Page 31 of Specters & Spotlights

They moved toward the wings, Elise stepping lightly as she looked out toward the house. A few stagehands were resetting the props, their voices low and unbothered. The theatre seats were empty—except for one.

She lifted a hand and waved toward the front row.

“Who’re you waving to?” Nick asked, peering over her shoulder.

“There’s a man,” she said, nodding toward the still figure seated in the audience, same as the day before. “Hasn’t moved since yesterday.”

Nick squinted in the general direction she’d indicated. “You think he ever leaves?”

Elise shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he only vanishes when someone takes his seat. Or maybe he just… scoots over.”

Nick chuckled. “Polite ghost.”

“The best kind.”

“Hey,” Nick said, as they stepped off the stage. “There’s a spot in the green room that’s always freezing, no matter what the thermostat says. A few people swear it’s haunted.”

Elise perked up. “Really? I haven’t had much reason to hang out in there.”

He grinned. “Want to investigate?”

“Absolutely.”

They walked past peeling playbills and fading cast photos to a room tucked neatly near the dressing rooms.

This green room, despite its name, wasn’t green. It was beige. Possibly taupe. A battered couch slouched against the wall, and a coffee table bore the sticky rings of forgotten tea. In theory, it was a space for actors to rest—in practice, it looked like a community center and smelled like menthol and nervous sweat.

Elise crossed the threshold.

Instantly, her skin prickled.

“Oh,” Elise whispered, more to herself than to Nick. “You’re different.”

She didn’t need to guess why this spirit lingered. His energy screamed opening night. He was stuck. Caught mid-breath, mid-line, mid-failure.

His ghost was pacing the same three steps of dread, over and over again, doomed to relive the worst kind of performance anxiety for eternity.

And her tattoos…

They burned. Not the usual buzz or tingling warmth of a nearby spirit. Not the light pulse she associated with Kevin or the little boy backstage.

This was flame. Sharp. Warning.

And something brittle underneath it all, like cracking old paper in the dark.

Nick walked toward the center of the room, oblivious to the phantom just a few feet away. “I swear, this corner always gives me goosebumps.”

Elise didn’t follow. Not yet. Her instincts were twitching like antennae. Most spirits were benign enough—nostalgic echoes, lonely shadows, or unfinished conversations in search of someone who could hear them.

Those, she could handle. Usually.

She could pass along a message. Find the name in an old program. Tell Barry where the key to the safe was hidden, or reassure someone’s granddaughter that the pearl earrings hadn’t been lost, only tucked into the wrong velvet box. She liked helping when helping meant listening hard enough to understand what the living had missed.

But this was not that.

This spirit wasn’t reaching for closure. He was fraying at the edges of himself, all panic and resentment and rehearsal-room despair.

Elise could see ghosts. Speak to them. Sometimes even make sense of what they needed. But calming an angry one? Untangling whatever kept it snarled to a place? That was more Cici’s magic.