The Drumming in the Dark

My name is Elara, but this isn’t my story. It’s my father’s, Arthur, a retired stage manager who never lied about the things he saw in the old Meridian Playhouse. The theater had been a cathedral of drama for over a century, but beneath its gilded moldings and dusty curtains, something else lingered. We all knew it. Every board member had a tale, but this one—this one was the worst.

It happened on a Tuesday night, during a budgeting meeting in the theater’s green room. Arthur was there with three women from the board: Clara, our artistic director; Beatrice, the head of our youth outreach; and Delia, the choreographer for our new children’s production. They were sipping lukewarm coffee and arguing over costume costs when the sound began. It wasn’t a bang or a thud—it was a rhythmic drumming, soft at first, like fingertips on a table, but growing louder. Clara and Beatrice heard it clearly, coming from the empty stage beyond the locked doors. They froze, their faces pale. Delia, who was hard of hearing, noticed their alarm and asked what was wrong.

Clara whispered, ‘There’s someone on stage.’ Arthur set down his cup, his old instincts kicking in. ‘Could be a janitor,’ he said, but his voice lacked conviction. The drumming grew more insistent, a steady beat that seemed to pulse through the floorboards. Then it stopped. A moment later, a single, sharp crack echoed from the direction of the fly gallery—the high walkway where stagehands once moved scenery. Arthur decided to investigate. He told the women to stay, but they followed, too terrified to be left alone.

They crept through the dimly lit backstage area, past racks of moth-eaten costumes and stacks of set pieces. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old paint. As they reached the wings, they saw the main curtain swaying slightly, as if someone had just brushed past it. The stage itself was a black void, broken only by the ghost light—a single bare bulb on a stand that was supposed to keep away lingering spirits. But the light flickered, and in its unsteady glow, they saw a figure. It was a man, tall and gaunt, wearing an old-fashioned tuxedo with a cracked porcelain mask covering his face. He was standing at the very edge of the stage, his head tilted as if listening.

Arthur called out, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ The figure didn’t move. Then, slowly, it raised a hand and pointed directly at Delia. Delia gasped and stumbled back. Clara grabbed her arm. ‘We need to leave,’ she said. But Arthur had dealt with strange things before. He took a step forward, and the figure vanished, leaving only a faint smell of tobacco and rosewater. The drumming resumed, now from behind them, from the auditorium. They spun around, but the seats were empty. The sound was coming from the orchestra pit, where a single cello lay on its side, its bow dancing across the strings as if played by an unseen hand.

They ran. They burst through the stage door into the alley, gasping for breath. Delia was shaking, tears streaming down her face. ‘That was Daniel,’ she whispered. ‘The old stage manager who died here twenty years ago. He was obsessed with the theater, and he was jealous of anyone who took his place.’ Arthur stared at her. ‘You knew about him?’ Delia nodded. ‘I saw him once before, during a rehearsal. He was watching from the rafters. He hates new people.’

The next day, Delia resigned. She said she couldn’t work in a place where a dead man played the cello. Clara and Beatrice tried to laugh it off, but Arthur could see the fear in their eyes. A week later, Clara found a note pinned to her office door, written in a spidery hand: ‘LEAVE THE STAGE.’ That evening, she slipped on the stairs leading to the basement and broke her ankle. Beatrice didn’t fare better. During a rehearsal with the children, the heavy counterweight for the main curtain came crashing down just inches from where she stood. The kids screamed, and Beatrice quit that same day.

Arthur stayed. He was too old to find another job, too stubborn to be scared away. He set up a camera in the auditorium to capture any anomalies. But what he caught was worse than any phantom. In the footage, the figure in the tuxedo appeared behind him as he inspected the stage—and it was holding a knife. The mask was off, and its face was a rotting mirror of Arthur’s own. He watched the tape in horrified silence, then deleted it. He never told anyone, but he began leaving offerings: a glass of whiskey, a lit cigar, a piece of rosewater cake. The drumming stopped.

Yet, on the anniversary of Daniel’s death, the theater’s grand clock struck thirteen. Arthur was alone, locking up. He heard a voice from the darkness of the pit: ‘You think you can replace me?’ Arthur didn’t answer. He walked out, never to return. The Meridian Playhouse sits abandoned now, its doors chained. But sometimes, on quiet nights, passersby hear a rhythmic drumming from within, and the faint sound of a cello playing a waltz that no one alive has ever heard.