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Something about the average American theater gives it a certain draw that few other buildings can have.

Of course, we're not talking about a typical Megaplex style cinema, the kind that you see dotting every suburban city in the country. Those have the draw of going to see a movie and paying far too much money for popcorn and wondering what kind of stain you just put your foot in.

No, this is the kind of theater where plays and performances take place in front of captive audiences, waiting for a deep and enriching story to be completed, or for a performer to take their last bow when their character comes to meet their untimely demise. A place of culture and tradition, these theaters have an allure to them that is no longer their original purpose.

In towns all across America, many of these theaters sit empty and decrepit, completely useless in the modern era. They're relics from a time that has been forgotten by time, and they carry with them the promise of a spooky good time when someone is brave enough to venture into one that has been closed down for years.

Crisp, the wolf, was just one such character who had a night on the town end in boredom and disappointment, only to try and foolishly turn it around by tempting the spirits that be to come out and greet him for a night of fun. Of course, an intelligent and worldly wolf knew that there was no such thing as ghosts...spirits were just a myth, and there was a logical explanation for anything that was considered "haunted."

At least, that's what his friends were telling him when the trio stood outside the large, boarded-off doors of the Smithfield Theater. The doors had been blocked off for over three decades, and no one had been inside for ages, evidenced by the rotting decay of the wood that kept people from getting in. Just at a touch, Crisp could feel the fibers and pulp wiping away on the tip of his paw, and he could just imagine how easy it would be to kick the wooden beams away and waltz right in.

"Come on, dude...nobody is even looking!" one of his friends, a calico cat, suggested. "If you're really brave, you'll totally do it! There aren't even any cops around!"

"No, but if I get caught inside, I'll go to jail for trespassing, dummy!"

"So make it quick!" his other friend, a diminutive lemur, interjected. "Sneak inside, bring us some proof that you made it to the stage, and sneak right back out! We'll be right here to put the boards back up when you leave!"

It was a risky proposition, but one that was breathing new life into an otherwise dull and dead evening for Crisp. It brought a new spark into the center of his green irises, and with a confident flick of the soft, brown-grey hair atop of his head, he decided that he had nothing to lose, and no other prospects for fun that evening.

"All right. I'll do it...but you guys had better be here when I get back!"

Both of his friends nodded. "Uh huh! Sure! We'll be right here waiting!"

It was the kind of rigmarole that Crisp was used to. He had a feeling his friends were going to flake on him, but he didn't care. Downtown was the same old, same old for him, and this was the only building that he'd never had the fortune to explore. It had been closed down before he was even born, and now, he had the chance to explore it anew in the 21st century, and be the first person to do so. That thought alone sent shivers of excitement down his spine, so great that the fur upon his neck stood up in response. Lifting the bright, red hood of his jacket top up over his head to obscure his face from any cameras that might be lying around, Crisp took adventure into his own paws and pulled at the boards that blocked the entrance.

They gave as easily as leaf gives itself to the breeze, and fell to the ground almost noiselessly. Termites had nearly eaten all the way through the boards, and they were left so hollow that a child could easily lift them and take them away if they were so inclined.

It left the doors exposed, and Crisp leaned over to look through the keyhole to try and see if there were any lights on inside of the theater. His eyes adjusted properly to the night, being a canine, but even inside the keyhole, things were completely pitch black, as if he'd been placed under a blindfold. There was nothing blocking it up, but the windows to the theater were mostly blocked with the same decrepit wood that covered the doors, and while the boards were being eaten away rapidly, they still blocked almost any trace of light from getting in the building.

The doors, unlocked for years because of poor care, slowly started to swing upon on their own. The low, quiet cruuuuuuuuck of the decaying wood swinging inward was enough to send Crisp's friends streaking down the sidewalk with a blood-chilling scream, but for Crisp, it was easy to explain; the doors were old, and the boards had actually been keeping them in place...it was nothing more than the doors finally swinging inward, in his mind. There was still nothing to fear, and if the place had been empty for thirty years, no one to fear, making his entrance every bit as easy as he expected.

Still, the low lights of a clouded moon barely got Crisp past the front doors before he had to give his eyes another minute to adjust. He could see the brick and cobblestone floors beneath his footpaws, and the old ticket window directly ahead of him, but past that, there was nothing truly visible. He thought he saw twin staircases rising on either side of the walls of the room, but he could only see the first stairs in the light, and in such an old building, going up creaky, rotten stairs was a great way to end up with a broken leg, and a story for the cops.

