Page 50 of Specters & Spotlights

Jen’s brows drew together, the shift in her expression immediate. “Do we need to talk to security? We can make sure no one comes backstage if⁠—”

“No,” Elise cut in gently, shaking her head. “It’s not that kind of problem. You couldn’t stop them.”

Jen blinked, her concern turning to quiet confusion.

Elise exhaled slowly, then glanced up. “It wasn’t… a person. I mean—it was. But not anymore. What I saw was a ghost.”

Jen’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t laugh or brush it off. She just blinked again, slower this time. She looked like she was doing math in her head.

Elise gave a strained smile. “I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic.”

She expected disbelief—or worse, a polite smile and slow retreat. But Jen simply crossed her arms, curious. She exhaled through her nose, then stepped closer, lowering her voice like she was meeting Elise halfway.

“Okay. So... this is a thing? Like, a real thing for you?” she asked finally, her voice low. “Like—seeing dead people?”

There was a pause. Elise hesitated, brushing hair off her forehead—half out of nerves, half to buy herself another second.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Not all of them. Not all the time. But yes. Some stick around. Some talk. Some just... exist.”

Jen blinked. “Can you summon them? Are you a Medium? Like with a capital M?”

Elise laughed softly. “If I could do that, I’d be solving cold cases and making Netflix documentaries. No, I can’t pick who shows up. They’re more like... radio signals. If I’m close enough, and they want to be heard, I hear them.”

Jen’s mouth curled up into a grin. “Still pretty cool.”

Then her gaze flicked toward the doorway, as if replaying the night in reverse. “Wait. Nick left with you. Did he know about the ghost thing?”

Elise gave a tiny shrug. “He already knew, yeah.”

Jen’s eyebrows flew up. “Nick knew, and he kept that to himself? He didn’t send out a bat signal to the rest of the cast?”

“That’s what really impressed you?” Elise teased.

“Absolutely. That man gossips with his facial expressions.”

They shared a short laugh—quick, quiet, but real. Before Jen could say more, the walkie at her hip squawked with static and an urgent voice calling her name.

“Ugh. That’s my cue.” She pulled a small key card and metal key from her pocket and passed them over. “This’ll let you into the back hallway. Lock up after your resets each night, okay?”

Elise took them with a nod. “Thanks.”

Jen tilted her head, her voice softer. “Thanks for telling me. That’s... a big thing to carry alone.”

Elise offered a quiet smile. “It’s a little less heavy now.”

Jen gave a nod—simple, solid—then vanished down the hall in a flurry of practicality.

Elise turned back to her trunk. The last layer of the wig trunk awaited: her mini-kingdom of foam heads, canvas blocks, wig caps, and curlers. As she unpacked, her movements took on a familiar cadence. She lined up the tools, smoothed the wig nets, nestled each wig like a spell being cast in slow motion.

There was something sacred in the order of it. Each placement a whisper of care, each brushstroke an offering to whatever magic made theatre possible.

Elise stepped back and surveyed the dressing room—her corner of it, at least. The trunk, now empty, had been tucked neatly into a corner, its lid closed but not latched, waiting for the next repack. For now, it would become part of the theatre’s backstage topography. A seat, a shelf, a place to gather.

“Ah, excellent,” came Kevin’s voice, breezing in from the hallway like a particularly theatrical draft. “I see you’ve finished the heavy lifting just in time for me to dramatically reappear.”

He leaned one elbow against the utility sink at the opposite end of the room.

“I’ve done a sweep,” he continued, his tone adopting the crisp efficiency of a detective reporting in. “Ghost radar is fully online.”