Back in the late 1930s, a local church had outgrown its
building, and started to build a whole new area adjoining
the original building.
The old church went through different functions through the years, until in the 1970s,
its current facility was decided.
Downstairs are Sunday school classrooms and a small gym-like area with a
basketball hoop where kids play and rummage sales are
held. Upstairs, in what previously was the sanctuary, a
theatre has been formed. Where the alter previously sat
is now the stage, the pews ripped out and replaced by
chairs. The old Sunday school rooms hold sets and costumes
in storage, and the balcony now overlooks not weddings and
ceremonies, but the musicals and performances of the
resident community acting troop. The result is a strange
atmosphere. The ornate wooden railings still stand, as do
the leaded stained glass windows dating from the 1800s.
The acting troop consists of all members of the
local community. Many of the actors are high school
students or local businessmen, the sets are designed in
the off-time by a local architect, the costumes sewn
together by some retired seamstresses, and the lighting is
done by electricians in their spare time. Everything is
done on a volunteer basis, and it’s a very welcome and
open group.
It was this group that I joined in my freshman
year of high school. I had a small role, and found myself
spending many nights and weekends practicing my part and
helping to prepare the theatre for opening day. I signed
up to work on scenery, which added an extra evening that I
would have to spend painting, hammering, and nailing
together the sets.
It was during one of these work-nights that the
director forgot his keys to the balcony. The majority of
the lights had their only switches up there, so we were
working on really low-light conditions. The director
called for one of the technicians who had another set of
keys. I didn’t know most of the technicians, except that
they were mostly older men.
As I stood up from painting one of my sets, I noticed a
man standing on the balcony, his hand on the railing,
looking down at us. I glanced over to the director,
nodded to the man and said “tech’s here” before going back
to my painting. Of course, this wouldn’t be remarkable
if, in fact, there was no one there. I didn’t believe
them, and ran up the stairs to the balcony, there the door
was securely locked.
This started a long relationship with this man. I’d catch
glimpses of him reflected in the windows, seemingly
interested in the goings-on. I’d sit in the stairwell to
the balcony doing homework with the other students, but
I’d be the only one to hear the heavy footfalls pass us.
He’d slide by in the corner of my eye, always the same.
Salt and pepper hair, brown sports jacket, hat, always
looking sad, although I never saw his face clearly. I
decided my “friend” needed a name, and instantly “Marvy”
came to mind. Being an insanely silly name, I changed
that to “Marvin”.
It was about a month later that I learned the story.
Turns out that a man had committed suicide by shooting
himself in the belfry, and the doorway to the belfry used
to be entered through the balcony of our theatre, but was
bricked over years ago. He’s been haunting the theatre
for years. His name? Martin, but everyone called him
Marty.
The next year, things were even more unusual. In addition
to his lurking about in my periphery, he made himself
known in more dramatic ways. During a dress rehearsal, I
was in the background, pretending to be preoccupied. I
looked to my right, and there stood Marty, staring
straight forward into the audience. I stared at him for a
moment, then suddenly, the director yelled for us to
stop. The orchestra stopped playing, the actors paused,
mid-line, and we all looked to see what was wrong. Angry,
the director reminded us that only actors were allowed on-
stage during scenes, then asked me who it was who had
wandered onto the scene next to me. I stood there, mouth
open staring at him. After a moment, I think the director
realized who was really there, and started the rehearsal
up again.
The last year I was a member there, before I went to
college, I was helping set up the balcony before a
performance. There were no permanent chairs, so I was
setting up folding chairs. I was the only one up there,
but then a friend walked in downstairs and called up to me
that she’d be there in a minute. A moment later, I felt a
hand on my shoulder. I glanced at it, and saw, not my
female friend’s hand, but a very masculine hand, ring on
the fourth finger. I spun around to see, of course, no
one there.
Friends still in the acting troop tell me there’s
continued activity and many of them have seen or felt him,
but for a few years, I was honored to be Marty’s main
focus.
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