The crowns stenciled on the outside of each step of Tampa Theatre"s two lobby staircases resemble little malevolent skulls if you look at them right. It probably helps to be alone in the dimly lit 76-year-old landmark in the middle of the night, searching for ghosts, with a slasher flick-fueled imagination and a nervous system drawn so tight you could scrape a grill clean with your neck-stubble. One side door has been left unchained in case I need to leave in a hurry, gibbering madly, hair gone shock-white, saliva running freely from my unhinged jaw.
Outside, the classic summer lightning and heavy, rain-swollen air provide an archetypal horror-show vibe — the dark and stormy night, the fog-shrouded moors.
Old buildings settle constantly. When most old buildings settle, it sounds like well-worn bones cracking as they get comfortable. That"s unnerving enough. When the Tampa Theatre settles, it sounds like hunched under-dwellers striking wet sacks of meat with iron bars.
I"ve been here only 45 minutes, and my apprehension has already ratcheted up several notches. Sitting behind the concession stand, which I designated "safe" with all the rationality of an 8-year-old, I don't need ghosts to frighten me. Every vicarious cinematic or literary thrill I"ve experienced is here, amplified by the Theatre"s legend, low lighting and ominous, shadowy ornamentation.
Through the semi-gloom, movement on the far side of the theater proper registers in my peripheral vision. I turn my head so slowly I can hear the vertebrae in my neck grinding against one another.
There it is again. Furtive, shuffling movement near the auditorium's far wall. I work my way as far toward the auditorium doors as I can without breaking physical contact with Home Base, bringing my notebook with me, because perhaps the shade would like to be accurately quoted regarding its preference for the Doric column style over the Corinthian, or something. Vaguely perceptible activity continues across the theater, localized on the other side of the final row of seats. Wondering if — kind of hoping that — someone came back to look for their purse or something, I let my hand slide off the concession stand and begin a crouched advance on the auditorium entrance.
"There are a lot of reflective surfaces in the building, so it"s very common to walk through the theater and see things out of the corner of your eye," says Tara Schroeder, the Tampa Theatre's film and marketing manager. "But that's just physics."
I wouldn't be the first person to see something genuinely inexplicable inside the Tampa Theatre; I probably wouldn"t even be the first to find sufficient reason to vacate the premises in one hell of a hurry. Over the years, several employees have reported instances of what could be called "supernatural activity," most since the late-1960s death of projectionist Foster "Fink" Finley, who espoused his love for the building often over the course of his nearly 30-year tenure. Mr. Gail Garber, who's cleaned up after theatergoers for the better part of a decade, spending countless nights there in the process, has never bolted. He is, however, all but convinced that something roams the balcony after hours.
If everyone in the city had to select one place they thought might seriously be haunted, the smart money would be on this eccentric, expansive and storied structure as a landslide winner.
Creeping toward the murky auditorium and its approximately 72,974 opportunities for concealment, I realize that I haven"t seen whatever's in there move for a minute or two. Noticing it for the first time made me uncomfortably anxious; losing it after finding it makes me feel exponentially worse. The terrible night-thing knows I know, and is compensating.
Jerking around to check other areas of the theater, I once again catch motion. And again when I snap my attention back to my original target. It seems to be moving when I move.
Because it's me, reflected in a relatively small mirror mounted on the relatively large far wall. It takes my overworked, carcinogen-blackened heart a while to descend from my Adam"s apple back to my sternum. Standing at the threshold of the auditorium, I feel the way the girl in the slasher flick looks when she finally finds the courage to throw open the closet door, and the slasher"s not lurking inside.
Then I realize that that"s usually when the real scare happens.
As I'm peering into the auditorium, odd nerves still firing like a nearly finished bag of microwave popcorn, the house lights suddenly burst on in a blinding explosion.
