Albert held up his candle, nervously following the two eerie children. The couple, the students, and the middle-aged man walked behind him in silence. They passed through a narrow, dim alley. The buildings on either side loomed tall and ancient, and the uneven stone path beneath their feet creaked softly, each sound unnervingly sharp.
He thought he heard faint footsteps behind them, but when he turned to look, he could see only deep, impenetrable darkness, as if something unspeakable lurked within the shadows.
He wasn't sure if the others noticed, but the air seemed to grow increasingly heavy, pressing against his chest and making it difficult to breathe. Just as he was about to say something to break the tense silence, the two children suddenly stopped walking.
"Welcome to our Ghost Tour, dear guests," the girl's sharp, high-pitched voice pierced the night air, startling Albert enough that his candle flickered.
"Perhaps you've heard the name William Triss and felt sorry for his fate," the boy's voice echoed through the alley — deep yet still tinged with childishness. "It was a quiet night, just like tonight..."
But it was hardly quiet now. Perhaps it was his nerves, but Albert couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him from the dark. Unease spread through him like cold ink in water.
The boy continued telling the story as they walked, closely following the account from *The Strand*, about a famous and well-loved opera singer murdered by a jealous friend. He added extra details, raising his candle to illuminate a set of muddy footprints — supposedly where the drunken friend had paced back and forth, wrestling with his guilt and intentions.
As they turned toward another alley, they could faintly see the lights of the theater ahead. The warm orange glow brought Albert a sense of relief. His frayed nerves relaxed slightly.
The boy was now describing the gruesome stabbing of the opera singer. Just as he detailed the fatal moment, Albert's gaze froze. At the far end of the alley, two blurred figures appeared. One of them wore an opera coat that matched the story's description perfectly.
There was a stir among the tourists, but they quickly settled down, listening intently to the boy's narration. Clearly, they assumed this was all part of the planned performance — after all, real ghosts don't show up so easily.
But Albert trembled involuntarily. From his vantage point, he could clearly see that the figure in the opera coat was *hovering* above the ground — his feet never once touching the pavement. Albert clutched his candle tightly, terrified that even a small gust would extinguish his only source of light.
It must be some kind of mechanism, he tried to convince himself. Maybe the ghost tour had hired professional actors? But could any human truly pull off such a convincing floating effect? He glanced around at the others — no one else seemed to notice. Everyone was immersed in the boy's storytelling, completely unaware of the unnatural details.
This sense of isolation terrified Albert even more than the ghost itself. The idea that only *he* could see what was wrong made him feel trapped — like he was stranded on a lonely island where no one could understand him. Everything around him suddenly felt strange and menacing.
Horrible thoughts surged in his mind. What if the entire ghost tour — the children, the other guests, even the man who had taken their money — were all ghosts? What if *he* was the only living person among them? The thought made his heart race. He clutched his candle like a lifeline.
As the boy continued — though Albert could no longer focus on the words — the second figure suddenly pulled out a dagger and stabbed the man in the opera coat. Blood sprayed onto the ground. The couple and two students cried out in shock, only to quickly recover and applaud enthusiastically, thrilled by the show.
The man playing the drunken friend ran off in a panic, leaving the opera singer collapsed on the ground. Even while half-lying, he sang the aria mentioned in *The Strand* article. The beautiful music swept away much of the fear in the air and helped Albert regain some composure.
Yet, despite the voice's beauty, it only deepened his unease. How could a singer of such talent be performing in a dark alley instead of gracing grand stages? As a frequent opera-goer, Albert was certain he had never heard this voice before.
After the aria ended, the children led them down another path. Albert gradually calmed himself, wondering if perhaps he'd just imagined it. In such an atmosphere, it was easy to get scared. Maybe he'd just spooked himself.
"That was so unique and exciting!" one of the students said, still buzzing from the experience. "Honestly, when I first saw those two figures, I was freaked out!"
"Yeah, I really thought we saw a real ghost," said the other. "When the blood sprayed out, I thought the guy was actually getting stabbed!"
They chirped back and forth, marveling at the realism of the performance.
Albert had to admit, even as a seasoned opera-goer, he'd never experienced a performance like this. On a stage, props are carefully arranged and the audience sits far away. But here, just a dozen steps from the action, in a narrow alley where a murder supposedly happened — the scene felt chillingly authentic.
"If it weren't for that aria," Albert thought, "it would have been even scarier. But in a way, it helped — at least I wasn't completely terrified."
Next, they moved to the alley where a flower girl had disappeared. Another dramatic scene unfolded. A flower girl was suddenly seized, her mouth covered, and dragged into the shadows. Flowers scattered across the ground. Her terrified expression and desperate struggle made the tourists visibly distressed. The guide had to quickly intervene to keep them calm.
Moments later, the flower girl re-emerged from the darkness, her head drooping, face and dress soaked in blood. She glided toward the group like a ghost.
Terrified, the group shuffled aside to give her space, afraid to make any contact.
But she didn't leave. Instead, she lunged at the middle-aged man at the front of the group, her wide eyes filled with hatred and bitterness, nearly scaring him out of his wits.
"Did you see my flowers?" she asked, her voice distant and ethereal, like a call from another world.
"No, no — please don't come closer!" the man pressed himself against the filthy wall, desperate to put distance between them.
She scanned each of the tourists, repeating her question again and again. Even when someone answered that her flowers were on the ground, she seemed not to hear. Failing to receive a satisfactory answer, she finally vanished into the depths of the alley.
"That was horrifying, just awful," the middle-aged man wiped the sweat from his brow. "She wasn't even breathing..."
"It wasn't *that* bad," said the student at the back, trying to offer comfort. "You were just the first one she approached — that's always the scariest. I knew she was going to ask about the flowers, so I wasn't that scared." He had answered her, but she had paid no attention.
The middle-aged man immediately stepped to the back of the group, unwilling to be in front again.
"She looked like she was floating," Albert said, recalling the opera singer's eerily suspended feet.
"She probably just hid her feet under the dress," offered the woman in the couple, who also looked shaken but was trying to reassure him. "She might've been walking with tiny steps to make it *look* like she was floating. We couldn't see her feet anyway."
But that only made Albert's expression darker — because he remembered clearly: the opera singer had been wearing *pants*.
The guides led them onward. Most of the group had recovered and resumed their tour, but Albert kept thinking about that singer. Even by the tour's end, the image still lingered in his mind.
"What an incredible experience," he said as they returned to Covent Garden, the end point of the tour — which was also where they had started. As he returned his wooden token, he couldn't help telling the ticket-taker, "That scared me half to death."
"Didn't it just? Best sixpence I've ever spent," one student added with excitement. "It was amazing. I'm definitely bringing my friend next time — I want to see him get freaked out, hahaha!"
The man collecting the tokens gave them a broad, practiced smile. "Of course. We're always improving — we look forward to your next visit."
After everyone else had left, Albert lingered, still curious. Finally, he couldn't help but ask, "That opera singer — I could've sworn he was floating. I mean… was it some kind of trick? I'm really curious."
The man hesitated for a moment, then gave him a familiar customer-service smile. "One of our props malfunctioned, sorry about that." He picked up a flower from the basket at his feet — seemingly one the flower girl had dropped. Dirt still clung to its petals. "Here's a little gift, a token of apology."
"Oh, no, no need," Albert declined politely. If it was just a prop malfunction, he could let it go. He didn't know *what* kind of prop, or *what* the malfunction was — but still.
What he *didn't* know was that after he turned to leave, the smile on the man's face slowly faded.