"I'll stay on the ground floor," Crisp rationalized to himself. "I'm sure I can still make it to the stage from down here, unless they cemented off all of the hallways."

There was no excess construction done on the building at any point in time. As long as he was able to see, Crisp would be able to make his way to the stage, and sure enough, have a little fun with his evening after all. His friends were long gone, but he no longer cared about that, and he didn't figure that the police had the time to bother with a breaking and entering call on an abandoned building.

All Crisp had to do now was give his eyes enough time to adjust to the darkness...and after just a few steps past the ticket window, the wolf could see everything with his bright, emerald eyes. It was all a bit of a dull, washed over tone from the literal decades of dust that built up on the walls, stairs and balconies, but Crisp actually felt something akin to remorse as he saw just how ornate the building once was, and yet, the complete and total disrepair that it had fallen into; marble floors were cracked by fallen tiles, wallpaper was peeling away from the walls to reveal the stonework underneath, and the stairs, just by the press of a paw, gave an eerie creeeeeeeak that told Crisp he was wise to avoid using them.

"If they'd just taken care of this place, I'm sure it would still be packed every night...there's plenty of rich punks that live in this town that would just love to hang out at an exclusive looking place like this...I wonder why they ever shut it down?"

There was always the rumor of ghosts and phantoms about an old theater, and whether or not those legendary rumors were true was something left up to debate, often on a case by case basis of the theater itself. Smithfield Theater, however, was of a rare case that Crisp was unaware of: the reason for the closure of the theater was not a death caused by construction dangers, a part of a performance, or even the theater itself, directly.

It was the changing of the times that lead to the suicide of one Arthur Cassel, the man who had taken his own life on the stage over three decades ago, in front of an empty auditorium. Once upon a time, it was a gorgeous seating area with an upper deck, and the combination of the two seating arrangements could hold nearly 2,000 visitors when it was at full capacity. A lifetime of performing for sold out crowds had spoiled Arthur Cassel, and he was under the impression that his success was going to last as long as he lived...and, ironically, it was by his own hand that the statement rang true; he waited to take his own life until the very last soul came to see his performances, until there were none left to appreciate his particular work.

Was it his ghost that was creeping around the Smithfield Theater all hours of the night? Was it Arthur Cassel that made the hairs on Crisp's neck stand upright as he felt an untimely breeze, despite there not being a window or a door for it to come through?

"J-just shitty patchwork," Crisp tried to assure himself. He was making excuses for the fears that were building inside of him...insulting the very building that was now his prison, even if he didn't realize that such was the case yet. "All I've gotta do is get to the stage and get a piece of the curtains...that's all the proof I need that I made it through a night in here!"

His insults would ultimately lead to his downfall, as there was at least one pair of ears left to hear him. Still using his paw along the wall as a guide, gathering up cobwebs into his fur as he went, Crisp had a one-track mind that was guiding him right past the old, empty concession stands, still overrun with spilled butter that dried decades ago, and toppled boxes of popcorn that had since withered into nothingness. Like the rest of the theater, the main atrium had fallen into total decay, and perhaps worse, all of the furniture had been lifted before the building was condemned, so there was nothing at all in the atrium for Crisp to gaze upon...just more marble floors that were in desperate need of a sweeping, and a stairway at the far end of the atrium that was still blocked off by two poles, with a velvet rope spanning the distance between them. That area was reserved for the upper crust of the older version of Smithfield, but now, it was a meaningless barrier to an area that Crisp desperately wanted to avoid, anyway...

...The stage was his only goal, and a few sets of double doors to his right were almost certainly the way to the main auditorium. He picked the one directly in the center and moved right in, pushing past the old, weakened wood of the doors with the greatest of ease, and a false sense of confidence, bred by the same. He was teeming with curiosity about the story of the theater by now, but his fear was also subsiding, as he was convinced that there was no one else in the theater, and no real danger to his life in the form of the building. There were only empty seats on either side of him, and a long, sloping walkway that would lead him right to the stage, right to the place that would grant him his token of proof: a tress from the curtains of the stage.

You were so quick to insult this building, young man...

"W-wha...what?! Who said that? Where are you?!"

Crisp whirled around in all directions, but succeeded only at making himself dizzy; the voice had no source. He ran out past the bottom edge of the upper deck, looking up into it to see if there was someone hiding up in the reserved seating area, but it was just as empty as the seats below, and at the proof that he was alone, Crisp truly started to panic.

"I...I'm hearing things...I'm sure I'm hearing things!"

Oh, but...are you, young man?