Schroeder once accompanied a team of paranormal investigators on a search of the building, a search that yielded some intriguing results. And she's had her own "instances" there, as well, not to mention the time former Planet writer David Jasper accompanied a team of specter sniffers to Schroeder's own house, which she also seems to think is haunted. The staff's unsettling tales, along with a plethora of online speculations penned by researchers of wildly varying competence, were more than enough to once again shift the Planet staff into ghost-hunting mode. But who"s going to spend a night alone, locked in one of Tampa"s oldest and scariest places?
How about the guy who's up all night anyway? The one who, at the impressionable age of 10, found a book of still photos from the movie Alien at his local library and slept with a light on for the next four years?
Sure, why not me?
"I'm not saying the theater's haunted; I'm not saying it's not haunted," says Schroeder, a note of mischief in her voice. "But if you feel the whoosh of cold air, just don"t say we didn't warn you."
There's a beat of incomprehension as light floods the cavernous space, before I rush back to the concession stand to find something more substantial than a notebook. Wielding a flashlight not quite the size of a plumped Ball Park Frank and pining fervently for a holy-water-filled Super Soaker, I peek as manfully as possible into the blazing-bright auditorium.
Two obviously corporeal beings wander up the left-hand aisle; it seems a member of the Central Florida Theatre Organ Society — the organization responsible for maintaining the Mighty Wurlitzer — has decided to introduce a friend to his organ. I return to the concession stand; the pair talk shop and fire up the Mighty Wurlitzer for 15 minutes or so before the house lights are once again extinguished. For several minutes afterward, the sound of the huge backstage control panel"s switches being thrown leads me to believe they"re exploring other areas of the theater. But when I venture down to the stage to observe, the Mighty Wurlitzer is covered, the "ghost light" traditionally left onstage overnight is the only thing on, and I am alone again.
Another hour passes without incident, during which each groan, thunk and corner-of-the-eye flash adds to the nervous expectancy filling me like some debilitating but nonlethal gas; I"m starting to think that confronting the supernatural might make a superior alternative when a minor cacophony at the backstage doors announces new arrivals.
Two more figures approach up the stage-right aisle. What is this, date night? This time, I have the nominal pleasure of giving them a bit of a start. Gail Garber and partner Gerald McRae are here to clean the theater, and each of us thought the other was scheduled to come on a different night.
Both men seem to believe the Tampa Theatre is well and truly haunted. McRae says Garber once tried to scare him by tossing pennies from the lobby overlook onto the concession stand. But the two back each other up over the time they walked into an invisible and extremely heady cloud of cloying men"s cologne outside the downstairs bathroom, hours after such a mist, if left by a patron, would have faded. Both men also attest to finding furniture relocated while the theater was completely empty, and Garber has seen much more.
While they clean up, I set up a Ouija board and thermometer outside the staff lounge, formerly the manager"s office and a reported focal point for strange noises, temperature fluctuations and the like. Eventually, Garber leads me on an extended tour of the Theatre"s less traveled environs. We examine the backstage area, and the warren of stacked equipment in the now-covered orchestra pit. We check out the crawlspace and former coal chute beyond the basement, which is good for a chill, and some old, brittle and yellowed fliers advertising a Vaudeville revue. We stand on the stage for a while, talking about ghosts, closely examining the Mighty Wurlitzer"s latest refinishing job.
Maybe it's the ghost talk, but something seems a bit off here.
Built in 1926 by prolific, world-renowned movie palace architect John Eberson, the Tampa Theatre fulfills all the criteria necessary to facilitate a haunting, or the richly embroidered legend of one. In terms of American architecture, it"s damn near ancient, and it possesses qualities that imbue it with a tangible sense of character — a singular take on that combination of stately and creepy that defines most locations generally associated with spectral activity.
Gargoyles frolic on its frescos. The ornate flirts with the tacky. Nobility dances with decay. Reports regarding people actually dying there vary — several Web sites incorrectly claim Finley expired in the building. And for those who believe paranormal occurrences to be the residue of intense human experiences and emotions, it's perfect. You couldn"t ask for a better repository for psychic resin than a venerable spot where folks gather nightly for vicarious thrills.
