The director had called it a wrap for the day and left. The rest of the crew and cast following suit, but on his way out Marc forgot his jacket and went back to find it. He searched the stage but didn’t see it there. If only he remembered where he last put it down. It wasn’t on any nearby coat hanger. No, that would be too convenient. Of course it was farther back in the studio, settled on the chair where he sat down and chatted during the lunch break. Just before he could put it on, he felt something. That chill a person gets when they’re not alone. He could guess already what it was. Dare he risk looking to confirm his suspicion? Or just make a break for the exit and never look back? He quickly turned to his right, spotting the tall figure, once again in the shadows but this time more visible. He caught a glance of a small speck of white where the face would be, and he ran straight for the door. On his way out, Marc’s foot failed to step over a wooden beam on the floor, left out and forgotten by one of the prop people. He tripped, but before he could make any contact with the cold, hard floor he felt a rush of air and a pair of arms break his fall. Marc was back on his feet. All in a split second. The moment went by so fast his mind needed a few seconds to process it. Looking around frantically, he was alone again, and the specter was gone. Before giving it more thought, he threw on his jacket and left.

That night he lay awake in bed, tossing and turning every couple of minutes. He couldn’t stop thinking of what he was seeing in the studio. The tall, dark figure that lurked in the shadows seemed to watch the crew, allowing itself be heard by the cast in the form of scratches and the flutterings of cloth in a room with no open window. But most of all, it seemed to be following him. Despite his earlier fear, intrigue was eating away at him. The more he spotted the figure—ghost, specter, whatever it was—the more he wanted to know. What was it doing in that studio and why? What did it want? Was it stalking him, and if so why? And why did it help him earlier? So many questions, and on a sleepless night he couldn’t take it anymore. He got out of bed, changed into clothes, didn’t bother taking his jacket. With that flurry of activity, he was out the door.

Arriving at the studio, he walked quickly inside. He went past the stage and into the larger, darker room. The echoes of his footsteps made the empty room sound cavernous and foreboding. It had to be around here. Despite feeling breathless, his curiosity and adrenaline fueled him.

He looked around, and waited, before finally calling out, “I know you’re here! I’m not scared anymore. I wanna see you now. Up close, face to face. I want to know. Who are you? What are you? And why’ve you been following me?”

Marc’s voice echoed throughout the studio. Then silence. Thirty seconds. Sixty seconds passed. Another minute, still nothing. He was close to turning around and leaving when behind a cardboard prop he saw! Very faintly he spotted long, sharp claws (talons?) appear and overlap the cardboard, clenching onto it. Then, the rest of it emerged. It was still dark but he knew. He knew this was it. In full view it stood, then slowly approached him. As it drew closer Marc’s heart was beating faster. Even with very little heat in the building, perspiration beaded down his face. He stared ahead, eyes wide and body stiff. Finally, it came into a small amount of light, just inches away from Marc, and he saw just how tall it was now. He had to look up to meet its face, but he wasn’t looking into a person’s face. Rather, he was looking into what appeared to be a mask resembling a raven, light silver in color, which contrasted the dark robe covered body and long pure black hair that somehow reminded him of feathers. The completely dark eye holes of the mask stared back.

It must’ve stood nine feet tall, he thought. He didn’t realize just how imposingly tall it was until it was right in front of him.

Moments passed, and silence between them still. He would’ve normally thought this to be a dream. This couldn’t have been happening. Finally, he spoke again. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you? You’re the one who’s been haunting this place, right?”

It didn’t speak, only nodded barely, but he understood.

“So, why? What do you want?”

The raven turned to walk away, motioning him to follow. Hesitantly, he did. Walking out of the light and further into the uncertainty of the studio, cloaked in the pitch black of night, he considered the vulnerable position he was in. Walking somewhere even he hadn’t explored yet, following someone (or something) whose intentions he had no idea of, with no one who knew to come looking for him if he vanished. Reaching out into the shadows, unsure of where he was going, he felt the hand of the raven take hold and guide him in the dark. Despite the cold touch, he felt reassured and secured. Maybe even safe? Where was this raven leading him to?

Just as he asked himself that, his vision was brightened as the shadows faded like curtains being pushed away. Marc blinked, saw where he was now, and let his jaw drop. It looked like a ball room, or part of a dance studio. There was so much space in this one room, and it all looked so grand, so bright and fresh, he could hardly believe this was in the same decades old studio he’d been working in for the last several weeks. Though perhaps it wasn’t. It all looked too fresh and something about the colors—the architecture, the aesthetic—reminded him of what he’d see in movies from the 50’s.

“What is this?” He finally asked after taking the sight in. “I don’t remember seeing this before. Why are we here?”

The raven walked toward a wall and Marc followed, assuming his question would be answered. The wall he was lead to had black and white photographs of people’s faces in golden picture frames. He didn’t recognize half the people in the photos, but he got to one the raven stood beside, and he saw something familiar in the picture of a man who looked somewhere between his 20’s or 30’s. The curvature of his nose wasn’t the same, but the shape of his face—the similar hair style, his eyes—he looked so much like Marc! Maybe a little older than him and Caucasian, but there was no mistaking the resemblance.