The Cardboard Box in the Projection Booth

My third week at the Rialto, a sun-bleached movie palace that had been showing first-run features since the Carter administration. The owner, Mr. Albright, a man whose face seemed to be made of old ticket stubs and whose memory was a sieve, had hired me to run the concession stand and sweep the aisles. Tonight, he was out on the sidewalk, squeegeeing the front windows, leaving me alone in the cavernous dark of the auditorium.

I had just restocked the candy counter, the red and gold boxes of Junior Mints and Raisinets glowing under the dim safety lights, when I noticed the popcorn machine was out of bags. The supply closet was upstairs, past the mezzanine, a cramped space that smelled of dust and old cardboard. I climbed the creaking stairs, my footsteps echoing in the empty theater. Halfway up, I heard it: a rhythmic tapping, slow and deliberate, coming from above. Mr. Albright’s bad leg required a cane, and the sound was unmistakable – the thump of rubber tip on worn carpet, the click of wood on the railing.

I called out, ‘Mr. Albright? You need some help?’ No answer. The tapping stopped. I continued up, my heart beginning to thud against my ribs. When I reached the top, the hallway was empty. The supply closet door was ajar, a thin strip of darkness. I pushed it open, fumbled for the light. Nothing. The bulb was out. I felt along the shelf, found the popcorn bags, and turned to head back down.

As I did, the door to the auditorium, which had been propped open, slammed shut with a force that rattled the walls. I rushed over, grabbed the handle, and pulled. Locked. I pounded on the wood, shouting, ‘Hey! I’m in here! Let me out!’ The only response was the echo of my own panic. I leaned against the door, breathing hard. That’s when I heard the tapping again, now from the stairwell directly below me. But this time, it was faster, angrier, like someone in a hurry to get somewhere. And then, a voice, low and gravelly, whispered my name from the darkness of the stairwell: ‘Sarah.’

I froze. I had never told anyone my name was Sarah. I pressed my back against the door, the popcorn bags clutched to my chest like a shield. The tapping grew closer, each thud a hammer blow. I slid down to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The tapping stopped right outside the supply closet. I could hear breathing, slow and wet, just on the other side of the wall. Then, a scraping sound, like something being dragged across the floor. And then, silence.

Mr. Albright found me twenty minutes later, huddled in the corner, shaking. He had to break the lock with a crowbar from his car. He said, ‘That old lock sticks, doesn’t it? But you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did Otis get you?’ I looked at him, my voice trembling, ‘There was someone on the stairs. They tapped a cane, and they said my name.’ Mr. Albright’s smile faded. He looked at me for a long moment, then said, ‘Otis used to do that. But that story about him being shot? That’s true. He was killed in this building, right on that stairwell. They never found who did it. But you know what? He never left. He’s been here ever since. He doesn’t mean any harm. He just like to scare the newcomers.’

I nodded, but I didn’t believe him. Because when I finally got back to the concession stand, I noticed something that made my blood run cold. The cardboard box that held the popcorn bags, the one I had grabbed from the closet – it wasn’t empty. Tucked inside, beneath a layer of stale kernels, was a yellowed, dog-eared photograph. It was of a man in a suit, standing in front of the theater, holding a ticket roll. On the back, in faded pencil, was written: ‘Otis, 1952. The night they finally caught me cheating.’ And underneath, in fresher ink, in a handwriting I didn’t recognize: ‘You’ll be hearing from me soon, Sarah.’ I dropped the box. The photograph fluttered to the floor, face down. I didn’t pick it up. I didn’t want to see what was on the other side.

I quit the next day. I told Mr. Albright I couldn’t handle the late nights. He just shrugged and said, ‘Suit yourself. But Otis will miss you. He always takes a liking to the new ones.’ I never went back to the Rialto. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear that tapping on my own stairs at home, and a voice that whispers my name. And I know, no matter how far I run, Otis is never going to let me go.