It also happens to look like Morticia Addams had it outfitted during a brief but intense Greco-Mediterranean infatuation.
Upon returning to the lobby, Garber and I rejoin McRae and head upstairs. The Ouija board planchette's position remains unchanged, with most of the word "good" visible through its viewer. The temperature is also the same. But the heavy, wooden "king" and "queen" chairs in the lobby overlook have been silently moved from their spots against the wall almost to the railing, about 8 feet per chair. This discovery is followed by an eruption of frayed-nerve suspicion.
I swear I was with Garber. Garber swears we were in the basement. McRae swears he never left the lobby and that he couldn"t possibly have moved such weighty pieces without our hearing, anyway. This notion is seemingly verified when I make a shitload of noise trying to put them back.
The edgy atmosphere is not improved when, looking down on the back of the auditorium from the balcony landing, I notice that three of the five wastebaskets formerly against the wall have been moved out into the aisle. No one takes credit for that, either.
McRae and I venture into the projection booth while Garber cleans the balcony — the place the affable, soft-spoken man confides is where he most often and most intensely feels like somebody else is around, even when nobody is. Though the booth was the province of the late Foster Finley, exploring it and the blocked staircase beyond score disappointingly low on the "spine of ice" meter.
When the two of us re-emerge into the balcony, Garber is staring speculatively down at the stage; he looks like he"s trying to remember a word that"s right on the tip of his tongue.
"The organ was uncovered when we were up there, wasn't it?" he asks me.
I agree, recalling how we talked about its latest finish.
"Well, it wasn't when him and me came in." He gestures at McRae.
"And that wasn't there when we were up there." He gestures at the Mighty Wurlitzer.
That is a semi-crumpled popcorn bag, sitting on top of the organ"s console.
McRae has been with me the whole time, and Garber was plainly visible through the projection booth's slot windows.
It takes us 30 minutes to get to the stage for a look, our progress probably resembling a scene from The Three Stooges Meet the Wolfman. We finally accost the popcorn bag to discover it is one-third full of Tootsie Rolls. (Interestingly enough, I find out later that Tootsie Rolls are one of the few common candies older than the Tampa Theatre itself; they were introduced in 1896.)
The most commonly reported Tampa Theatre manifestation involves the sounds of footsteps climbing the lobby"s left-hand staircase, and of keys jingling across the overlook on their way to what used to be the manager's office. Other occurrences related more than once include a man's silhouette in the projection booth, and the plaster lions beneath the lobby overlook's buttresses dropping to the ground unprovoked. Various Theatre employees and volunteers have also seen disparate other oddities. One woman felt a cold hand on the back of her neck. Garber swears the bank of doors between the lobby and auditorium once slammed shut in unison. And Callie Lawson actually saw a large cement urn rocking drunkenly of its own accord in the lobby overlook.
"I calmly walked down the stairs, and informed my boss that I would be waiting outside," she says with a laugh.
Skeptics have plenty of rational explanations for such. A freak refraction of light, a pocket of aberrant air density, a brain tumor. Diehard skeptics are the world"s true adults, neatly ordered and in control, while those whose imaginations allow for unseen possibilities walk around in constant awe, like goggle-eyed children. That's why there are so few supernatural occurrences reported by children (I could find none regarding the Tampa Theatre). They reside in a climate of unexplained wonders and are ceaselessly bombarded by new information, so nothing really seems that odd. Kids are magnets for weirdness because weirdness feels at home with them.
It stands to reason that folks retaining some of that childlike, imaginative quality would be drawn to a job where they can hang out in a creepy old building and watch good movies for free, don't you think?
nSometime after last call, a group of drunken young ladies stumbles by the box office on their way out of The Hub, singing Paul Simon's "Bridge over Troubled Water" at the top of their lungs. It is unquestionably the single scariest thing to happen thus far.
