Chapter 5 – Elise #3
She sectioned a lock of damp hair, combed it smooth, and folded a curling paper around the ends.
Her voice rose in harmony with the gesture.
One verse, one roller. She wound the hair around it with care, tucking it into place at the base of the weft, then slid a T-pin through the roller and into the block below. Secure, precise, and practiced.
Comb.
Roll.
Pin.
Her fingers and her voice moved in tandem—one shaping hair, the other shaping feeling.
The wig closet filled with music, and then overflowed. She could hear her voice echo into the dark wings, trickle into the rafters, curl up into the velvet folds of the empty theatre seats like smoke. This building, this sacred shell of spotlights and splinters, was listening.
She swapped out the first wig for the second without missing a note.
Another lock. Another curling paper. Another breath.
Her voice climbed with the chorus, cresting just as she clipped the final curl into place.
She let the final high note soar—
Crystalline. Unburdened. Hers.
Then, gently, she placed the second wig in the wig dryer beside the first, both of them reset and ready for tomorrow.
Elise stood still, the theatre breathing with her.
From the corner, Kevin hovered—silent for once. Reverent. “If I still had tear ducts,” he said softly, “I’d be a mess.”
Elise smiled. Not at him, not at anyone. Just to herself.
And then…
A creak.
Soft, but unmistakable, from the floorboards behind her, in the wig closet doorway.
Elise froze, the echo still hanging in the air.
Her tattoos tingled—sharp and electric along her arms.
Definitely not a person.
She whipped around, ponytail catching air.
Nothing.
Just the usual eerie stillness of a theatre after hours.
“Great,” she said aloud, “we’re creaking now.”
She turned back to the counter.
Paused.
Frowned.
Because there, on the mirror, dead center and definitely new, was the word:
Encore.
Written within the faint fog of condensation, like it had been traced by a finger.
A polite but pointed suggestion, hanging ghost-pale in the mirror’s glow.
Elise squinted. “That wasn’t there five seconds ago.”
Kevin crossed his arms. “You’ve got fans already.”
“You didn’t do that?”
He scoffed. “Please. My handwriting’s much more dignified.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He floated closer, inspecting the word like a wine label. “Chorus girl. Bit dramatic. But she’s harmless. She really likes a good ballad.”
Elise shook her head, a laugh catching in her throat. “You could warn me next time.”
“That was the warning. The creak? Classic ghost hello.”
She exhaled, brushing her fingertips lightly over the edge of the mirror. The word stayed.
Elise glanced at him, still wary. “And that’s her… review?”
Kevin nodded toward the mirror. “Five stars. Standing ovation.”
The tension in her shoulders unwound, thread by thread. She gave a small, crooked smile, and wiped the word gently away with the sleeve of her cardigan—softly, like a thank you.
She zipped her case. Snapped the latches shut. Turned off the light.
A final sweep of the room with her eyes.
The mirror caught her reflection one last time before she turned.
…And in that same reflection, just behind her left shoulder, something shifted.
A flutter of motion. A shimmer at the edge of the wig dryer’s silhouette. Like a dancer in the wings, waiting for her cue.
Elise’s gaze paused. Her breath did, too. She felt the familiar tingle of energy on her exposed skin.
But she didn’t turn around.
She had given enough of herself to this night—to its chaos, its magic, its ghosts.
“Nope,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “Not tonight.”
She grabbed the handle of her roller bag in one hand and swung the crossbody carry-on over her shoulder in one smooth, practiced motion. The door clicked shut behind her, and she slid the key into the lock until it caught. One turn. Secured.
She took a moment to gather herself. And then she began her slow climb up the backstage ramp toward stage right.
The ghost light waited, just ahead. A single flame in a sea of shadows.
Elise crossed the stage, retracing her path in reverse, from newcomer to something else. Not quite belonging but no longer just visiting.
The ghost light stood where it always did—centerstage, alone. Its old-fashioned bulb gave off the faintest hum, like it was humming a lullaby just for the theatre. Elise had always preferred the antique ones. LED bulbs were too clean, too sterile.
They said it kept the ghosts away, but Elise wasn’t so sure. She thought maybe it just kept them company.
Her shadow stretched across the stage, then spilled into the house seats like smoke. She saw him again—the old man ghost. Same seat, same stillness. As though he hadn’t moved in a hundred years. She gave him a little wave on instinct.
He didn’t wave back. But she felt it—the way his presence shifted, ever so slightly. Like applause without sound. At the edge of the stage, the EXIT sign glowed red. Elise checked her phone. A few minutes past midnight.
She paused.
“Night, Kevin,” she said, without turning. The alley door opened on a gust of air that smelled like rain and old popcorn. She stepped into the night, tugging her suitcase behind her, a strap crossed over her chest like armor.
She knew she would sleep like the dead.
And in the morning, the theatre would open its eyes again.