Another spin of the head, and another time, Crisp came up with no answers to his search. His knees started to wobble, and his chest grew tight as fear took a hold of his body once again. Every instinct in his body cried out to him to do just one thing: run like hell.

Going so soon? But we were just about to put on a performance...and I'm afraid we can't do it without you!

Before Crisp could press his footpaws into the sloped walkway that lead to the stage to run, he felt the angle of the slope change dramatically. Like a building rising up out of the ashes in front of him, the upper deck appeared to soar hundreds of feet into the air, shaking dust and debris from the seats with a thunderous tremor. Crisp felt his footpaws slide out from under him as his chest hit the concrete floors with a painful, dull THUMP, and in one fell swoop, the wind was knocked right out of him. With just one glance around, Crisp could see even more changes taking place to the theater, but all of them were designed to do just one thing: get the poor, confused wolf up onto the stage.

"L-look...I'm sorry! I didn't mean to insult the building! It's just old! Really old!"

The desperate cries of Crisp did nothing to dissuade his captors. And just what is so wrong with being old, young man?

"Well...well, nothing! I don't think enough young people cherish their elders!"

You certainly don't, the voice replied, Which is why you so disrespectfully woke us from our slumber...peaceful souls should be allowed to rest, young man, but now that we're awake...we might as well enjoy a show, don't you think?

Crisp could feel sweat starting to bead across his forehead as panic truly set in. His chest was heaving rapidly as his claws tried to dig into the concrete, but it was no good: the sloped floor was now more of a slide, and it was funneling the captured wolf right down to the stage...right into the soft, cushy embrace of the curtains that he sought to tear asunder for his own devices. It was the only positive he could find, as his rapid descent toward the stage may have killed him otherwise.

" Waaaaaaaaaaait! No! Don't kill me!" Crisp cried out in terror, as his body slid helplessly down the funnel. His claws dug tiny rivulets into the surface of the concrete, but didn't do anything to slow him down. The bunched up, soft curtains broke his rapid fall, and from there, he fell gracelessly to the stage, a drop far enough to leave him gripping his rump as he fell flat upon it. " OW!! D-damn it...what's...what's going on here..."

The rapid drop left Crisp feeling just a little bit woozy, and his mind was having trouble catching up to the pain that he felt in his body. It wasn't quite enough to shock him into standing, but he was quick to wish that it did, when he felt the curtains of the stage closing in front of him. Darker than the darkest black of a desert sky, the curtains came to envelope Crisp entirely, blocking him away from the sights of the auditorium, even though there was no one in the audience...

...At least, no one that Crisp could see.

Now, you can't go putting on a performance in that disgusting outfit!

"Oh...oh God...that voice is still here..." Crisp whimpered, his voice low and pathetic as the curtains stayed closed, but Crisp flickered his sensitive ears to the sounds of some other treachery behind him. The entire wardrobe and prop department of the theater had been left behind when the building was condemned, and that meant that there were plenty of ways for the ghost, or perhaps, ghosts, to torment poor Crisp while he was still inside.

Of course I am! This is my home, after all, and you've rudely let yourself in...now, if you want to see yourself out, you're going to have to put on a fan for 2,000 of the best fans to ever grace Smithfield Theater...and you'll have to do it in our outfits.

Crisp was already terrified enough by the fact that a building was warping around him, and yet, no authorities had come to the scene yet. Worse still, there was a voice taunting him and following his every move...and then, as if things couldn't get any more spooky for him...

Sssssssskriiiiiip! Crisp looked down at his chest, at the white, hoodie t-shirt that he so proudly wore about town, perhaps his favorite piece of clothing...

...At least, it was one piece. As it started to glow an eerie, supernatural shade of green, it split into two pieces, leaving Crisp topless, and feeling a bit naked already...even before he could feel the cool, otherworldly touch of something running down the front of his chest, following the cream colored underbelly of his abdomen down to the waistline of his matching white shorts...

"I-is t-t-this r-really necessary?!" Crisp tried to protest, but it didn't do him a bit of good. He could almost see the form of an old costume manager coming into view as ancient, green pawtips sunk into the waistline of his shorts, and this time, far more politely, they were simply undone and pulled down to his ankles...before the stage shifted as if it had been struck by a minor earthquake, sending Crisp down to his back, making it easy for the ghostly paw to pull his shorts off and away. His legs hung up in the air just long enough for his boxer briefs, bright red and tight his his bulge, to be done away with as well...and this time, as Crisp looked up at his assailant, he was sure that he saw the tiniest bit of a wink before his undergarments were literally ripped away from his body.

Even if he did survive this mess, he'd need a new change of clothes, at the very least.