Later on, there's still no action on the Ouija board, but it seems far colder in the overlook (and the lobby in general) than the 74 degrees registering on the thermometer. As I close in on the apparatus, I realize why. Here, on the steps leading into the staff lounge, it is warmer. I open the door to the lounge, and it's comparatively blazing. This revelation is quite unsettling, and the sight of a full-size sofa just across the small room sets off an interior war between the two emotions most responsible for determining my behavior, fear and sloth.
Sloth wins. I'll just sit here for a minute, get off my feet and read a couple of pages of the bad novel I brought as a shallow distraction.
In September 2001, Schroeder accompanied several members of the St. Pete-based paranormal research organization S.P.I.R.I.T.S. (Servicing Paranormal Investigators Reporting Information Through Study) as they and their equipment explored the Tampa Theatre. The team found plenty of electromagnetic and other activity in the building; most, but not all of the readings they took were attributable to such physical sources as wiring or metal.
On their way out of the building, however, the group had a strange and largely inexplicable experience. (A more detailed account of their expedition is available at http://centralflghosts.homestead.com/ tampatheatre2.html.)
"When we were on the lobby overlook, the EMF meter spiked and the temperature gauge increased," says Schroeder. "At that point, someone in the group began asking yes or no questions with a dousing rod."
This method of communication is not exactly held in high regard within the scientific community; minute movements of the hands are said to be responsible for the rod"s movements. Nonetheless, the team endeavored to keep "contact," and Schroeder asked the "entity" several questions.
"I asked if this was the spirit who was responsible for jingling keys and other shenanigans, and it indicated "yes," she says. "I was able through a series of questions to find out it was a male employee from the 1950s."
Interestingly enough, the presence denied that it was the ghost of Foster Finley.
I was not sleeping. Seriously. And even if I was just resting my eyes for a minute, opening them to see a figure partially silhouetted in the lounge doorway, watching me, looming over me (or so my fuzzy eyes and rubbed-raw imagination implied), does not make me wonder, just for a second, if I am going to wash my boxers while still wearing them.
McRae smiles crookedly, as if he knows what I'm thinking.
"How many beers did you have?" he asks.
It"s a little after 5 a.m., he and Garber are finished with their work for the night, and enough time has passed without anything interesting or scary happening that I feel justified in hauling my carcass home to bed. I gather up The Half-Assed Ghost Hunter's Indispensable Arsenal (see sidebar), and make a poor attempt at completely erasing any signs I was ever here. Then I follow the two cleaners down the auditorium"s left-side "tunnel" and outside through my erstwhile escape route.
I'm almost completely positive that McRae is responsible for most of the evening's weird high jinks; a friendly, engaging man, he seems like a prankster. As I light a cigarette and cross Zack Street, I decide that's cool. I'll close with something about how that inconclusiveness is a big part of what makes the idea of ghosts so attractive. You may not be able to prove they exist, but you can't prove they don"t, either.
Like all low-budget tales that come out of the gate intending to scare you and then falling woefully short, however, this one ends with a twist: I just got off the phone with a certain Film & Marketing Manager, one who just happened to be eating Tootsie Rolls out of the semi-crumpled popcorn bag that"s been sitting on her desk for a week or so.
It was Schroeder.
She was there, moving chairs, denuding organs, planting scary candy. That night, she was the ghost of Tampa Theatre. And while I may not have believed the activity was supernatural, I certainly never suspected my Golden Source was running around the building on tiptoe, and screwing with my head. On that count, she got me.
But that's cool, too. I got a few exciting jolts out of the evening, and my rock-solid ambivalence regarding the existence of ghosts remains utterly and unshakably neutral.
And when I hear those hammered sirens butchering "Bridge over Troubled Water" in my head, I know that I may never sleep again.
Contact Scott Harrell at 813-248-8888 ext. 109 or scottharrell@weeklplanet.com
This article appears in Oct 30 – Nov 5, 2002.
