Page 66 of Specters & Spotlights

Elise made her way back through the sleeping theatre, through the soft hum of lights left half-on and the gentle groan of the building settling into night. Backstage, the costume rack awaited, rows of characters hanging in the dark.

She crouched beside it, brushing aside several heavy skirts and gently lifting the edge of a floorboard just enough to reveal a narrow gap beneath. Without hesitation, she slipped the ring inside.

It was a small hiding place. Hidden, but reachable—somehow, she knew it would be enough.

Kevin hovered nearby, his expression solemn. “She’ll find it. You did good.”

Elise didn’t wait. She didn’t ask for a sign or linger for a final message. Some things—grief, peace, forgiveness—had to happen without an audience.

She stood, collected her bag, and walked the long hallway toward the exit. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows behind her. The door closed with a subdued click.

Backstage, the stillness began to shift. Not everything had gone quiet.

Chapter Twelve

Elise

The next afternoon buzzed with its own quiet thrill. This evening was Nick’s turn in the spotlight. Scheduled understudy performances were part of the rhythm of the run, and Elise loved the energy they brought: nerves, excitement, a sprinkle of chaos.

She arrived early, knowing Nick and the leads would be called for a pre-show pickup rehearsal. A tall coffee in hand—her reward for a late night of ghost diplomacy—she slipped in through the alley door, through the too-bright fluorescent hallway, and into the familiar warmth of backstage.

As she passed the costume rack, she felt it before she even looked—the shift. The air around it was... still. Not empty, just settled. At peace.

Elise smiled, quietly. “You’re welcome,” she whispered, not expecting a reply.

She set her bag down gently in the wig corner and peeked in on the dryer. The curls had set nicely: no remaining dampness, no frizzed ends. A good omen.

With a few minutes to spare, she slipped out the backstage door and into the wings, pausing right offstage. A hush hung in the house—the kind particular to rehearsals, when even the ghosts seemed to hold their breath.

She padded softly around the side of the stage, past the orchestra pit, and down into the empty audience, settling into a seat about ten rows back. Nick was already in the middle of his scene work, standing confidently under the lights center stage.

He was running the cues for Darcy’s first solo: “Tolerable.” The title always made her grin. The melody wound around the lyrics like a smirk. Nick delivered it with a sparkle in his eye and a crispness that made Elise sit a little taller. He had presence. It was different from Graham’s brooding gravitas, but it worked.

Up front, Lark sat alone in the first row, arms crossed, foot tapping. She was already in pin curls. Elise blinked—so she could do them herself after all. Interesting.

Lark looked tired, though. Not just in the physical sense. There was something worn around her eyes. Elise wondered what had shifted.

She let her gaze drift back to the stage. The lights painted Nick in golden hues, and for a moment Elise wished she could see the whole show from this vantage point. Not just the scattered fragments she caught backstage—wig changes, whispered cues, muffled applause—but the full sweep of it, the story told the way it was meant to be.

They moved on to the next number: “Conversation is an Art.” A cleverly tangled trio between Darcy, Elizabeth, and Miss Bingley. It was sharp and funny, with dialogue layered into melody, each character volleying lines like well-aimed darts. Every breath, every glance, had to land exactly so. Elise loved the sharpness of it. The wit. The subtle tension beneath the humor.

She checked her phone. The duet was up next—“Two Left Feet”—Darcy and Elizabeth, circling each other in a musical waltz full of missteps and near-misses, while the rest of the ensemble whirled in perfect precision around them. She hated to miss it, but the wigs weren’t going to apply themselves.

Elise tucked her phone into her pocket and rose quietly from her seat, careful not to let the chair creak. Rather than return the way she came—up onto the stage and through the wings—she took the aisle to the back of the house and slipped through the door marked for ushers and house staff. It would take longer, but she didn’t want to break the spell of the scene in progress.

She also didn’t want to go past the whispering wall. But here she was.

The hallway itself was nothing, really—just an odd corridor that curved around the side of the house and reconnected with the backstage hallway. It branched off the grand front-of-house entrance like a forgotten limb, colder and stiller than the rest of the theatre. A place you walked faster through without realizing it. A place Elise avoided when she could.

She squared her shoulders and started forward.

The contrast was immediate. Where the rest of the theatre felt grand and humming with rehearsal, this stretch of hallway was dim and quiet, the kind of silence that made her skin crawl. The hairs on her arms stood up, and her tattoos buzzed faintly beneath her sleeves—an echo of awareness that told her she wasn’t alone.

She held her breath as she passed through. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it helped her feel like the space couldn’t grab hold of her if she moved fast enough.

“Elise…”

The whisper came from behind. Or maybe above. It was hard to place, the way echoes in dreams are hard to place.