That's good, but now the boy is just bouncing around in his birthday suit! the voice cried out, though there was an element of sarcasm to his disdain. The curtains fluttered open for just a moment, just in time for Crisp to stand up, nude...and poke his head out to the crowd of 2,000 different ghosts that had been disturbed from their graves, leaving them hungry for a performance that they would never forget.

Crisp, flushing as bright of a red as the velvet rope in the atrium once was, tried to hide behind the curtain, but it flung itself open and bunched up against the wall, and suddenly, Crisp was alone on the stage, completely naked, with only his paws to cover his exposed, humanoid member...and the moment he started to cover it, the audience hailed at him with a literal, groaning chorus of boos.

"But...I can't go on yet! I don't have my outfit! We can't start the show!"

The protests were completely meaningless to the ghosts in the audience.

I'm afraid that the show has already started, young man! the voice explained, followed by an empty, hollow chuckle, one that still somehow managed to penetrate the very skin of Crisp to leave him chilled, like a beer from a cooler full of ice. You don't need any particular outfit to perform here...

Slowly but surely, as the ethereal, almost holographic crowd narrowed their eyes on Crisp, he started to get an idea of what kind of theater the Smithfield was, once upon a time, and perhaps why it had fallen to the wayside over the years.

Smithfield Theater had been a house of ill repute, and now, Crisp had been drafted as the newest performer in a long line of live exhibitionists.

Now now, don't be shy! Give these people what they came here to see, if you ever want to see the light of another day!

Reluctantly, desperately wishing that there was any other way out of the mess, Crisp finally lifted his paws from his crotch and revealed the soft, hanging length of his cock to the crowd, to a thunderous applause, and literal minutes of cheering, just for the sight of it. The ghosts in the crowd almost immediately started to make lewd remarks, demanding that the wolf "get hard" for them, but in such a pressured situation, still falsely believing that his life was on the line in all of this, Crisp was having more than a little trouble performing.

Perhaps he needs a little help getting into the right mood, the voice suggested. Soft, green lights started to peer down from the ceiling, illuminating Crisp in such a way that he appeared to have become a ghost himself, and as the lights danced upon his arms, he felt as though there were ribbons of the softest silk being woven through his fur...but he couldn't see anything of the sort. He could only feel the cool touch and gentle breeze of something similar, even if there was nothing more to cause it than a captivating, dancing green light. The audience, however, seemed to be clued into something that Crisp didn't know, as a hush of anticipation fell over the crowd, until the room, sans a few bated breaths, was completely silent.

Suddenly, Crisp could feel his body turning lighter and lighter, until he felt as though he was floating away from the stage. In his mind, he was somehow magically escaping this torture...making his way to some sort of freedom.

It was the complete opposite.

How shall we dress up our little doll this evening? He's so cute, isn't he?

The voice of the Arthur Cassel was putting on one last show, and Crisp was the centerpiece that he'd chosen for the task. Willing or not no longer mattered, as the green lights and the ticklish sensation that Crisp felt around his arms were the strings of ghosts, the same ghosts that once took care of all the props on the stage, and with their tactics, Crisp was being hoisted up toward the ceiling slowly, as if he were floating into the skies...only to come up just short of escaping from the captivated audience. The tiny bit of bondage might have been a turn on for Crisp in a different situation, but now, he was literally the plaything of a ghost, and the focus of a show that he had no desire to be a part of.

Perhaps a nice little set of leggings is the perfect decoration for our favorite sex doll, the voice recommended. Crisp felt his cheeks burning once again at the concept of being called a sex doll, but things were only worse as he could see soft, green glows moving up toward his helplessly dangling legs. The delicate touch of paws coming to form started to send a pleasant chill through his body, one that his mind said to be afraid of...but as the paws started to gently touch and brush against the underside of Crisp's sack, his body told him that this might not be such a bad treatment after all. His member even started to perk, much to the delight of the ghostly crowd...but it was all part of Arthur Cassel's plan. Yes...that's right, girls, work him up a bit! I think he's starting to like this!

"N-no...no! I don't like this!" Crisp argued, not knowing that his reluctance and protest were actually a turn on to most of the audience that had been disturbed. Hanging legs started to kick at the ticklish sensation of the ghostly paws receding down, moving from his sensitive sack to the insides of his thighs and down further, over his knees and to his ankles, leaving no part of Crisp untouched. The ghosts were sure to make sure that his legs were tingling playfully the entire time, right up until Crisp could feel something long and tubular being forced over the claws of his footpaws.

