Chapter 4 – Elise
Chapter Four
Elise
Intermission arrived with a quiet exhale as the curtain closed. Elise stood in the middle of the wig closet and surveyed the space. Wig heads stood at attention in orderly rows, bobby pins gleamed from labeled tins, and the faint scent of hairspray had settled into something almost comforting.
Progress. Order. A little peace.
The door swung open with a theatrical flourish. Elise jumped, heart lurching.
Nick leaned against the frame, chest heaving from exertion, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. “I ran. Like, actual cardio. Feel honored.”
“You survived the Netherfield ballroom number, then?”
“Barely. My calves are filing a formal complaint.”
He looked around, nodding appreciatively. “This place looks great. Like… charming apothecary but make it wigs.”
Elise let out a breath and smiled. “Thanks. It’s getting there.”
Nick stepped closer, eyes gleaming, voice lowered like he was about to tell a secret. “So. Tell me. Are there ghosts?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Kevin’s here.”
Nick turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning the shelves theatrically. “Kevin… is in this room right now?”
Elise nodded toward the top shelf. “Perched. Probably judging you.”
Nick faced Elise, smoothing his shirt and squaring his shoulders, as theatrical as ever. “Okay. Be honest. What does he think of me?”
Kevin, perched cross-legged on the top shelf, didn’t hesitate. “He’s like a disco ball with opinions.”
Elise’s smile curled, half-smirk, half-dare.
“He says you shine,” she translated, “and you’ve got a lot to say.”
Nick clasped his chest. “Stop. I love him. We’re bonding. I feel it.”
Kevin rolled his eyes, muttering something about “magpies with jazz hands.”
Something flickered in Elise’s chest. She hadn’t introduced Kevin to anyone directly before. Not like this. Not as someone real. And Nick… didn’t even flinch.
“So this is your thing, huh? Just traveling the country collecting theatrical ghost stories like Pokémon cards?”
Elise, pulling a comb from her kit, grinned. “Not just theatres—but theatres are kind of like ghost magnets. Big emotions, old buildings, a spotlight and a sense of purpose? Spirits eat that up.”
Nick grinned. “Dramatic spirits haunting dramatic spaces. Makes sense.”
“They’re not always dramatic,” she smirked. “Each city comes with its own batch. Sometimes sweet, sometimes grumpy. It’s rare anyone else notices.”
“Do you pick gigs based on ghost-to-square-foot ratios?”
Elise shrugged. “Not on purpose.”
A beat passed. But would I miss it, if they weren’t there?
She’d thought about it before—what life might be like without the constant static in the air.
No half-glimpsed shadows in the wings, no whisper of voices that didn’t belong.
Maybe she could work somewhere fluorescent and forgettable.
A strip mall wig shop. A community college costume room.
Somewhere with bad coffee and no echoes.
It would be easier, probably. But also… lonelier.
“I think…” she started, choosing her words as she gathered a section of hair between her fingers.
“I like helping them. If I can.” She kept her eyes on her hands, on the simple certainty of the work.
“Most of the time they’re not trying to scare anyone.
They’re stuck. Or lost. Or… repeating something they can’t get past. And when you’re the only person in the room who can see them—really see them—it feels wrong to pretend you don’t. ”
Nick’s expression shifted, curiosity softening into something quieter.
“Sometimes all they need is to be noticed,” Elise continued, more carefully now.
“Like they’ve been shouting into a void for a hundred years and no one’s ever answered back.
” Her mouth twisted, half-humor, half-truth.
“And sometimes they need help putting something down. A message. A memory. A regret they can’t stop carrying. ”
She didn’t say the rest—that there was something in it for her, too.
The way it scratched an itch she couldn’t reach anywhere else.
The small, stubborn hope that if she could help them untangle the thing that held them here, maybe it meant people weren’t doomed to stay trapped in their worst moments forever.
“And yeah,” she added, shaking it off with a brighter tone, “it’s also a living.”
Nick leaned in a little closer, as if they were trading secrets. “So… are there others? Like you, I mean. Please tell me there’s a group chat.”
Elise chuckled, her hands still deftly organizing a tray of pins. “I think so. A few. It’s not common, but I’m not the only one.”
Nick tilted his head, and this time he wasn’t teasing—only listening.
She glanced toward the door, thoughtful. “I’ve never met anyone who sees them quite as clearly as I do. Full form, full voice—it’s like being tuned into a station most people can’t hear. But I think perception runs on a spectrum. Some folks get a flicker, a chill. A whisper, maybe.”
