Chapter 11 – Elise
Chapter Eleven
Elise
The next day, Elise arrived early. Earlier than she needed to. The scent of sawdust and hairspray clung to the walls, familiar and grounding. But today, she was on a mission—to soothe the Seamstress before she sabotaged another hemline or mysteriously mangled a crucial costume hook.
Her satchel was heavier than usual, weighed down by the contents of a package that had arrived that afternoon. Elise had barely waited for the door to click shut before she’d torn the box open on the edge of her bed, heart catching as each item surfaced like a small blessing.
As promised, Cici had sent everything Elise might need: tightly bundled sage and palo santo, a fresh salt blend in a little cork-stopped jar, a mirror sigil drawn in deep ink on thick, hand-torn paper, and the familiar orange spice candle that always made Elise feel like it was autumn year-round.
There was also a delicate anklet braided from soft thread and moonlit silver, a tiny charm in the shape of a crescent moon dangling from its side, with some symbols engraved on it—protection and affection looped together.
And then there were the extras.
Homemade lemon poppyseed cookies wrapped in wax paper. A folded napkin with “Eat something, or I swear I’ll haunt you myself” written in Cici’s looping hand. A lucky coin with a note that simply read, “You never know.”
The envelope had been buried underneath it all, cream-colored and quiet. Elise had stared at it for a long moment before sliding it into the bottom of her suitcase, tucked under her spare pair of black boots. She wasn’t ready yet. But it was there.
Now, as she stepped into the theatre’s greenroom and felt a cold draft swirl by the costume rack, she knew the Seamstress was watching.
“Elise,” Kevin murmured from above, perched near the rafters. “We’re not alone.”
She smiled faintly. “We never are.”
The sage in her hand was fresh, dried lavender tucked in its center, bound with deep red thread. Elise turned it slowly, absently, as memories rose like ghosts of their own.
She had been here before. This same theatre. Her first touring production. God, she’d been so young.
Back then, she was still finding her rhythm as a traveling wig mistress. The job itself wasn’t the problem—it was the ghosts. Especially here, where more than a few things went bump in the wings.
This theatre had been a particularly difficult experience in those days.
There had been whispers—real ones—rising out of the plaster walls like steam.
Words that made no sense slithering just out of reach, like static through an old speaker.
She’d frozen in place the first time it spoke.
She didn’t even remember what it had said—only the way it had made her feel.
Cold. Seen. Elise hadn’t known it then, but she’d brushed too close to the Whispering Wall.
And then there was the Seamstress.
The ghost that hovered, just out of sight, just close enough to meddle.
Elise’s wig corner had become a war zone.
Hairnets went missing. Lace fronts curled.
Stitching gave way for no reason at all.
Zippers failed. Threads unraveled. It wasn’t only frustrating—it was humiliating.
People noticed. They didn’t say much to her face, but she could feel the speculation settle on her like lint.
She was developing a reputation for having bad luck, and theatre folks were a superstitious bunch—that was a hard label to overcome.
Elise… was crumbling.
And Cici—ever the tether to something solid—showed up.
No warning. A last-minute standby flight, a knock at the stage door, and her familiar voice saying, “I brought reinforcements.” Elise still wasn’t sure whether she had been referring to the spell books or the cookies she brought.
They’d broken into the building at 2 AM. She remembered the way the fluorescent hallway lights blinked once, like they were startled to see them. Cici had set the salt, burned the herbs, and recited something in a language Elise only half understood.
And just like that, the Seamstress had quieted. She didn’t vanish, but she backed off—retreated into the walls and folds of time. Elise had never forgotten the way that felt. Like someone had finally stepped in to stand between her and the dark.
This time, Elise was alone. But not helpless. Not that fragile, wide-eyed girl who had nearly packed up her kit and gone home all those years ago. No—she’d grown steadier since then, in both hand and heart. She could do this.
She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured the way Cici had described her spell all those years ago, like a gossamer web woven between worlds.
It wasn’t meant to trap the Seamstress, just keep her from pressing too far into the living realm.
But if a spirit was stubborn enough—and Elise suspected this one was—it could pull at the edges of that magic until the weave began to unravel
And now, it seemed, the weave was fraying.
The Seamstress didn’t feel as strong as she had been that first time. Not yet. But her presence was unmistakable, hot and prickly.
