Page 27 of Specters & Spotlights

She knew she would sleep like the dead.

And in the morning, the theatre would open its eyes again.

Chapter Six

Elise

Elise arrived an hour earlier than usual for the matinee the next day, long before the cast and crew would begin to trickle in. The city hadn’t quite shaken off its morning glow yet, and the alley behind the theatre was hushed and damp.

She let herself in through the alley door, the same way she’d left the night before. The ghost light still stood at center stage like a quiet sentinel, casting its soft glow. The shadows weren’t as thick now, the air not as heavy. Daylight had brushed just enough warmth into the corners.

She walked across the stage, boots echoing on the floorboards, and glanced toward the seats. The old man ghost was in his place again, still watching. Still silent. She gave a small wave. He remained still.

Backstage, Elise opened the wig closet like a sacred space. She crossed to the wig dryer and held her breath—then exhaled in a quiet, satisfied hum. No power outage, no cursed circuits. The wigs were dry, their curls crisp, obedient, and waiting.

She set to work. Misting frizz. Fluffing volume. Checking pins. Brushing lace. Her hands moved like music. Measured. Intentional. She found a single off-kilter curl and coaxed it into line. The smallest tweaks made the difference between believable and beautiful.

On Lark’s finale wig, the lace had begun to fray—barely a whisper of halo where glue met sweat. Elise reinforced the edge, then smoothed it back into illusion. Seamless again.

These wigs were her pride. They’d been through tours and quick changes and literal rainstorms. And under Elise’s hands, they weren’t just hairpieces. They were transformation. They were magic.

She nestled her phone into the corner of the counter and hit FaceTime. A sleepy hum of the theatre’s backstage filled the space—hairpins clinking gently in a tin, the soft crackle of an ancient light fixture warming up overhead.

Cici appeared on her screen, bleary-eyed and radiant. Her long dark hair was swept into a messy bun, silver studs and hoops gleaming along her ears and brows. A soft-knit shawl draped over her shoulders like a familiar spell. Behind her: stillness. Not the quiet kind, but the tender kind—life curled in a woven basket.

“They’re still just peanuts,” she whispered, turning the camera.

Elise’s breath caught. Six newborn kittens—barely two days old—lay tangled together in sleep, their ears folded, their eyes not yet opened to the world.

“Broomstick is the loudest,” Cici said, smiling. “Even with her eyes still closed, she can always find the food.”

“You named them already?”

“Of course. Belladonna, Elphie, Chaos, Lilith, Hecate, and Broomstick.”

Elise gently unrolled a curl and smoothed it, the rhythm of her work matching the quiet rhythm of her heart.

“How’s their mom doing?”

“Exhausted,” Cici murmured. “But letting me pet her when no one’s watching. Little trade we worked out—affection for rotisserie chicken. She must have been looking for a safe spot to have her kittens, and decided my porch was the best option on the block.”

As Elise took her comb to the second wig, they drifted into talk of ghosts. Elise told her about the boy with the laces, the chorus girl’s encore, the man in the front row.

Cici blinked slowly. “That’s a lot for one day.”

“They’re polite,” Elise said. “So far.”

“You’re steeped in it now. Just promise me you’re warding your mirrors and not walking around barefoot. And don’t forget your charm bag.”

“It’s literally in my pocket.”

“I know,” Cici said, and smiled that crooked, knowing smile—the one that had gotten Elise through at least a dozen breakdowns and one very bad winter. “Love you, always.”

“Love you too.”

The screen went dark, as the door behind her creaked open.

Lark stood in the doorway, mid-step, clearly having realized she was intruding on a conversation. Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe curiosity. Maybe something else.