I could a tale unfold - 14

Ross groaned as he finished detailing the Polonius costume. He knew he could have left it for one of his crew to do in the morning, but since Kirk was still in rehearsal he'd decided to make use of the extra time to get the last bits done. Final fittings were on the roster for the next two days to catch any minor problems before dress rehearsals began.

After hanging the costume back on the rack, he plopped down at his desk, making last minute notes on what needed doing in the morning. Then he dropped his head down on his arms and closed his eyes. If he fell asleep, Kirk would come down to find him and wake him up.

He didn't know how much later it was when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sitting up slowly, he turned around. "What time is it?" he asked a bit fuzzily, rubbing his eyes. He immediately realized it wasn't Kirk standing there. It was the young man he'd seen a few days earlier. "Who are you?" he asked, for some reason not feeling a bit afraid or threatened. "And why are you hanging around, and why the practical jokes, if that's what they are?"

The young man shook his head.

"Come on, you can tell me." Ross suddenly realized the young man was wearing what looked like a costume, though not one of his. His breeches were Renaissance in cut, gathered just below the knee. His shirt was similar to the ones Ross had created for the show, but a deep sepia in color. "Where did you get those clothes?"

Again, the young man shook his head. Then he stepped closer to the desk, frowning before reaching for one of Ross' sketching pencils that sat in a cup on one side of the desk. Ross watched, and then slid a pad of paper to him, asking, "Are you mute?"

The young man smiled slightly as he wrote one word on the pad. "Dead."

"Yeah, sure. Hate to tell you this but if you are, you're a ghost, and I don't believe in them. So what's your game? Oh, and what's your name?"

"Otis," the young man scribbled on the pad.

"Well, Otis, as I said, what's with the game you're playing? Messing with my costumes, the skull. What's going on? And where did you get it by the way?"

"Mine," Otis wrote.

"Uh huh. You have a collection of skulls? This is a hobby of yours?"

Otis shook his head before writing. "No. Mine. Dead." He touched his face. "Mine."

"Whoa up a minute. You're claiming that skull is, was—it's your head?"

Otis nodded. Leaning over the desk once more he scribbled, "Murdered."

"Bloody, fucking hell! Seriously?"