The Celluloid Garden

In the autumn of 1987, I was seventeen, working at the Regal Lyric, a crumbling movie palace in the heart of a decaying downtown. The Lyric had been a vaudeville hall in the early 1900s, then a cinema, and in the late fifties, they had carved it into two separate screens, a top and a bottom, connected by a narrow, winding staircase that smelled of old dust and popcorn grease. I was an usher, a ticket taker, a concessionist, and occasionally, when the old projectionist was too drunk, a part-time projectionist. We were a skeleton crew, and I often found myself alone in the building during the late shift.

My fascination with the place bordered on obsession. The Lyric was a labyrinth of forgotten spaces: a basement storage room filled with broken seats and faded posters, a cramped second-floor projection booth with a maze of film reels, and, most intriguingly, a small, locked room behind the upper screen that the manager, Mr. Calloway, said was filled with old stage props. He never let anyone in, claiming it was too dangerous, but I was drawn to it. I had read about the theatre’s history, how it was once a prestigious playhouse, and I dreamed of what treasures might be hidden there.

One foggy October night, after the last show, I found the door to that room slightly ajar. A sliver of dim light spilled through, and a strange, sweet smell, like rotting flowers and old perfume, wafted out. My heart thumped with a mixture of fear and excitement. I pushed the door open, and the hinges groaned. Inside, a single bulb flickered, illuminating a space that was not a storage room at all. It was a garden, or what looked like one: a lush, green garden with winding vines that covered the walls, and in the center, a beautiful, ornate fountain, its water sparkling under the warm light. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and decay.

I stepped in, entranced. The garden felt alive, breathing. The vines seemed to move imperceptibly, reaching toward me. I noticed that the floor was not dirt but a mosaic of tiles depicting a serpent coiled around a tree. In the middle of the fountain, there was a statue of a woman, her face serene, her hands outstretched as if offering something. I felt a sudden urge to touch the water, to drink from it. But as I leaned over, I saw my reflection, and behind it, another figure: tall, thin, with eyes like hollow black pits. I spun around, but there was no one.

I tried to leave, but the door was gone. The walls were now solid, covered with vines, and the garden seemed to expand, pulling me deeper. I heard a whisper, not in my ears, but in my mind. ‘Stay,’ it said. ‘Stay with me forever.’ I saw shapes in the vines: faces, twisted in agony, reaching out. I recognized some of them: the old ticket taker who had quit abruptly, a young woman who had worked concessions and vanished, the projectionist who had died in a fire. They were all here, their forms woven into the garden, their eyes pleading.

I stumbled backward, but the fountain was now in front of me, its water turned black. The statue of the woman had changed. Her face was contorted in rage, and her hands now held a wet, shimmering film. I realized then that the garden was a projection booth, a lens, that the fountain was a projector, and the statue was a film in motion. It was showing me images: my own life, my past, my dreams, and then, my future, a future where I would never leave this room, where I would become one of those faces in the vines.

I screamed, but no sound came. I ran, but the garden was endless. I don’t know how long I wandered, but eventually, I found a door hidden behind a curtain of hanging moss. I burst through, tumbling onto the cold, hard floor of the concession stand. The door slammed shut behind me, and I was back in the real theatre, the familiar smell of stale popcorn and old carpet. I was shaking, drenched in sweat. I tried to tell Mr. Calloway the next day, but he just smiled and said, ‘Ah, you found the garden. It’s a special place, isn’t it?’

I quit the following week. I never returned to that theatre. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the garden, and I see that door, still ajar. I know that it’s waiting for me. And I’m not sure if I escaped, or if I’m still there, walking the endless path between the vines, searching for a way out that doesn’t exist.