Page 8 of Specters & Spotlights

Elise finally spotted it: buried deep, nearly forgotten. The wig, meant for Nick’s understudy nights as Mr. Darcy, was crumpled and forlorn at the bottom of the trunk, flattened like it had been sleeping through too many cities.

She held it in her hands, soft and tangled, a shadow of what it used to be. Forgotten, maybe—but not ruined.

Nick stood beside her, peering down. “Oh dear. She’s seen things.”

“Luckily, not tonight,” Elise murmured, carefully laying it on the far end of the table. “We’ll revive her when we need her.”

He nodded, then checked his phone with a low whistle. “Swing rehearsal. I’ve got to run.”

She looked up.

“I’ll come back before places,” he said, already moving toward the door. “Help with your intro rounds. Make it slightly less awkward.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Just memory—of all the times she’d hovered at the edge of the crowd, too quiet, too careful. He’d never asked what she was running from. But he’d always made space.

“Thanks,” she said.

Nick smiled, soft and certain. “You’ve got this.” It wasn’t a question.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Elise in the hush of the wig closet, a curling iron still warm, Kevin humming faintly behind her, and curtain inching closer by the minute.

She wasn’t ready.

But maybe ready enough.

Chapter Three

Elise

A sharp knock jolted Elise—not much, a breath caught in her chest—but enough that the curling iron wobbled in her grip. She steadied it quickly, annoyed at herself. After so much time, she was still flinching. Still wired for something that wasn’t here anymore.

Jen stepped in, jangling a keyring in one hand and a crisp access card in the other. “Thought I’d bring these before the masses descend,” she said, tossing both onto the counter with theatrical flair. “Call time is in less than an hour. Once the cast gets here, it’s chaos. Hope you’re ready.”

Elise, standing amidst the now-tamed wig heads and carefully sorted tools, gave her a soft smile. “I’m ready. It helps, having things in place.”

Jen nodded, eyes drifting to the travel trunk. “Don’t bother unpacking the whole beast. This venue’s a short run—we’re only here four days. Blink and we’re gone.”

Her gaze landed on the tokens Elise had arranged. The dried sprig of lavender leaned like it was on its last legs, and the palo santo stick looked like it had survived one too many wig closets.

Jen gave a knowing nod. “Ah. Lavender, mugwort, and iron. The holy trinity of ‘Please behave, spirits.’ I approve.”

Elise smiled faintly. “They started as a joke. But they make the space feel... calmer.”

“Good instincts,” Jen said, matter-of-fact, before adding on her way out the door: “Stage right wings have been extra weird, especially near the quick change corner. Cold spots. And something’s been untying my shoes.”

And then she was gone, laces flapping slightly.

Elise didn’t react outwardly, but her mind clicked into place. Kevin had mentioned a boy—lingering in the wings, mischievous and small.

“Quick hands, no sense of boundaries,” he muttered now. “Probably trips a dozen actors before lunch.”

That quick comment from Jen tugged at Elise’s memory. The quick-change station was in the stage right wings. She needed to check it before the chaos of pre-show routines swallowed her whole.

She grabbed the freshly styled wig and a tin of hairpins, balancing them in one arm as Kevin fluttered dramatically beside the door.

“I’ll hold down the fort,” he declared, giving her a crisp, two-finger salute. “Should any wigs attempt insurrection, I shall strike swiftly and without mercy.”

“Good,” Elise said, struggling to maintain a deadpan inflection. “Spare no one.”