Chapter 10 – Elise #2
The Seamstress wasn’t visible, not yet. Some ghosts rarely were. But the air held that particular prickling tension she’d come to associate with her. A whisper of thread through old fabric. The scent of starch and something faintly singed.
Kevin, hovering by the curling wands, perked up. “Ah, my favorite spool of unresolved resentment. I suppose we can’t salt the costume rack. Have you tried flattery?”
Elise added it to her internal list: talk to the Seamstress. Tomorrow, once Cici’s package had arrived. Otherwise, the next seven days of shows would be a tangle of unraveling edges and escalating chaos.
She pressed down the lace line on Ed’s wig and shot Kevin a warning look.
Kevin wasn’t deterred.
“Or maybe you could leave her an offering,” he continued. “Vintage thimble? Blood of your enemies? Fabric softener?”
Elise fought a smile, glancing around to make sure no one was watching her whisper to the air.
“Later,” she mouthed, eyes flicking to the shadowy corners of the room. “When it’s quiet.”
Elise caught the flicker of movement in the corner of her eye and looked up—Graham.
He was already in costume, his waistcoat crisp, curls tamed to perfection, and posture just a little too nonchalant. She hadn’t seen him arrive, and for a moment, she wondered if he’d been avoiding her. The thought left a soft ache—just a pinch—but she didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Kevin drifted downward from his post on a high shelf, his spectral form curling like steam from a teacup.
“Wait a minute,” he whispered gleefully. “This is a new development. Are we finally adding a romantic subplot?”
“Be cool,” Elise muttered under her breath, brushing down a lacefront with a bit more vigor than necessary.
Graham cleared his throat and stepped in, his tone casual but his eyes watchful. “Do I pass muster, or should I be banished to the wig bin?”
Elise gave him a once-over. “Your hair is alarmingly cooperative. Suspiciously so.”
“I do what I’m told,” he said, then added more quietly, “most of the time.”
That made her look up. Their eyes met—steady, muted, a little vulnerable.
Then, just loud enough for her to hear, he asked, “Did I… do something wrong?”
The air between them tightened.
“No,” Elise said quickly. Then, after a pause: “Not you. I’ll explain. Just… later.”
Graham nodded. He didn’t smile, but his gaze lingered a moment longer before he stepped away.
Kevin made a contented hum from the shadows. “I take back what I said about this company being boring. You’re blushing.”
Elise gave no response, but her smile lingered longer than she meant it to. The flush in her cheeks told its own story.
Backstage had gone still. The hum of pre-show chaos faded, replaced with a muted tension that settled like dust. Everyone was meant to be in places by now. The curtains were poised to rise, music queued, hearts steadied. But Ellen was missing.
Jen did one last sweep through the hallway, her headset crackling. “Anyone seen her? Ellen? This is final call.”
No answer. Not from the wings, not from the dressing rooms, not from the quiet corners where cast members sometimes snuck off for a breath of calm. She had simply… not arrived.
That never happened.
Especially not with Ellen. She was steady. Precise. The kind of person who showed up early to everything.
The curtain was held. Ten minutes.
Dancers stretched and reshuffled. The female swing was already wiggling into a backup gown to take over Ellen’s normal ensemble role.
The dance captain made quick, whispered changes to the ballroom choreography, to cover for the uneven number of dancers there would be.
There was murmuring in every direction, a current of concern rippling beneath the usual pre-curtain chatter.
Elise stood by her wig corner, smoothing flyaways that didn’t need smoothing. She wasn’t sure if it was merely the ghost-sense tickling at her nerves, or something deeper—but the energy felt off. The kind of unease that theatre folk were trained to ignore, but never fully silenced.
The show adjusted. Lines reassigned. The audience never noticed.
In the green room during Act One, it was all anyone could talk about. Where could Ellen be? Was she sick? Did something happen?
And Elise… Elise couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just an absence.
It was an omen.
The hum of backstage energy was always loudest during intermission—costume changes, water bottles passed around, whispered check-ins between cast and crew.
But tonight, the buzz felt strained.
Tighter. Quieter.
Like everyone was waiting for news that hadn’t come.
People moved through their usual motions, but they were softer, more careful. Voices dropped just a little lower. Someone had brought cookies, but they’d been left untouched. A laugh rose from the far corner and fizzled mid-air.
The absence was everywhere—and unspoken.
Elise felt it settle across her shoulders as she pinned another wig into place. The ache of unanswered questions. The need for something—anything—to fill the silence.