Nick looked both delighted and horrified.
“It’s not a gift you usually advertise, especially to strangers,” she added. “There are forums. Message boards. Some say they see them too. Some of those people are probably real. Some… are definitely not.”
As she reached for the next wig, her stomach rumbled—a small, traitorous sound.
“I almost forgot!” Nick exclaimed, rooting around in the depths of his costume jacket. “I brought you a cookie.”
Elise blinked, surprised. He produced a slightly crumpled, plastic-wrapped chocolate chip cookie like it was a sacred offering. It had definitely seen better days.
“You’ve been running around nonstop and I haven’t seen you eat a thing,” he said. “Figured you might need a sugar boost.”
Elise accepted it gratefully, tearing open the wrapper to find it fractured into three large pieces and a generous scattering of crumbs. “Did you carry this through the ballroom number?”
Nick grinned. “Tucked right in with my pocket square. It’s a very dramatic cookie.”
Elise laughed, picturing him galloping across the stage with a cookie rattling around his chest. “This poor cookie died for art.”
The first bite melted on her tongue, soft and sweet and unexpected. Her shoulders lowered, dropping tension she hadn’t realized they were holding. She wasn’t used to this: someone noticing. Someone caring, casually, without her asking.
In other companies, she’d worked twelve-hour days powered by caffeine and instinct. No one had ever brought her a cookie before.
She paused mid-chew. “Wait. Aren’t you gluten free?”
“I am,” Nick said breezily. “Which is why I raided Ed’s emergency snack stash. The one he thinks I don’t know about.”
Right on cue, Ed pushed into the room, halfway into his Colonel Fitzwilliam costume. He caught the tail end of Nick’s confession and sighed in mock exasperation.
“Nick.”
Nick shot him a sheepish look and held out his arms. “It was for Elise. A worthy cause.”
Ed gave Elise a mock scolding glare, then softened into a smile as he tugged his vest into place. “As long as it’s only for Elise,” he said, with a warm, conspiratorial tone that made Elise feel unexpectedly seen.
Nick lifted both hands like a priest at an altar. “Elise is special.”
She wiped a crumb off her apron and gave them both a grateful look in return. “I’m touched. Truly.”
Then, with a wink and a whirl, Nick turned and vanished into the growing hum of intermission traffic, right as two dancers peeked in for quick wig touch-ups.
Intermission wasn’t quite the whirlwind that pre-show had been, but it still kept Elise on her toes. Fewer wigs to swap, sure—but no less urgency in the air.
“Not Casper—Jasper,” she reminded herself as she helped him transition into his George Wickham wig, fingers moving quickly and precisely. She gave the lace a final pat and sent him off with a smile.
Isla Kent swept in next, halfway between Mrs. Bennet and Lady Catherine. Elise felt a quiet thrill—helping a legend transform never got old. The new wig settled into place with a satisfying snikt of pins and combs.
The ensemble moved like a tide. Dancers shifted into servants. Characters folded into new roles. One of the Bennet sisters breezed in with a half-defeated curl drooping over her brow.
She wasn’t quite sure if this one was Talia or Romy—but at least she now knew to say “Bennet sisters.” Nick had corrected her during an Act One change, with Bex chiming in to say the term was fair game since it described the characters.
Elise had taken the note gratefully. One small victory in the sea of names.
Actors cycled in and out, and despite the chaos, Elise felt… settled. Like she’d done this a dozen times already. Her hands knew the rhythm even if her mind was still memorizing names.
A minute before the call for places, a shadow darkened the wig closet door. Graham leaned in the doorway—not with arrogance, exactly, but with the effortless confidence of someone who’d been born knowing their best angles.
“Hair check?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet. He pivoted without waiting, offering the back of his head like a secret.
Elise’s breath caught. His hair really was that good. Thick, wavy, not a strand out of place. She could’ve sworn it glinted under the fluorescents.
“You’re cutting it close,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from his collar just to buy herself a second.
Graham tilted his head over his shoulder, eyes catching hers. “If you ever needed more time, I’d have the orchestra stall for a heartbeat. Or five.”
Elise couldn’t tell if that was a joke or a promise. She paused, a teasing smile playing at the edge of her mouth. “You’re very sure of your pull with the conductor.”
“I have impeccable connections,” he replied, slipping into his Darcy stage voice while still half-turned away from her.
She ran her fingers along his collar, brushing away a speck of lint that may or may not have been real. “And very good hair.”
Then he turned and winked—of course he winked—and was gone again in a gust of confidence only a leading man could hope to attain.