He does seem to like white and red, ladies and gentlemen...and it's almost Christmas! You could hang this boy over a fireplace in stockings like these!

Still struggling, but entirely hopelessly, Crisp tried to keep his legs from moving, but the paws distracted him once again. Faces were starting to come to light in front of Crisp, that of two gorgeous young ladies, and as one delicately stroked his manhood, hoping to keep it growing, the other forced the long, thigh-high stockings onto his legs, all the way up to the middle of his thighs to leave him as a red and white display for the crowd, who once again gave an overwhelming approval in the form of applause.

"There..." Crisp said lowly, his voice dripping with defeat, and yet, still shaking from his fear, "You got your s-sick, twisted kicks...can I go now...?"

Of course not. You just got started!

" WHAT?!"

A pair of thong panties, red and white striped to match the stockings that now covered his legs, were forced upon Crisp, pushing his cock straight upright so that it pointed into his own stomach and drooled precum upon his underbelly. The panties, despite being so thin that they were almost translucent, were also rather tough, and they were more than able to contain just enough of Crisp so that the audience could still see his length throbbing against the thin fabric.

There...now you have the look of a proper dancer for this crowd, young man! It seemed that the voice was finally satisfied with the appearance that Crisp had taken, but there was still a show to perform, and as Crisp was slowly lowered to the ground, he tried to figure out how he was going to dance under such pressure, when he had trouble doing it any other time.

He was going to get quite the assist from the stage girls.

An old, upbeat tune from the 1970's started to play in the auditorium, filling it with music that brought the crowd to their paws, and even as Crisp simply tried to feel the beat, the invisible ropes around his arms pushed against his body, and his torso started to move. As long as his legs could keep the beat, the ropes would move his arms in the right direction, and before he knew it, his back was turned to the crowd, giving the audience a wonderful look at his taut, perky rump, and the back of his sack; the thong panties did nothing to hide those. The ropes around his arms moved his paws to gently spread his rump open a little, letting the thong ride up higher on his body as the music continued, and paralyzed by fear, survival instinct and a smooth beat, Crisp tried not to lose sight of the ultimate goal of the evening: making it out of Smithfield Theater alive, at any cost.

This young man might be the sluttiest wolf we've picked up in thirty years! the voice declared, and the audience was quick to laugh along with his joke. I wonder if he'd mind putting on a longer show for us...this song is only halfway over, but I think you folks want some more! Should we stay open for an after hours encore?!

Arthur Cassel was demented in his drive to put on a good show for the audience of the undead, and Crisp couldn't begin to imagine just how much longer an after hours show would go, or perhaps, how much more depraved it would be. Even as the ghosts of the prop girls continued to gently stroke and tease his cock beneath the thong, keeping him primed for the audience to enjoy, he tried to grit his fangs and look like he was displeased, but the ghosts simply wouldn't allow it. They were going to literally milk a show out of the unwilling wolf, and for the voice of Arthur Cassel, that meant more than Crisp would ever have been willing to do...if he weren't tied up to the ceiling.

Crisp trembled with fear as the thong was tugged up tight into his rump, giving him a quick, makeshift wedgie...right before the undergarments were yanked straight down, and Crisp may as well have been naked, once again. Just to add to the lewd, kinky nature of the show, the thigh-highs were left on, and still, the ropes forced Crisp to keep dancing, as if he'd never missed a beat...

Ten more songs, ladies and gentlemen...do you think he can handle it?

**

The police eventually came to the Smithfield Theater after a call for petty vandalism, but they didn't find any vandals left around the scene to investigate it any further. The could only find the broken boards that had been taken off of the front doors, and they were readily replaced the next day.

It was just a long enough gap of time for a sexually objectified Crisp to escape the theater with his life, and weasel his way back to his house. He clung to a pillow the moment that he crashed into his bedroom, holding only one token of appreciation from the crowd that had ogled him as if he were nothing more than a piece of meat...

A tiny, black cloth from the curtains, proof that he'd been there, with a tiny message inscribed upon it in bright, fluorescent green.

The crowd loves you, kid...but a deal is a deal. You're free to go, for now...but we've got a sold out show for next Friday, and we can't do it without our new, rising star...you sure left in quite a hurry, one might think you had stage fright, but...give it time, kid...the theater will possess you, too, just like it did to all of us. Sooner or later...they all come back for another round at the Smithfield.

Nervous, shaky paws gripped the stuffing out of a small, decorative pillow as the still nude, and slightly messy Crisp searched for a place where he didn't need the roar of the crowd to survive...

The theater was the only thing he could think of.