Specters Behind the Spotlights

Chapter 1 – Elise

Chapter One

Elise

Elise had been standing there for twenty minutes, watching the reflected light of the theatre marquee ripple in the puddles just beyond the alley’s mouth, pretending she couldn’t see the ghost by the dumpster.

The nearby spirit didn’t seem to sense her presence, but she wasn’t going to draw attention to herself by looking directly at the shimmer of a once-person by the dumpster.

Not because she was afraid, but because making intense eye contact with empty air was a quick way to get someone to ask if you needed help. Elise did not.

She might not have even noticed it, if it hadn’t been for the slight prickling sensation on the back of her hands—her own built-in warning system.

This particular spirit was more like a stain left behind: an echo of panic, a thin wash of regret.

Residual. Tame, on the spectrum of things Elise might expect to find in a dim alley behind a theatre.

No face she could make out, no clear clothing, merely a faint, stubborn shimmer—like heat over asphalt, but colder.

Probably over a century old, judging by how frayed it felt at the edges.

Still, Elise couldn’t help herself.

She racked her memory. Had this been one of those cities with a mob presence back in the 50s? Might have been a back-alley hit, or maybe just a simple stickup. The way the shimmer clung close to the dumpster felt less like a haunting and more like a mistake the world refused to fully forget.

The rain had stopped, but the damp still clung to everything.

She adjusted the carry-on strap across her chest and leaned her weight against the handle of her hard-sided roller bag.

Her coat stuck to her arms in the humid air.

A curl had worked itself free from her twist and now clung stubbornly to her cheek. She blew it away.

She should’ve gone around to the box office like a normal person.

But after all these years, walking in through the front doors would’ve felt…

wrong. The stage door was where she belonged, and always had been.

Besides, she knew her salvation was coming.

A stage manager would never think to look for her by the front, anyway.

Footsteps broke the silence, quick and even, splashing through the puddles on the street.

Her body reacted before her brain caught up—breath quickening, spine bracing. Just someone walking. Old habits. She shook them off.

A woman who must have been Jen rounded the corner a second later, head down, dressed head to toe in black—practical, unassuming, stagehand chic. Her black beanie bobbed slightly with each step, perched neatly over her pixie cut.

Elise exhaled, feeling a little foolish. She glanced down at her own outfit: black jeans, black boots, black coat, even her luggage was black. Not planned, but not surprising either.

Of course they matched. This was their uniform. People like them were always dressed to disappear.

Jen looked up only as she reached the door, surprise flickering across her face when she saw Elise. “Oh, there you are,” she said, already fishing in her jacket pocket. “Sorry you had to wait. I didn’t even think about you coming straight from the airport.”

She extracted a key card on a retractable cord with the ease of someone who’d unlocked too many doors in her life. She swiped it against the panel to the left of the stage door, and with a soft mechanical click, the lock disengaged.

“All good. I was just people-watching,” Elise replied lightly.

Jen pushed the door open and nodded for her to follow. “Welcome to the family,” she added with a wink.

Elise stepped inside and was immediately swallowed by the dark.

The door thunked shut behind her as she wrestled her roller bag over the threshold.

It scraped along the unfinished wood floors with a groan that echoed louder than expected.

Jen was already a few steps ahead, flipping switches as she walked, each one casting a weak, yellow pool of light like breadcrumbs leading deeper into the wings.

“The wig closet’s on the other side,” Jen said, her voice echoing faintly off the exposed cinderblock walls. “Follow me.”

Elise did. The sounds of their footsteps, squeaky wheels, and the occasional hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence as they wove through the wings and backstage halls.

“I’m glad you were able to get here so fast. Last night was a total shit show. Marcie, our makeup girl, had to cover wigs. She did her best, but—” She paused to flip another switch. “She called a friend in town to back her up with makeup. They pulled it off, mostly. But it was a mess.”

Elise half-listened, half-studied the space around her: the scuffed black walls, the buzzing EXIT signs, the hush of a theatre between breaths. Every backstage had its own rhythm, its own scent of sawdust and sweat and something else. Something older. This one was still unfamiliar.

