Page 129 of Specters & Spotlights

Elise gaped. “I forgot about lighting the candles.”

“I know,” he said smugly.

Later, Elise passed the callboard on her way back from the green room and caught sight of a new page taped underneath the run sheet: RUN-OF-SPELL, it read in bold marker, complete with diagrams, cues, and the exact timing of the rain. She didn’t need to ask. It had Jen written all over it.

She saw Jasper had annotated it with tiny ghost doodles. Talia also added a note: “Don’t die.”

She returned to the wig closet just long enough to retrieve a few final components from her warding kit. A small envelope held the obituary photo Cici had mailed her what felt like forever ago. And Kevin’s talisman—the old pocket watch—hung now on a delicate chain. She tucked both away in a hidden inner pocket of her tech-black hoodie.

The whole company worked like a crew on opening night—and in a way, it was.

The show would go on. And so would the spell.

Elise slipped away down the back hallway, her boots soft on the worn floor. The energy of the prep buzzed behind her, but here, the air grew still. Reverent. The door to the dance studio creaked as she eased it open.

Inside, the room was empty—but only in the usual sense. The wall-length mirror caught her reflection—and three more, standing right behind her. The ballerinas. Perfectly still.

Miss Myrtle stood by the piano, her hands resting on the closed lid, as if she’d never left.

“I thought you’d come,” the old ghost said, voice crisp as ever.

Elise stepped into the room, keeping her tone respectful. “We’re casting the spell tonight.”

Myrtle’s eyes narrowed. “I assumed as much.”

“We’ll need your help,” Elise continued. “I think he knows what we’re planning. He’ll try to stop us—sabotage, distractions, worse. I need eyes everywhere. Quiet ones.”

Miss Myrtle gave a small, approving nod. “The girls will watch.”

“And one more thing,” Elise said. “During the ritual… keep your people off the stage. I don’t want to banish the wrong ghosts by accident.”

That earned a disapproving sniff. “As if I’d let my girls waltz into the middle of your chaos. We may be dead, Miss Elise, but we are not foolish.”

Elise exhaled, her tension easing just slightly. “Thank you.”

“Go,” Myrtle said, waving her cane toward the hallway. “You’ve got work to do. And so do we.”

As Elise turned to leave, the ballerinas dipped into matching curtsies, delicate and eerily precise. Elise gave a small bow in return.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The rhythm of pre-show filled the theatre like a pulse.

Call time had passed. The backstage world swelled with bodies and voices. Costumes swished. Violins tuned. Tech crew made last-minute adjustments to props and marks. Ensemble dancers were doing pliés in the hallway—Frankie Moreau humming scales under his breath while Talia helped Avery pin stray hairs into place.

Marcie was whistling backstage as she balanced regular makeup prep and sigil spell work.

Rae passed by, eyes wide. “Marcie! No whistling backstage. Everyone knows that—it’s bad luck.”

Marcie paused mid-note, sheepish. Devon, lounging in the makeup chair with a power brush in one hand, didn’t even look up.

“We’re way past bad luck,” he said dryly.

Upstairs, the house lights dimmed in preparation. The show would go on. But tonight, it carried a different weight.

Onstage, Lark and Graham were mid-rehearsal, running the rain scene choreography one more time—minus the rain, of course.

Elise and Jen stood in the house, watching like nervous stage moms.