Chapter 6 – Elise #2
“Well, that’s embarrassing.” He offered a half-smile, half-apology, and ducked out.
There was a beat of silence. It felt like a dismissal.
Then, from the wig shelf behind her, came Kevin’s dry voice: “Classic Emily energy, though.”
Nick, oblivious to Kevin’s commentary but almost perfectly in sync: “You do give off serious Emily vibes.”
She looked between the two of them, and gave an exasperated groan. “Unbelievable.”
Nick laughed, delighted. “Wait, Kevin said that too? See! It’s fate. We’re on the same wavelength.”
Kevin’s voice was faint and smug. “He’s not wrong.”
Elise buried her face in a pile of wig caps.
The show resumed like a spell being recast. The first notes of the overture swelled from the orchestra pit—strings lifting, woodwinds trilling—and Elise moved easily through the familiar dance of Act One: check, smooth, pin, repeat.
From her corner backstage, the scene played out in sound alone—each line, each cue carried through the ancient speakers mounted above the wigs.
She couldn’t see them, but she didn’t need to.
“At the Ball” glittered in her mind: swirling skirts, courtly bows, the Bennet sisters orbiting Bingley like bright little moons.
She could hear the rustle of fabric, the rise of strings, the beat of the choreography so familiar it pulsed in her chest. Darcy would be just off-center now—arms crossed, spine too straight, watching with that unreadable stillness.
Then came the sharp shift in tempo, the telltale notes of “Tolerable.” Elise smiled as Graham launched into the awkward solo, stiff and sputtering, trying and failing to convince the room—and himself—that he wasn’t fascinated by Elizabeth.
The audience laughed on cue, warm and knowing. Elise cracked a smile as well, trying to imagine Graham’s facial expressions while he delivered the song’s punchline: “It’s not that I like her—don’t get that wrong. / I’ve just been staring... for this entire song.”
Midway through a quiet moment between wig changes, she reached into her tote and pulled out a pair of little lace-up shoes, scuffed and soft with time.
She snuck to a low-traffic alcove near stage right—tucked right behind a column of unused flats—and nestled them where they wouldn’t be seen, but where a certain ghost with busy fingers might find them.
“There,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Happy practicing.”
She didn’t expect a thank you. But she imagined a flicker of warmth brushing her ankle as she turned away.
At intermission, Jen popped her head in like a benevolent sprite. “Still breathing?”
“Mostly. Want to trade wig spray for gossip?”
Jen leaned dramatically in the doorway, conspiratorial. “Two late entrances. One dropped prop. And rumor has it, the props master is now engaged in a torrid affair with the second trumpet.”
Elise snorted. “The drama behind the drama.”
Kevin, meanwhile, was mysteriously absent for most of Act One.
He drifted back just as the audience was returning to their seats post-intermission, looking mildly offended and profoundly judgmental.
“Do you know,” he began with the gravity of a man about to impart eternal truth, “that they added a bowl of prop grapes to the Longbourn family dinner table set? Grapes, Elise. Do you have any idea when seedless grapes were even cultivated?”
Elise didn’t look up from the wig she was combing. “I’m guessing… not 1813?”
“Criminal,” Kevin said darkly. “It’s not even the year that offends me. It’s the utter lack of respect for internal dramaturgical logic. If you’re going to invent nonsense, at least commit to a throughline.”
“Oh no,” Elise said, laughing. “You’ve gone full dramaturg flashback.”
He ignored her. “And I’ve been biting my tongue about the word ‘okay’ in Scene Three. They didn’t say ‘okay’ in Regency England, Elise. They dueled.”
Elise laughed softly, smoothing the final flyaway on the wig destined to be rained on this show. She caught a note floating toward them: the last line of Lark’s solo, honey-sweet and clear.
“That’s my cue,” she said.
She lifted the wig with both hands, cradling it like something fragile and precious. Then she was off, her footsteps falling in rhythm with the music.
Between shows, the theatre sighed into a slower rhythm—like it, too, was catching its breath. Cast and crew scattered for an early dinner or disappeared into quiet corners. Elise stayed behind, tending to her wigs with the same gentle care one might give to a tea ceremony.
Nick reappeared in the doorway, holding a takeout container in one hand and wearing his curiosity like a badge. “So,” he said, grinning, “any chance I can meet another one of your ghosts? You made them sound like local celebrities.”
Elise tilted her head, considering. “You want the full backstage tour, ghost edition?”
“I brought you a muffin,” he said, offering the bribe.
“Well, then.” She dusted her hands off and stood to take it. “Let’s see who’s home.”
