Page 67 of Specters & Spotlights

“Elise…”

The voice curled under her skin. Familiar. Wrong.

She didn’t stop. Five seconds. That’s all this corridor took to cross. She counted them like beats in a measure.

One-and, two-and, three-and…

“Elise.”

Four-and.

She reached the backstage door and tried the handle. It opened.

Five.

She slipped through with a sigh of relief, the door clicking shut behind her like a seal. Back in the bustle of wigs and warm-ups, the air felt clearer. Safer.

She shook off the sensation and whispered under her breath, “Let’s not do that again.”

The pre-show rhythm kicked in like clockwork—brushes flying, pins clicking, soft chatter filling the corners of the wig room. Elise was in her element.

Nick arrived, half an hour before curtain, buzzing with energy. His eyes were wide, his smile quick.

“House is open,” he announced, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I saw real live people. Sitting. Waiting. For me.”

Elise laughed and motioned for him to sit. “You say that like they didn’t come to see the rest of the cast, too.”

“They’re here for Darcy,” he said solemnly, lowering himself into the chair. “And tonight, I am Darcy.”

Elise raised an eyebrow. “Darcy wouldn’t bounce.”

Nick struck a pose. “Darcy bounces internally.”

“Please stop saying that while I’m trying to glue lace to your forehead,” she said, biting back a grin. “Also, Kevin says good luck.”

Nick blinked. “Kevin... said good luck to me?” His eyes widened with childlike wonder.

“Yep. He approves of your cheekbones.”

“Well, I approve of his taste.”

From the corner, Marcie paused. “Kevin?”

“Her spirit sidekick,” Nick said casually. “Haunts the wig room wherever Elise goes.”

Marcie squinted. “Wait—Kevin’s not the one messing with the women’s bathroom, is he? Second floor. The door keeps slamming shut and won’t open again. Freaked Talia out last night.”

Elise frowned. “That’s definitely not Kevin. He’s more into unsolicited fashion advice and obscure Broadway references.”

Marcie shrugged. “Weird energy around here lately. That’s all I’m saying.”

Elise tucked that into the part of her brain that tracked ghost lore and yellow flags.

As the final calls came over the speakers, she found herself scanning the backstage hallway—mostly out of habit. No Graham popping in for a last-minute hair check. No dry remark about his hair being “a national treasure.” No half-smile just for her.

Wherever he was, she hoped he was enjoying the night off. Still, the quiet felt a little too quiet without him.

The show unfolded like clockwork.