Just last night, she’d stood in a different theatre, handing over the keys—both literal and metaphorical—to Alex, her assistant-turned-successor.

Her quiet, precise, fiercely capable protege.

He’d tried to play it cool, but the pride in his eyes gave him away.

He’d smoothed his hands down the front of his black utility vest and said, with a half-grin, “I think I’ll go by Wig Meister, if that’s alright. ”

It was. It was more than alright. He’d earned it.

But still, it’d stung.

That First National touring company had been hers for nearly two years.

They’d become something steady. Not quite family, but…

known. Comfortable. Predictable. Safe. She’d memorized the way each cast member liked their pin curls, which wigs bore stubborn curls, which crew member always had a granola bar to spare.

And then, out of nowhere—a call, a reassignment, and a one-way flight to join the Second National touring company. Same show, different cast and crew, touring on the opposite side of the country.

It was the right decision. She knew that. But the ache of departure was still fresh in her bones. And the silence of this unfamiliar backstage didn’t help. It made her feel like a guest in her own life.

Elise forced a smile as she blinked herself back to the present.

“The previous wig mistress,” she asked softly. “She just disappeared? Do we know why?”

Jen let out a snort. “Yeah. So, karaoke’s our usual closing night tradition—end-of-city cast party, everyone gets drunk and sings like fools. Normally fine. But the last one got out of control. People were already wound tight, and then…”

She turned to flick on another light and glanced back at Elise. “She stood on a table, grabbed the mic, and declared her undying love for Graham in front of everyone.”

Elise raised an eyebrow. “Graham?”

“Our leading man,” Jen said, with a little nod. “Insanely good voice, very swoon-worthy. You’ll meet him. Apparently, she thought they’d had a moment. Which… no one else witnessed. Including Graham.”

Elise winced.

“Oh yeah,” Jen said. “He looked like he wanted to die. Whole room went silent. And then she burst into tears, dropped the mic, and ran out.”

Elise let out a soft “oof.”

Jen paused to flip another light switch. “Then during tech load-in here? No show. One of the stagehands swore he’d seen her post something about joining a renaissance festival in Texas. She just... bailed.” She shook her head. “Career suicide. You ghost a tour mid-run, you don’t get another call.”

Jen glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve been trying to hire a second wig crew member for the last couple months. No luck. Everyone’s booked or burnt out. So… it’s just you for at least the next three stops. Sorry.”

They reached the wings, and the stage opened up in front of them. A single ghost light glowed at its center—soft, golden, and alone. It cast long shadows across scuffed floorboards and made the emptiness feel vast.

Every theatre had one. A lone bulb on a stand, left burning when the stage was empty.

Some said it was for safety, to keep you from falling into the orchestra pit.

But most people in the business knew better.

The ghost light kept the spirits company—or kept them away.

No one was really sure. What mattered was that you never left a stage dark.

Off to either side, huge set pieces loomed in the shadows. Their skeletal arches and rigging were pushed as far back into the wings as they’d go, but still swallowed up the space. Even dormant, they made the backstage area feel smaller. Heavier.

“This way,” Jen said, already stepping out into the open space. “It’s fastest just to cross out here.”

Elise followed, pulling her bag gently so the wheels wouldn’t echo. She stepped onto the stage like it was holy ground—reverent, familiar, a little haunted.

Halfway across, the tattoos on the backs of her hands gave a familiar slight buzz—not painful, but definitely a hello. She slowed, glancing out toward the house, filled with empty, cushioned seats.

There he was.

About ten rows back in the orchestra section, a faint shimmer sat motionless. A top hat perched neatly on his head. A cane rested on his knees. He sat with perfect posture, looking like he was waiting for the overture to start.

Jen turned back when she noticed Elise had stopped. “Yeah, I know,” she said with a shrug, and continued across the stage. “This place is extra spooky. Gives me chills constantly. Like someone’s watching.”

Elise didn’t answer. She simply raised a hand and gave the ghost a little wave.

He didn’t respond. But she hadn’t really expected him to.

She adjusted her grip on the roller bag and followed Jen across the stage, the faint hum of the ghost light at her back.