They crept together through the quiet hallways to stage right, where Elise’s secret delivery had been left. She stopped when she saw the spot—empty.
Her smile deepened. “They’re gone.”
Just then, a tiny figure peeked out from behind the blackout curtain. A small, boy-shaped shadow with wide eyes and ghostly, scuffed shoes of his own.
Elise gestured subtly. “He’s over there, a little over waist-height.”
Nick blinked. “He’s—he’s a kid?”
“He’s been trying to learn how to tie his shoes for… oh, about a hundred years.”
“Heartbreaking,” Nick whispered.
“Don’t let him near your laces,” Elise added playfully. “He’s not very good at it.”
Nick glanced down, checking instinctively. Elise tried not to laugh.
They moved toward the wings, Elise stepping lightly as she looked out toward the house. A few stagehands were resetting the props, their voices low and unbothered. The theatre seats were empty—except for one.
She lifted a hand and waved toward the front row.
“Who’re you waving to?” Nick asked, peering over her shoulder.
“There’s a man,” she said, nodding toward the still figure seated in the audience, same as the day before. “Hasn’t moved since yesterday.”
Nick squinted in the general direction she’d indicated. “You think he ever leaves?”
Elise shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he only vanishes when someone takes his seat. Or maybe he just… scoots over.”
Nick chuckled. “Polite ghost.”
“The best kind.”
“Hey,” Nick said, as they stepped off the stage. “There’s a spot in the green room that’s always freezing, no matter what the thermostat says. A few people swear it’s haunted.”
Elise perked up. “Really? I haven’t had much reason to hang out in there.”
He grinned. “Want to investigate?”
“Absolutely.”
They walked past peeling playbills and fading cast photos to a room tucked neatly near the dressing rooms.
This green room, despite its name, wasn’t green.
It was beige. Possibly taupe. A battered couch slouched against the wall, and a coffee table bore the sticky rings of forgotten tea.
In theory, it was a space for actors to rest—in practice, it looked like a community center and smelled like menthol and nervous sweat.
Elise crossed the threshold.
Instantly, her skin prickled.
“Oh,” Elise whispered, more to herself than to Nick. “You’re different.”
She didn’t need to guess why this spirit lingered. His energy screamed opening night. He was stuck. Caught mid-breath, mid-line, mid-failure.
His ghost was pacing the same three steps of dread, over and over again, doomed to relive the worst kind of performance anxiety for eternity.
And her tattoos…
They burned. Not the usual buzz or tingling warmth of a nearby spirit. Not the light pulse she associated with Kevin or the little boy backstage.
This was flame. Sharp. Warning.
And something brittle underneath it all, like cracking old paper in the dark.
Nick walked toward the center of the room, oblivious to the phantom just a few feet away. “I swear, this corner always gives me goosebumps.”
Elise didn’t follow. Not yet. Her instincts were twitching like antennae. Most spirits were benign enough—nostalgic echoes, lonely shadows, or unfinished conversations in search of someone who could hear them.
Those, she could handle. Usually.
She could pass along a message. Find the name in an old program.
Tell Barry where the key to the safe was hidden, or reassure someone’s granddaughter that the pearl earrings hadn’t been lost, only tucked into the wrong velvet box.
She liked helping when helping meant listening hard enough to understand what the living had missed.
But this was not that.
This spirit wasn’t reaching for closure. He was fraying at the edges of himself, all panic and resentment and rehearsal-room despair.
Elise could see ghosts. Speak to them. Sometimes even make sense of what they needed. But calming an angry one? Untangling whatever kept it snarled to a place? That was more Cici’s magic.
Elise’s abilities always felt more like triage than therapy. She could point to the wound. She could not always heal it.
And whatever this ghost was carrying, her stomach told her one thing clearly:
He was not here to make friends.
She pulled out her phone and texted, fingers tapping fast.
green room ghost. ex-actor.
super anxious. feels sharp around the edges.
sage bundle thing??
A reply arrived almost instantly, like Cici had been waiting.
Cici
YES. Burn one of the bundles I packed in your warding kit.
Waft around him.
Say something he needs to hear.
That should ground him.
Also I’m putting more sage in the mail.
You definitely need a restock.
Elise pocketed the phone, half-convinced, and she made her way back to the wig closet.
Time was short—the green room wouldn’t stay empty for long—and whatever this ghost was carrying, she didn’t want anyone else caught in the fallout.
“Come on,” she muttered, grabbing the sage from the wig closet and gesturing to Kevin. “You’re coming too.” He floated behind, arms crossed like a backstage manager who hadn’t approved the cue sheet.