Elise knew she couldn’t replicate what Cici had done. She didn’t have that kind of magic. Her strength came in different ways—through care, through stubbornness, through quiet persistence.
So instead of spells, she reached for something far less certain.
She was going to try to reason with the ghost.
It sounded absurd when she said it—even just in her mind. But there was something inside her that insisted on trying.
“Talking to ghosts like they’re grumpy coworkers,” she muttered to herself. “Sure. That’s perfectly normal.”
Elise approached the costume rack with a quiet sort of reverence, the way one might approach a shrine—or a sleeping dragon.
The air felt charged, just faintly, like the prickling tension before a thunderstorm.
She could feel the Seamstress there, clinging to the gowns and coats like static.
Not visible, not tangible, but present. Like the lingering scent of smoke that seeps into velvet and never quite lets go.
“Let’s keep this civil, okay?” Elise murmured under her breath.
She set her bag gently on the floor, crouching beside it like she was unpacking a picnic basket rather than a ghost-busting arsenal.
The lighter clinked against a jar of salt as she rummaged through the contents.
She pulled it out and struck it. The flame flared, then calmed into a steady glow.
She lit the sage and let the edges smolder.
With her free hand, she reached for the miniature Ouija board tucked between a protective charm and the scrap of paper with the hand drawn sigil from Cici. The board was tiny, maybe the size of a notecard, with a laughably dainty planchette no bigger than a thimble.
Kevin materialized at her shoulder, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “Planning to summon a dollhouse spirit?”
Elise gave him a sideways glance. “It’s portable.”
He smirked, drifting to perch just above the mirror’s edge, the very picture of bemused disapproval.
She settled herself cross-legged on the floor in front of the rack, careful to keep the sage’s curling smoke drifting away from the costumes. She glanced once—pointedly—at the nearby smoke detector, then angled the bundle farther from its line of sight.
The fabric swayed on its hangers, but not from any draft.
She felt it then. The Seamstress noticing her.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s talk. What do you want?” Elise whispered, not entirely sure if she was talking to the air, the board, or the feeling pressing at her chest like a too-tight costume. “Why are you still here?”
The planchette jerked once.
Then began to slide.
SOMEONE TOOK IT.
Kevin hovered near the far wall, half-faded into shadow, leaning forward with interest.
“Oho,” he murmured. “We’ve got ourselves a theft.”
Elise frowned. “What did they take?”
MY RING. THEY HID IT.
Her breath caught.
Behind her, Kevin stirred. Elise saw a familiar look on his face, the one he made when he was tuning into ghost-radio.
“It meant everything to her,” he said softly.
“Engagement, maybe. A promise, at least. Someone took it and never gave it back. She thinks it was hidden on purpose. And she’s angry. ”
“Is it still here?” Elise asked, glancing around the empty backstage as if the ring might glitter out from behind a crate or curtain.
I DON’T KNOW.
She could almost feel the ghost’s frustration crackling through the board.
Kevin snorted faintly. “Translation: ‘If I knew, do you think I’d still be haunting your wig corner, you absolute turnip?’”
Elise huffed a quiet laugh, even as her eyes stung from the wisps of smoke.
“Well… I don’t know where it is either,” she said gently. “But I’ll try. I promise I’ll try to find it.”
There was a long pause.
“Could you maybe… take it easy on the costumes in the meantime?” she added hopefully.
The answer came in cold, clean letters.
GOODBYE.
Kevin hovered lower, watching the board settle. “She’s skeptical. Doesn’t think it’ll do any good.”
“She might be right,” Elise said quietly. “But I have to try.”
Kevin gave her a long look. “I’ll ask around. Spirits don’t usually gossip, but you’d be surprised what lingers.”
Elise nodded, grateful, even as Kevin’s presence retreated like smoke into the ceiling beams. The sage smoke was nearly gone. The air was still again. Somewhere above, the faintest creak of floorboards.
The show moved forward. No flickering lights, no slamming doors. Just the hum of a hundred practiced gestures—zippers, bobby pins, quick glances in mirrors. Ellen’s absence hung in the air like a question no one wanted to answer, but the machine of performance ground on, steady and bright.
From her post at the wig station, Elise tracked the show through speaker and the rhythm of returning footsteps.