Chapter 2 – Elise
Chapter Two
Elise
Elise’s shoulders dropped as the ghost drifted fully into view. “Oh, it’s just you.”
Kevin scoffed. “‘Just me,’ she says. As though I’m not the highlight of your emotionally avoidant cross-country tour.”
“Took you long enough,” Elise said, brushing hair out of her face and smiling despite herself. “I figured you got distracted by a dressing room mirror.”
Kevin raised a pale hand to his chest in mock offense, his outline shimmering faintly at the edges like steam on glass.
His clothes—always impeccable—had the faded quality of an old photograph: crisp shirt, high-waisted trousers, and a waistcoat adorned with a gleaming pocket watch chain.
His receding hairline lent him the air of a distinguished academic, an archetype he leaned into with the cane he still carried in death.
Elise had never gotten a straight answer about why he needed it—gravity wasn’t exactly a concern anymore.
From the front, he looked solid. But the moment she shifted her focus or stepped too close, the illusion frayed—color draining into grayscale, edges losing integrity. Even now, standing in the center of the room, his lower half faded slowly into nothing a few inches below the knee.
“Please,” he said, smoothing the cuffs of his translucent sleeves. “I wasn’t loitering—I was getting the lay of the land. It’s a lovely old theatre, if you overlook the mildew and the spiritual decay.”
She smirked. “And before I arrived? How was your nap in the liminal void?”
Kevin scoffed. “I’ll have you know I was in a state of restful, dimensionless stasis. Quite restorative, until you pulled me back.”
“Sounds nice,” she muttered. “Meanwhile, I experienced two delays, and was wedged between a man with night terrors and a crying baby for three hours.”
He looked down his nose at her. “The mortal realm remains deeply overrated.”
She gave him a dry look. “And yet you won’t leave it alone.”
Kevin’s grin widened. “Never. But something tells me…”
His form flickered briefly. A soft pulse pushed through the room, like a gust through a barely-opened window. The air went still. The lights flickered.
His voice lowered. “We’re not alone here.”
Elise didn’t even blink. It would take more than ghostly antics to spook her. Not after years with Kevin. Not after everything else.
She clipped up the top layer of the wig. “Well… who else?” she asked, as casually as if she were asking what was on the lunch menu. “New theatre. New ghosts. Anyone I should know about? Anyone I should worry about?”
Kevin drifted to the far side of the room, hovering midair like an indecisive chandelier. He adjusted his cuffs, his expression thoughtful.
Kevin had a knack for sensing spirits—like a radar tuning to the static.
Elise could see them, but he could feel presences flicker through the building, catch the shape of their stories, like reading the back of a book without ever opening it.
Now, he hovered midair, head cocked slightly, looking as if he were trying to remember the contents of a grocery list. “A few harmless spirits, mostly.”
She separated a section of tangled hair, combed it, and folded a curling paper around it. Her fingers were already too close to the heat, like always. She'd lost count of how many times she'd burned the pads of her thumbs—to the point she was pretty sure her fingerprints were just a suggestion now.
“There’s a woman named Langtree who used to run the concession stand—refuses to move on until someone restocks the licorice she liked. Smells faintly of cinnamon and unresolved resentment.”
Elise snorted and twisted another section around the iron. The curling paper crackled faintly, and her fingers grazed the barrel again. She winced.
“There’s also a little boy backstage,” Kevin continued cheerfully. “He doesn’t seem to do anything really, merely tugs at shoelaces. I think he just likes the attention.”
“Sounds like half the cast.”
Another paper, another curl. The smell of warm hair and heating metal filled the air.
“Oh! And there's Mildred. Let’s see… she was a choral swing in the 40s and refuses to acknowledge that the show ever closed. Seems like she spends most of her time correcting pitch in the rafters. I don’t think she knows she’s dead.”
“Poor thing,” Elise murmured, wrapping another curl. The air was thick now with the scent of warming hair and product.
Kevin’s tone shifted slightly. “But there is one you’ll want to keep an eye on. An actor. Nervous type. Seems stuck in some kind of loop, pacing and mumbling lines from an opening night that never came. Too much energy. You can feel it fizzing off him like static.”
Elise looked up. “Poltergeist-y?”
