Page 18 of Specters & Spotlights

They exchanged a quiet nod.

“Thank god you’re here,” the tech whispered. “Last night, we nearly missed Lark’s entrance. Full-on chaos.”

Elise offered a sympathetic wince, but her attention snagged elsewhere.

The blackout curtain behind them—heavy, dark, and motionless just a second ago—was now swaying softly. Not dramatically. Just slightly. Just enough.

It rippled again, like breath caught on fabric. The pentacle tattoos on the back of her hands tingled slightly.

“Weird, right?” the tech said, noticing her stare. “That curtain always moves. Even when the AC is off. We’ve stopped questioning it.”

Before Elise could reply, the curtain shifted again, and this time a face peeked out.

A boy. This must be the one Kevin mentioned earlier. Ten, maybe, wearing saddle shoes and high-waisted slacks, with a pageboy cap that had no business being in the twenty-first century.

Elise froze, just for a breath. He tilted his head, studying her with the focused curiosity of someone who knew they’d been seen.

She forced herself to stay still, composed.

Right as Elise locked eyes with the boy—who continued to peer from behind the curtain like a nosy little usher from another era—Lark barreled offstage like a comet trailing silk.

“Coming through!” she hissed, already tugging at the snaps down her bodice.

By the time she reached them, her costume was a memory—slip-clad and unbothered, she flung the discarded dress onto the floor without so much as a backward glance and thrust her arms into the next one like a NASCAR driver hitting a pit stop.

Elise blinked, still halfway in ghostland. The boy hadn’t moved. He remained watching the scene with wide, fascinated eyes.

She shook it off just in time to reach for Lark’s updo wig still on her head, carefully unpinning it and peeling it free. Thankfully, Lark had removed the lace adhesive ahead of time—there were few backstage horrors worse than ripping off a face full of spirit gum.

As she set the wig on an empty foam head, the costume tech popped the snaps on Lark’s new dress like a pro and reached for the next wig without missing a beat. It was practically choreography—one-two-three, dress-snap-wig—and Elise found herself falling right into step. There was a rhythm to it, an elegance even in the frenzy.

And still, from the edges of the curtain, the boy remained.

Unblinking.

Elise said a silent goodbye to the beautiful curls as she took the wig from the costume tech and slid it gently over Lark’s head. Lark braced it with practiced fingers, eyes forward—serene, unshakable.

But this serenity had a short shelf life.

The temperature dipped. Elise’s breath caught.

From the edge of her vision, movement flickered, fast and wrong. The boy wasn’t behind the curtain anymore. He was kneeling beside her now, his small hands reaching, gleeful, for the laces of her boot.

She flinched, barely, and forced a shaky laugh as she whispered, “You’re trying to make me fall head over heels, aren’t you?”

The words tumbled out before she could stop them. They were meant for the ghost.

But Lark startled slightly, catching Elise’s eye in the half-shadow. There was a flicker of confusion… maybe even something like surprise.

Elise’s cheeks burned. Oh god. That sounded flirty. Or threatening. Or both.

Not that she had time to explain. The wig still needed settling. The part wasn’t straight. There were flyaways. There was a ghost boy at her feet.

Lark’s gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary. Then she faced forward again, stepping into the new shoes set in front of her—and winced.

“Still wet,” Lark muttered, soft and resigned.

Elise didn’t answer—there wasn’t time, and there was nothing to be done. Some shoes never seemed to dry, no matter how many towels or overnight fans you threw at them.