Page 112 of Specters & Spotlights

Kevin sniffed. “Please. Older theatres always made do. You build up for the patrons and down for the tech crew. If you never got a dressing room next to a boiler, did you even suffer for your art?”

The stairs groaned slightly under their weight. At the bottom, the darkness gave way to a wide, low-ceilinged common room. The green room. It was painted in a tired shade of beige and lit with mismatched bulbs—some warm, some flickering like they were practicing for a horror scene.

Plastic chairs leaned against the walls. A chipped coffee maker perched on a folding table. A bulletin board overflowed with curled headshots and passive-aggressive notes from stage management.

Several doors branched off the space, each labeled in crooked Sharpie: Wigs, Costumes, Makeup, Room 1, Room 2, Swing Room, DO NOT USE (MOLD?). Two hallways also grew out of the corners of the room, with more doors visible around the corners.

Elise spotted the wig room key already sitting in the door lock.

“That’s convenient,” she muttered.

She turned the key, opened the door, and was met with darkness. Graham reached past her to flick on the light, and the fluorescent tube buzzed once before humming to life.

The wig closet wasn’t huge—maybe ten by twelve, with metal shelving on three sides and a scuffed linoleum floor. A few errant hairnets clung to the edges of a shelf. A single blonde curl sat forgotten in a corner. There were storage bins stacked neatly and a rolling rack pushed to the side.

“Home sweet home,” she said, stepping inside.

The trunk wasn’t here yet. She hadn’t expected it to be—the load-in crew rarely arrived before noon on pack-in days, and the rest of the crew wouldn’t show up until after that. Still, the room felt too quiet. Like a stage waiting for its first line.

No sign of Jen, either.

Elise scanned the space again, cataloging what was missing, what was usable, what might need to be cleansed with salt and intention. The old rhythm tried to click in—organize, prep, assign, adjust—but something in the air resisted it. Or maybe she was the one out of step.

She took a breath and set her bag down in the corner. There was work to do. Eventually.

Everything was fine.

That’s what Elise told herself, anyway.

The ghosts were quiet. The hallway hadn’t shifted. The wig room was still just a wig room. Kevin was back. The Specter wasn’t.

For a moment, she let the relief settle in. Not completely, but enough to breathe without bracing. She closed her eyes and exhaled, slow and deliberate, like she could trick her body into believing it.

Graham stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her. It wasn’t urgent or possessive—just steady. Familiar.

He rested his chin lightly against the top of her head, his breath soft against her hair. After a few long seconds, he pressed a kiss there—light, sure, and utterly disarming.

Elise’s lips curved before she even realized it. She tilted her head back just enough to glance up at him, eyes narrowing in faux suspicion.

“Do you always show up with a dramatic entrance, a single bag, and a forehead kiss, or is this a special occasion?”

Graham gave a half-smile, equal parts fond and self-deprecating. “I have layers.”

“Uh-huh.” She toyed lightly with the edge of his collar. “Is one of those layers going to kiss me properly, or are we still in the will-they-won’t-they phase of the narrative?”

That startled a laugh out of him—quiet, warm, a little stunned. “You’re quoting Act Two at me now?”

“It’s a good act,” she said, lifting one brow. “Strong pacing. Lots of tension.”

His smile deepened. “So what happens next?”

She leaned in, just a breath closer. “I guess that depends... is this scene choreographed, or are we improvising?”

He looked at her like he was about to respond—maybe with a kiss, maybe with something devastatingly sweet—but then paused, glancing subtly to the side.

“Wait,” he murmured. “Is Kevin still here?”

“Yep,” came the voice from the corner. Bright. Unbothered.