steps were loud and hollow. She stopped just in front of him. Do you know what you want? He said. She nodded. No. He stood. You don't know. He put his face in front of hers. She smelled garlic. She saw sharp white teeth. What do you want? She licked her lips and swallowed, but the words did not come. She lifted her arm and pointed at the curtain. Ah. He said. Each noise filled the auditorium and reverberated off the audience of empty seats. A better answer. He was walking around the edge of the stage. As he walked, three life-sized marionette puppets dropped one by one from above and marched behind him, mimicking his movements. Their wooden limbs jerked about by strings that stretched up and disappeared into the dark. She watched the progress of the puppets, each brightly colored in orange and green and purple. Do you know what's behind the curtain? She shook her head. Do you want to know? Yes. Her own voice also filled the auditorium. He reached the opposite side of the stage, his mouth smiled. The puppets began to dance. Their dead arms and legs spun about. Their blank eyes rolled around on bobbing hands. The clatter of their wooden feet on the stage was deafening. They danced and spun, their twirling bodies interrupting her line of vision to the man. What do you think? He asked again above the roar of flailing feet. Once again, she said nothing. The puppets were yanked back to where they came, back to unseen masters in the dark above. The man's mouth remained, smiling. You have come a long way to get here. He began pacing the stage again, and no one is impressed. No one knows you're here. And once you pass through that curtain, he swept his hand towards it again. No one will ever know you again. I'm aware, she said, her voice quiet. He watched her for a moment, then strode back toward her, stage right. He grabbed a hanging rope that had not been there before and began pulling it hand over hand. You want to know what's behind the curtain, do you? The curtain rose in short halting increments, revealing a pair of feet in tattered leather shoes on the other side, standing opposite the alley men. What's on the other side is real. It's flesh and dirt and water. Now torn black pants were in view. The curtain rose higher. Behind this curtain are the twisting wheels and grinding cogs that turn the earth that run your horror house right. Behind this curtain is truth. His voice thundered now, rattling the chairs and making the curtain tassels flutter. The curtain had risen above the head of the man on the other side. He stood as tall as the alley man and had the same face. His clothes were shambles and his hair and beard were thin and greasy. As the alley man pulled the rope, so did the stranger on the other side pull his own. They were a mirror of each other, hand over hand. As the alley man spoke, so did the stranger. Behind this curtain are the dirt and grime of every age. They spoke together, the velvet garlic of the alley man and the gravelly spice of the stranger, two pairs of wild eyes fixed on her, where ancient beasts carry the knowledge of the world in their massive, lumbering heads. The curtain fully raised, she could see the room beyond. It was a stage facing a theater full of empty chairs. The chairs were covered in cobwebs and dust, their upholstery worn and coming apart. The stage was unlit on that side and the spotlights on her back cast her long stretched shadow into the forgotten theater. Coming, the stranger said, as the alley man said, going. Yes, she said, looking at the alley man as she stepped over the invisible line that separated the rooms. The air there was cold and damp. What's your name? I don't have one. The two men answered in unison and neither do you. The curtain dropped, worn and tattered as the rest of the auditorium.