Page 58 of Specters & Spotlights

That never happened.

Especially not with Ellen. She was steady. Precise. The kind of person who showed up early to everything.

The curtain was held. Ten minutes.

Dancers stretched and reshuffled. The female swing was already wiggling into a backup gown to take over Ellen’s normal ensemble role. The dance captain made quick, whispered changes to the ballroom choreography, to cover for the uneven number of dancers there would be. There was murmuring in every direction, a current of concern rippling beneath the usual pre-curtain chatter.

Elise stood by her wig corner, smoothing flyaways that didn’t need smoothing. She wasn’t sure if it was merely the ghost-sense tickling at her nerves, or something deeper—but the energy felt off. The kind of unease that theatre folk were trained to ignore, but never fully silenced.

The show adjusted. Lines reassigned. The audience never noticed.

In the green room during Act One, it was all anyone could talk about. Where could Ellen be? Was she sick? Did something happen?

And Elise… Elise couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just an absence.

It was an omen.

The hum of backstage energy was always loudest during intermission—costume changes, water bottles passed around, whispered check-ins between cast and crew.

But tonight, the buzz felt strained.

Tighter. Quieter.

Like everyone was waiting for news that hadn’t come.

People moved through their usual motions, but they were softer, more careful. Voices dropped just a little lower. Someone had brought cookies, but they’d been left untouched. A laugh rose from the far corner and fizzled mid-air.

The absence was everywhere—and unspoken.

Elise felt it settle across her shoulders as she pinned another wig into place. The ache of unanswered questions. The need for something—anything—to fill the silence.

It started with a question, soft and curious.

“So… when you said you can see ghosts,” asked Bex, adjusting the pins in their wig cap, “does that happen a lot? Like… all the time?”

Elise glanced up from her current task of trying to pin a particularly stubborn curl back into place. Around her, the green room buzzed with low, nervous energy. But now, attention turned gently toward her. Not unkind, mostly inquisitive. Hungry for something to fill the space Ellen left behind.

Kevin hung lazily upside-down from the overhead pipework, a phantom bat basking in the moment. “Careful,” he whispered. “Answer one question, and you’ll be the green room oracle for life.”

Elise offered a rueful half-smile and straightened. “Not all the time,” she said. “But more places than you’d think.”

A pause. Then, Romy asked: “Is it because of your tattoos?”

She blinked—caught off guard by the precision of the question. Slowly, deliberately, she placed the pin she was holding back on her station.

“Yes and no,” she said, and held out her hands. “The tattoos don’t give me the ability to see ghosts, but they help keep me safe. They set boundaries.”

Sienna leaned forward from a makeup stool. “Like magical seat belts?”

Elise laughed, never having considered that particular metaphor. “Kind of, yeah.” She was surprised to be answering questions instead of dodging them. Around her, the green room had gone still—not quiet, but attentive. Curious.

With a small sigh, and the faintest smile, Elise held out her hands. The pentacles inked into the backs of them glimmered slightly in the overhead light.

“These are the main wards,” she explained. “They’re for protection. Not from ghosts in general—just the ones that mean harm.”

There was a rustle as a few people subtly shifted closer.

Elise hesitated. Then, quietly, pushed up her sleeves.