The Viceroy Theater, on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-Fourth Street, had seen better days. Only one of every four lights encircling the marquee was still working; the majority had burned out, been pecked apart by pigeons, or been shattered by vandals. The carpet in the lobby was threadbare, the chairs creaked awfully, and large water stains decorated the faded silk walls.
Still, it was one of Sam’s favorite places. He loved the smell of buttered popcorn that clung to the upholstery, and the old movie posters displayed on the walls, in part to conceal the water stains.
Most of all he loved the darkness. Sitting in a movie theater, he could be just anyone: a normal kid from a normal family, out to have a normal good time. For once, he was the one who got to watch and point and laugh.
Today the theater was showing a triple feature of Daughter of Frankenstein, Castle of Frankenstein, and Frankenstein’s Revenge. They found four seats together in the middle of the theater. Sam, who had been deliberately delaying to see if Max would catch up, was annoyed when Thomas plopped down next to him. Now she was separated by two people. Pippa took the seat to the left of Thomas, and Max settled in beside her and rested her knees on the back of the seat of the person in front of her. When the woman—her curly blond hair piled high on her head like whipped cream on a sundae—turned around to cluck her tongue, Max only grinned, showing off all the popcorn kernels in her teeth.
“She doesn’t mean to be an animal,” Pippa said apologetically.
“Yeah I do,” Max said.
Sam sighed and turned his attention to the screen. A small part of him had been hoping that Max might grab his hand during the scary bits, even though the rational part of his brain knew this was unlikely for two reasons: 1) Max didn’t get afraid; and 2) if she did grab his hand, he’d probably crush all the bones in her fingers.
“I wish they’d just get on with the movie already,” Thomas said, crunching loudly on some candy-coated almonds, as the screen flickered gray and white and a click-click-click filled the theater as the reel started to roll forward. Sam slouched further in his seat. They’d have a news report or two to get through first and the cartoons.
Thomas was speaking with his mouth full. “It’s worse than reading the paper. The whole reason you go to the movies is to escape . . .”
His sentence ended in a gurgle.
HORROR HAPPENINGS! said the words flashing across the screen.
Sam sat up, feeling as though his seat had given him an electric shock. There, on the screen, was Bill Evans.
“Not this moron again,” Max said loudly. Several people hushed her.
An enormous, black-and-white Bill Evans was sitting behind his desk at the Daily Screamer, a small brass plaque reading HEAD REPORTER prominently displayed in front of his typewriter, a cigarette clamped in his mouth.
“It’s not just the murders and the unexplainable deaths,” he was saying, to an off-screen interviewer. “The whole place is full of secrets. Take those four kids—”
Sam was so hot he felt as if he were melting, from the tips of his ears inward. He sank down in his seat, even as Thomas piped up.
“Hey, he means—!”
“Shut up,” Sam hissed. “Shut. Up.”
Several people swiveled around to stare. Sam was glad it was dark. He was sure he was the color of a radish.
“Now look.” Evans jabbed a finger on his desk to punctuate his words. “I got nothing against them personally. They never did me wrong. But the way they’re sniffing around, always in the wrong place at the right time, is suspicious.”
To Sam’s infinite mortification, the newsreel now showed a photograph taken from the museum’s recent promotional brochure. In it, Sam, Pippa, Max, and Thomas were dressed in costumes and posing on the Odditorium stage. Sam was holding an enormous block of concrete above his head. Thomas was in a back bend. Max was balancing a knife handle on the tip of one finger, and Pippa had both hands to her temples and was squinting in deep concentration.
“Something stinks at Dumfrey’s Dime Museum,” Bill Evans continued, “and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
Fortunately, the newsreel shifted to a different subject at that moment: a segment about the escaped scientist, Professor Rattigan, who had been convicted to life in prison for unlawful experimentation on human beings.
“He could be anyone! He could be anywhere!” the announcer was saying onscreen, as images flashed of Professor Rattigan’s old underground laboratory, filled with walls of cages that had once held people. Sam’s stomach turned. The sight of the cages made pain shoot through his head. “He could be sitting next to you in the dark right now.”
“I—I don’t feel good,” Sam whispered.
Thomas’s eyes were still glued to the screen. “Movie hasn’t even started,” he said, shoveling more of the candied nuts into his mouth.
“I’m not staying,” said Sam, getting to his feet.
“Hey, kid, you’re blocking the screen,” a man grunted.
“Move it!”