It started with a question, soft and curious.
“So… when you said you can see ghosts,” asked Bex, adjusting the pins in their wig cap, “does that happen a lot? Like… all the time?”
Elise glanced up from her current task of trying to pin a particularly stubborn curl back into place. Around her, the green room buzzed with low, nervous energy. But now, attention turned gently toward her. Not unkind, mostly inquisitive. Hungry for something to fill the space Ellen left behind.
Kevin hung lazily upside-down from the overhead pipework, a phantom bat basking in the moment. “Careful,” he whispered. “Answer one question, and you’ll be the green room oracle for life.”
Elise offered a rueful half-smile and straightened. “Not all the time,” she said. “But more places than you’d think.”
A pause. Then, Romy asked: “Is it because of your tattoos?”
She blinked—caught off guard by the precision of the question. Slowly, deliberately, she placed the pin she was holding back on her station.
“Yes and no,” she said, and held out her hands. “The tattoos don’t give me the ability to see ghosts, but they help keep me safe. They set boundaries.”
Sienna leaned forward from a makeup stool. “Like magical seat belts?”
Elise laughed, never having considered that particular metaphor. “Kind of, yeah.” She was surprised to be answering questions instead of dodging them. Around her, the green room had gone still—not quiet, but attentive. Curious.
With a small sigh, and the faintest smile, Elise held out her hands. The pentacles inked into the backs of them glimmered slightly in the overhead light.
“These are the main wards,” she explained. “They’re for protection. Not from ghosts in general—just the ones that mean harm.”
There was a rustle as a few people subtly shifted closer.
Elise hesitated. Then, quietly, pushed up her sleeves.
She always wore long sleeves. Always. But beneath them lay a whole language of ink: looping runes, knotwork sigils, constellations that hinted at long nights and older magic.
“They work together,” she continued, her voice steadier now. “Some shield me. Some let me sense things I wouldn’t otherwise feel. A few of them anchor me—so if something tries to pull, or… overwhelm me, I don’t get lost.”
Kevin hovered smugly in the corner, arms crossed, practically vibrating with glee. “You’d think they’ve never seen a walking grimoire before,” he whispered, barely loud enough for Elise to hear.
She hesitated a moment as she looked out at the sea of raptly attentive faces. “When a ghost realizes it’s been seen, it can react… strongly. These help me make sure that I’m still the one in control.”
“Wait,” said Avery, pointing with careful curiosity. “The cat?”
Elise followed her gaze. A small, smirking black cat curled around the bend of her elbow.
“That one’s just because I like cats,” she said with a shrug.
There was a soft ripple of amusement—gentle, warm, and blessedly normal. No one laughed at her. And in that moment, Elise felt… if not entirely safe, then at least… held. Like maybe this strange, haunted part of her could finally breathe a little.
Jen’s voice rang from the green room speaker: “Places for Act Two!”
The spell broke. The cast scattered, voices rising again, and Elise reached for the next wig with a steadier heart.
The show’s music was distant, more vibration than melody from her tucked-away wig station, like a heartbeat pulsing through plywood.
Somewhere above the din of backstage murmurs, the orchestra began to shift—strings rising with wistful tension. A refrain echoed, threaded with memory: a reprise of “Changed.” Darcy’s words rewritten in Elizabeth’s mind. That was her cue.
She was already on her feet before her mind fully caught up, her body registering the cue a split second before her brain.
Elise bolted, her boots thudding softly against old linoleum and plywood, arriving breathless at the stage right wings.
Gina spotted her from her place at the quick change station and visibly relaxed, tension melting from her shoulders.
Elise gave a small wave of apology as she skidded into place.
The quick change was crisp and wordless. Lark didn’t meet her eyes, and Elise didn’t push. Still, her fingers were steady. Wig off, wig on. Zipper, snap, pin. Lark exhaled slowly, gaze fixed just beyond the curtain.
Then, with a nod, she was gone—vanishing into the final scene.
Elise lingered just beyond the wings, watching it unfold.
Fog curled across the stage floor, low and spectral.
Rain fell like silver threads from the rigged pipes above, soaking Lark’s gown and carefully curled wig in a matter of seconds.
It was gorgeous. It was ruinous. Elise winced—not for the performance, but for the craft undone by water.
Then she let it go. That was theatre, after all.
Art, offered up to be destroyed every night.
Elizabeth stood center stage, framed by the silhouette of the bridge.
Darcy stepped forward.
“You must know…”