‘No, Olive, it’s not like that, I promise you.’ He took a step towards her and she took a step back.
‘And the very worst part isn’t even that you’ve made me feel like this. The worst part is… I let you.’
Oscar looked at Olive and his drunken haze seemedto clear for just a moment. He saw her shivering in the rain, her pale face without make-up and her hair wet and slicked against her cheeks and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and keep her warm and dry. To shelter her from all the hurt she was feeling, but knowing he couldn’t because all the hurt she was feeling could be directly traced back to him. And it was this thought,that he couldn’t kiss her and make this better, could probably never kiss her again, that made him realise he’d fallen in love with her.
Olive looked at Oscar and started to feel the pain pour out of her heart and seep into her bones. He was so beautiful and looked so lost, but Olive knew she couldn’t forgive him, which hurt her more than what he’d actually done. She wanted nothing morethan to find a way around this. To find a way to be able to look at him without remembering the image of him kissing Tamara. But she knew that would take far more time than she was willing to give. It was in that moment, that she realised he could never be hers, that she knew she’d well and truly fallen in love with him.
‘This, whatever this was, is over.’ The bulbs around the theatre’ssign all flickered for a few moments, as though too much electricity was passing through the current. And then with a loud crackle, everything went dark.
Walter poured the hot water into his mug, pulledup his blanket across his knees, and settled in for the night in his small office. Although he’d much prefer a book, his eyesight was poor now and the more tired he got the more the words danced about on the page. So, on the recommendation of the actress playing Scarlett O’Hara in the last production ofGone With The Wind, he’d mastered the art of Netflix. Their selection of old movies was sublime,and he even tried a few movies that had been made in the last decade and, to his surprise, enjoyed them. His laptop was open on his desk, the opening bars of the overture toOliver!blaring out of the speakers when suddenly everything went quiet and the film started to buffer. The little red spinning wheel taunted Walter and his tired old legs, and he said a little prayer that it would fix itselfin the next few moments so that he wouldn’t have to get up and restart it. Then the screen went black and the lamp on the desk started to flicker.
‘Fawn?’ he whispered. ‘What’s got you upset?’ The bulb shattered with a bang and Walter couldn’t help but yelp.
Walter.
He was certain it wasn’t just the draughty theatre creaking, making his old ears hear things that weren’t there.
Waaaalter.
No, it was certainly his name called in a voice he knew only too well.
But she only appears once a year, he thought. ‘Fawn? What’s wrong? What’s going on?’ Walter still hadn’t moved. Working in such an old theatre, knowing full well he was constantly surrounded by ghosts, it was rare that Walter felt scared or encountered the unexpected. Yet here he was, stuck tohis armchair, his palms cold yet clammy, clutching his blanket up around his shoulders. From his chair he could see that a light had started to flicker somewhere in the corridor that led backstage. Whatever force was within the building was moving from light to light down the corridor and making its way towards Walter, each light shattering before it moved on to the next.
‘Fawn, pleaseanswer me?’ Walter’s voice was loud but audibly nervous. The light moved from the ceiling fixtures in the corridor to the small desk lamp at stage door. It started off as just the tiniest of glimmers, barely visible to Walter’s eyes but definitely there, wobbling in the dark. Then the light steadily grew brighter and brighter. The bulb cracked, and the light dimmed for a moment before it began togrow again, shining through the cracks in the bulb, a thread of gold light spun like silk. It spilled onto the floor and started to ravel itself into a tight ball that grew up and up and Walter could see that it was starting to take the shape of a pair of heeled shoes. The light began to ravel itself faster and suddenly there were ankles, legs beneath a long dress, wide hips, hands, arms, a cinchedwaist, slender shoulders, a delicate neck and before Walter knew it, there she was. Fawn Burrows. Standing before him, golden and glowing.
‘Fawn?’
‘It’s me,’ she laughed, looking at her own sparkling hands.
‘But how? How are you here? You can only come back once a year. On the anniversary of your death! What —’
‘Walter, I don’t know the rules. Something’s woken me up,’she said, spinning, the hem of her dress fizzing.
He let go of the blanket, his knuckles stiff and cramped. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not supposed to be here. I’ve never been here on any day other than the day I died. So, whatever’s brought me back…’ the flames in her eyes crackled, ‘it’s big.’
