As more unmarked days pass,I suspect that must be true. The few who come to the theater now speak to each other of plans to purchase, yet they never do. They say the neighborhood is no longer what it was. They say Fyodor’s lingering spells are all that keep the vagrants from piling their

filth into the aisles.

What I can see of the theater has fallen into disrepair. The velvet curtains are tattered and thick with dust; fabric that was once the vibrant red of fresh blood is now the tired, mottled brown of a scab. The luster has faded from the proscenium’s golden trim. The theater’s chandelier isn’t visible from where I stand, but I would not be surprised to hear it come crashing down.