“No,” Kevin frowned. “Not violent. But I suspect he’s accidentally flung a clipboard or two. Wouldn’t trust him near a fog machine.”
Once the last curl was pinned and cooling, Elise let her hands fall to her lap. The room, thick with the scent of hair spray and warm metal, was finally quiet—the kind of quiet you noticed after. She clicked off the iron and let it rest on its trivet.
Her fingers, still tingling, reached for the outer pocket of her carry-on. She drew out a small tin the size of a recipe box, matte black and worn at the edges. Inside: her warding kit.
Part travel altar, part magical first-aid, part emotional support box. A practical joke turned necessary ritual. Cici had called it “spirit-proofing on the go” when she’d given it to Elise for Christmas three years ago.
Elise didn’t have magic herself, aside from her ghostly perception skills.
Not the kind of ability that made spells hum or candles flicker.
But Cici did. And Elise knew Cici’s spells held power.
She just wasn’t always sure how much these little protective doo-dads helped—or if they simply made her feel braver.
A sprig of dried lavender rested in a ceramic dish the size of a teacup. There was palo santo worn to a nub, a tiny sachet of rosemary and mugwort wrapped in red thread, and a dull iron nail tied to a braided string.
Cici had once said, “If you believe it helps, it does.”
So Elise placed each item with care: the nail behind the doorframe, the lavender under the sink, the bundle of herbs beside the mirror. Her eyes lingered on her reflection for a moment.
She looked like someone halfway between arrival and unraveling.
Thin, pale, the beginnings of dark circles settling in like smudged mascara.
Her curls were a little frizzed from travel, her brown eyes carrying that quietly haunted look she hadn't quite managed to shake in the last few years.
The black long-sleeved shirt she wore clung like armor, the ink on her forearms hidden beneath the fabric…
for now. She needed sleep. Or tea. Or a less complicated life.
But this was the life she had. And she was here now.
The last thing in the box was a silver pocket watch, with a floral etching on the back and a delicate chain.
It had stopped ticking long ago, but Elise swore it hummed softly if you held it close enough.
She set it gently on the shelf above the wig trunk, tucked behind a tin of bobby pins, safe and out of sight, looking briefly to Kevin for his approval on the placement of the object that tethered him to this realm. He shrugged.
Satisfied, she turned her attention back to the wig.
She picked up the three-eighth inch iron and a wide-toothed comb, delicately teasing the curls into waves that would ripple when the lights hit just right.
The finer wispies at the temple were next—difficult, stubborn, the part most likely to burn.
She was pressing the barrel to a fragile curl when the door creaked open and she felt someone step into the room.
She glanced up, comb still poised, and barely had a second before—
“Look what the theatre gods dragged in! My backstage better half!”
Nick swept into the wig closet like he was making a stage entrance, arms wide open, eyes sparkling. Elise startled so hard she nearly jabbed herself in the temple with the comb.
“Sorry!” Nick winced mid-stride, already crossing to her. “Gods, I forgot how jumpy you are.”
He pulled her into a bear hug before she could recover—a blur of warmth, lavender dryer sheets, and that high-hold hair gel he’d apparently never given up. She let herself be held for a second longer than necessary, just breathing.
“It’s been ages,” he said, pulling back with a grin so bright it could’ve lit the ghost light on its own. “It’s been what… a year? No, longer. You look the same. Better, actually. Infuriating.”
She huffed a laughed, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Hi, Nick.”
Closer to fifteen months, she thought, though she didn’t correct him.
They’d both been part of the original First National tour in its early, chaotic days when the set wasn’t finished and the lighting cues kept catching fire (metaphorically and once, unfortunately, literally).
Elise had always appreciated Nick’s ability to make things feel lighter—effortlessly charming, generous with his time, and immune to the petty rivalries that flared up when a company ran on caffeine and adrenaline.
As a swing in the ensemble, he’d always made time for the wig crew, cracking jokes and lightening the mood during endless tech rehearsals.
She’d missed him more than she expected when he transferred to the Second National company to take on the role of Wickham, which had recently been upgraded to the role of Darcy’s understudy.
Ever since the decision was made to send Elise on this whirlwind reassignment, she’d been looking forward to this reunion.
Behind her, Kevin made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a very theatrical groan.
“Ah, yes. The theatrical peacock returns. All feathers, no poise.”