Keeper Of The Somerville Cemetery

Ghost Files #1: Jacob and Ike Wolfe

The lights streamed down garishly, lighting up the stage, the orchestra below and at least a few feet of the audience’s faces.  The red velvet chairs had been worn down butt after butt, and the metal frames dug into the current butts. The victims would have protested against this, but at the price they paid they couldn’t well expect the Sydney Opera.

Up on the stage, a young man in Victorian attire waved his plastic rapier as he recited his lines. The official stage whisperer sat among the shadows, sipping hot chocolate. He needn’t worry about the actor forgetting his lines- he’d recited it so many times he might as well speak in his sleep. The huge purple feather in his hat sagged and threatened to obscure his vision. The form-fitting pants were scratchy in places too embarrassing to mention. The age-old shirt, caked with the sweat of the past two generations, wreaked. But through it all, he soldiered on. He was a professional after all.

On cue, another actor strolled onto stage, his colleague and more. Hands locked behind his back gave a royal impression, but he also used this to provide some relief from the itchy clothes. He stroked his plastic grey beard, deep in thought as he delivered his lines perfectly. If the audience noticed any similarities between the two actors, they didn’t mention it. But there was little chance of that happening, partly thanks to the make-up boys as well as the talent and professionalism of both actors.

The play, a mash-up of Twelfth Night and Taming of the Shrew, with hints of As You May Like It, was an astounding success. The audience watched, they cheered, and upon leaving the theatre, they completely forgot about it. But that was none of the little theatre troupe’s concern. As long as they were applauded, and as long as the reviews were positive, they were content. Once the show was done, each contributing actor dumped their props and stagewear in separate cardboard boxes and made themselves comfortable backstage, the lights men turning off the lights and joining them. The manager and her assistant would meet them with plates of smoking sandwiches and cold drinks, which would disappear in a matter of seconds. They each got served equally, no one got more nor less. If there was one thing Manager couldn’t stand, it was partiality.

Rapier and the old king, now dressed in much more modern attire, would hang around the manager, trying and failing to nick a few more sandwiches. Now that the beard and make-up was off, there was close to nothing that could distinguish them. The Fred and George of the group, the tricksters, the inseparable ones. Manager’s two pumpkins.

Jacob and Ike Wolfe might as well have been the stars, even though they rarely got cast as anything more that the supporting actors. In spite of that, they managed to steal the show, what with their exuberant nature and their witty adlibs. If they wanted, they could make the crowd love Hitler, or hate Lennon, if ever they chanced upon those roles. Off stage they were a pair of lovable, if not slightly irritating, boys. Their antics would liven up any sombre mood, and manage to bring a smile to everyone’s faces. Nobody would admit it, but life without Jacob and Ike was hard to imagine. Little did they know, however, that the unimaginable would soon come true.

December 2010 was one of the worst winters the troupe had ever encountered. Howling winds and freak snowstorms forced them to take a detour through the little town of Somerville. The fact that a town existed, practically in the middle of nowhere, was viewed as a miracle for the travelling actors.

Well, most of them.

“You want us to look around for a motel?? In this town?? HELL TO THE NO!”

Ike and Jacob sat crosslegged on their cots, Ike bouncing a blue stress ball off the metal walls. Manager crossed her arms, clearly not amused.

“It’s not a deserted forest or something, you idiots. And all I’m asking is that you walk up to any big building and ask them if there’s a motel or something around. The rest of us are getting tired of living in a metal box, as are you. And don’t deny it. So stop being such chickens and move your lazy butts before I kick you out.”