Real Life Ghost Stories: The Witch's Chair
Nervous footfalls, quickened from anxiety, make soft tapping sounds on the pavement only to be swallowed up in the night. The neighborhood is quiet, dark, sleeping. The trees loom overhead like skeleton arms reaching out to stop you. Turn back, they call out in silent voices. Go home.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.