Page 48 of Specters & Spotlights

Chapter Nine

Elise

Elise stepped out of the sunlight and into the cool, shaded alley that ran along the side of the theatre—this one dressed up in faded murals and hand-painted show quotes, vibrant but weathered. Even here, the scent of popcorn and hairspray clung to the air, as if the building had absorbed generations of curtain calls.

Her carry-on bumped against her hip as she walked. The rest of her luggage was already stashed at the hotel a few blocks away. Today wasn’t a performance day, just the quiet chaos of pack-in: the crew ferrying in set pieces, trunks, cables, cases of everything a show needed to become a show. Only the crew today. No cast. No egos. No glitter in the air. Yet.

The side door to the backstage area was propped open with a painted brick that vaguely resembled a green tree frog. Elise slipped inside, letting the hum of fluorescent lighting guide her down the narrow hallway.

She knew this place. She’d been here before, years ago. Different tour, different drama, different shade of hair dye. But the bones of the place hadn’t changed.

Lights flickered overhead as she padded down the hallway, hand brushing the wall like it might greet her back. She heard the light tinkling of a piano wafting in from one of the open doors that led down to the orchestra pit. She took a left without thinking, turned into the backstage lounge, and there they were: the posters.

Like ghosts of performances past, they lined the wall. Some were new. Some were survivors. One in particular made her stop.

Isla Kent, in Bridges & Ballads. A show that had burned brightly for just one season, a decade ago. Elise paused in front of it, a small smile touching her lips.

“Still here,” Elise murmured. “A little faded. Still fabulous.”

The next eight nights would unfold from here. And somewhere, deep in the theatre’s bones, a piano note hummed—just a single one. Long and low.

Elise kept moving, the soles of her boots making soft sounds against worn linoleum as she took quiet inventory of the space. Every backstage had its own rhythm, its own personality tucked into the corners—a bit like cats, really. You had to give them a minute to decide if they liked you.

The green room lived up to its name: actual green walls, faded to olive in places, patched with decades of posters, backstage notices, and hand-scrawled quotes taped like offerings to the gods of theatre. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting everything in an anemic glow.

To the right, a long wall of costume racks stood at attention, draped with half-zipped dresses and half-labeled hangers. Wicker baskets overflowed with gloves and belts and sweat-stained bonnets. There was an order to it, but it was the kind of order you earned.

On the back wall, two doors marked the way to the dressing rooms, and nestled in the corner near the women’s side, Elise saw it: her new wig station.

It wasn’t a closet this time. Merely a space carved out with purpose, framed by a mirror, a work table, and a threadbare chair that had likely seen a thousand quick changes and hundreds of nervous hands. Nearby, a jumble of extension cords curled like sleeping snakes beside a dusty hot tools caddy.

The wig trunk sat squarely in the middle of the space, still sealed and waiting for her return.

She stepped closer, pressing her palm to its lid. Two nights ago, she’d closed it in a different city, with a different weight in her chest. Now here it was, the heart of her ritual, waiting to be unpacked again. Reconstructed.

This space would be tight. No extra shelves. No idle counters to scatter things like breadcrumbs across a room. She’d have to be precise and tidy. Maybe even clever.

But there was something nice about being tucked in beside the costume rack and dressing rooms. Closer to the heartbeat of the show. And with all the foot traffic… maybe a little less solitude. Maybe that was what she needed this time around.

To her left, a series of shallow steps led to the wings, barely out of sight. A battered utility sink clung to that same wall, stained from years of makeup brushes and soap and maybe even stage blood. Around the room, worn couches sagged with familiarity, their cushions mismatched and sunken in just the right places—the kind of furniture that remembered who you were.

Kevin arrived the way he always did—suddenly, and just slightly too quiet for the moment to feel natural. Elise hadn’t seen him enter, but she felt her tattoos prickle with that familiar feeling—like a drop in atmospheric pressure, like something waking up right under the skin.

“There you are,” he said, emerging from the dressing room as if he'd taken a wrong hallway between worlds. His voice was crisp, but laced with unease. “I know I just arrived—but something’s off. I felt it the moment I slipped through.”

He glanced around, brow furrowing, then tilted his head sharply, eyes narrowing at her.

“No, it’s not the theatre. It’s you.” He stepped closer, softer now. “Something happened. Tell me.”

Elise set her bag down gently beside the wig trunk, letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

She knelt beside the wig trunk and flipped open the latches, the satisfying click grounding her more than she’d like to admit. The scent of wig spray and cedar sachets floated up like a hello from her past self. She pulled out the first foam head and adjusted the carefully pinned wig as she began to speak.

“It started at the cast party,” she said. “Everything was going great, actually.”

Kevin hovered beside the vanity, arms crossed. “Let me guess—someone brought bad karaoke energy or sang ‘Memory’ off-key?”

She gave a soft huff of a laugh. “No. I mean… I was having a nice time. I looked out the window—just glanced out—and there was this ghost. Just standing there. Staring at me from across the street.”