Page 2 of Specters & Spotlights

“The previous wig mistress,” she asked softly. “She just disappeared? Do we know why?”

Jen let out a snort. “Yeah. So, karaoke’s our usual closing night tradition—end-of-city cast party, everyone gets drunk and sings like fools. Normally fine. But the last one got out of control. People were already wound tight, and then…”

She turned to flick on another light and glanced back at Elise. “She stood on a table, grabbed the mic, and declared her undying love for Graham in front of everyone.”

Elise raised an eyebrow. “Graham?”

“Our leading man,” Jen said, with a little nod. “Insanely good voice, very swoon-worthy. You’ll meet him. Apparently, she thought they’d had a moment. Which… no one else witnessed. Including Graham.”

Elise winced.

“Oh yeah,” Jen said. “He looked like he wanted to die. Whole room went silent. And then she burst into tears, dropped the mic, and ran out.”

Elise let out a soft “oof.”

Jen paused to flip another light switch. “Then during tech load-in here? No show. One of the stagehands swore he’d seen her post something about joining a renaissance festival in Texas. She just... bailed.” She shook her head. “Career suicide. You ghost a tour mid-run, you don’t get another call.”

Jen glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve been trying to hire a second wig crew member for the last couple months. No luck. Everyone’s booked or burnt out. So… it’s just you for at least the next three stops. Sorry.”

They reached the wings, and the stage opened up in front of them. A single ghost light glowed at its center—soft, golden, and alone. It cast long shadows across scuffed floorboards and made the emptiness feel vast.

Every theatre had one. A lone bulb on a stand, left burning when the stage was empty. Some said it was for safety, to keep you from falling into the orchestra pit. But most people in the business knew better. The ghost light kept the spirits company—or kept them away. No one was really sure. What mattered was that you never left a stage dark.

Off to either side, huge set pieces loomed in the shadows. Their skeletal arches and rigging were pushed as far back into the wings as they’d go, but still swallowed up the space. Even dormant, they made the backstage area feel smaller. Heavier.

“This way,” Jen said, already stepping out into the open space. “It’s fastest just to cross out here.”

Elise followed, pulling her bag gently so the wheels wouldn’t echo. She stepped onto the stage like it was holy ground—reverent, familiar, a little haunted.

Halfway across, the tattoos on the backs of her hands gave a familiar slight buzz—not painful, but definitely a hello. She slowed, glancing out toward the house, filled with empty, cushioned seats.

There he was.

About ten rows back in the orchestra section, a faint shimmer sat motionless. A top hat perched neatly on his head. A cane rested on his knees. He sat with perfect posture, looking like he was waiting for the overture to start.

Jen turned back when she noticed Elise had stopped. “Yeah, I know,” she said with a shrug, and continued across the stage. “This place is extra spooky. Gives me chills constantly. Like someone’s watching.”

Elise didn’t answer. She simply raised a hand and gave the ghost a little wave.

He didn’t respond. But she hadn’t really expected him to.

She adjusted her grip on the roller bag and followed Jen across the stage, the faint hum of the ghost light at her back.

Jen led the way offstage, weaving easily past a stack of prop tables and a rolling rack overflowing with parasols and picnic baskets. Elise followed, ducking instinctively as a feathered hat wobbled on its perch as she passed. They reached a narrow ramp that sloped gently downward, the air growing cooler and picking up the universal backstage scent of hairspray, dust, and old wood.

Halfway down the hallway, Jen stopped at a plain black door—the kind that screamed utility closet. Except this one had a pair of googly eyes stuck to it at eye level.

“Classy,” Elise muttered, lifting a brow.

Jen chuckled and pulled out a ring of keys that looked like it belonged to a jailer: oversized and wildly chaotic. Somehow, she plucked the right key without hesitation and jammed it into the lock.

“I’ve got a spare key and card back at my station,” she said, twisting the handle. “I’ll bring it to you in a bit.” Then, almost too casually, she said: “Also? Brace yourself. It’s a mess in here.”

The door swung open with a groan.

Elise peeked in as Jen flipped the light switch. A bulb near the ceiling gave a reluctant buzz, then flickered to life like it decided it didn’t have anywhere better to be. The overheads were soft and warm, casting a golden wash over what could only be described as... chaos.

“Yikes,” Elise murmured.