Page 4 of Specters & Spotlights

Her head snapped up. From the center of the mirror, a figure emerged.

Not stepped into view. Emerged… as if the glass had turned to water and he’d simply risen through it. A gloved hand first. Then the brim of a hat. A sleek coat. A cane balanced delicately in one hand.

“Well, well,” he drawled, surveying the wreckage of wigs and curling tools like a critic arriving late to a dress rehearsal. Then, spotting her, he lifted a translucent brow. “Ah, there she is. The reluctant heroine.”

Chapter Two

Elise

Elise’s shoulders dropped as the ghost drifted fully into view. “Oh, it’s just you.”

Kevin scoffed. “‘Just me,’ she says. As though I’m not the highlight of your emotionally avoidant cross-country tour.”

“Took you long enough,” Elise said, brushing hair out of her face and smiling despite herself. “I figured you got distracted by a dressing room mirror.”

Kevin raised a pale hand to his chest in mock offense, his outline shimmering faintly at the edges like steam on glass. His clothes—always impeccable—had the faded quality of an old photograph: crisp shirt, high-waisted trousers, and a waistcoat adorned with a gleaming pocket watch chain. His receding hairline lent him the air of a distinguished academic, an archetype he leaned into with the cane he still carried in death. Elise had never gotten a straight answer about why he needed it—gravity wasn’t exactly a concern anymore.

From the front, he looked solid. But the moment she shifted her focus or stepped too close, the illusion frayed—color draining into grayscale, edges losing integrity. Even now, standing in the center of the room, his lower half faded slowly into nothing a few inches below the knee.

“Please,” he said, smoothing the cuffs of his translucent sleeves. “I wasn’t loitering—I was getting the lay of the land. It’s a lovely old theatre, if you overlook the mildew and the spiritual decay.”

She smirked. “And before I arrived? How was your nap in the liminal void?”

Kevin scoffed. “I’ll have you know I was in a state of restful, dimensionless stasis. Quite restorative, until you pulled me back.”

“Sounds nice,” she muttered. “Meanwhile, I experienced two delays, and was wedged between a man with night terrors and a crying baby for three hours.”

He looked down his nose at her. “The mortal realm remains deeply overrated.”

She gave him a dry look. “And yet you won’t leave it alone.”

Kevin’s grin widened. “Never. But something tells me…”

His form flickered briefly. A soft pulse pushed through the room, like a gust through a barely-opened window. The air went still. The lights flickered.

His voice lowered. “We’re not alone here.”

Elise didn’t even blink. It would take more than ghostly antics to spook her. Not after years with Kevin. Not after everything else.

She clipped up the top layer of the wig. “Well… who else?” she asked, as casually as if she were asking what was on the lunch menu. “New theatre. New ghosts. Anyone I should know about? Anyone I should worry about?”

Kevin drifted to the far side of the room, hovering midair like an indecisive chandelier. He adjusted his cuffs, his expression thoughtful.

Kevin had a knack for sensing spirits—like a radar tuning to the static. Elise could see them, but he could feel presences flicker through the building, catch the shape of their stories, like reading the back of a book without ever opening it. Now, he hovered midair, head cocked slightly, looking as if he were trying to remember the contents of a grocery list. “A few harmless spirits, mostly.”

She separated a section of tangled hair, combed it, and folded a curling paper around it. Her fingers were already too close to the heat, like always. She'd lost count of how many times she'd burned the pads of her thumbs—to the point she was pretty sure her fingerprints were just a suggestion now.

“There’s a woman named Langtree who used to run the concession stand—refuses to move on until someone restocks the licorice she liked. Smells faintly of cinnamon and unresolved resentment.”

Elise snorted and twisted another section around the iron. The curling paper crackled faintly, and her fingers grazed the barrel again. She winced.

“There’s also a little boy backstage,” Kevin continued cheerfully. “He doesn’t seem to do anything really, merely tugs at shoelaces. I think he just likes the attention.”

“Sounds like half the cast.”

Another paper, another curl. The smell of warm hair and heating metal filled the air.

“Oh! And there's Mildred. Let’s see… she was a choral swing in the 40s and refuses to acknowledge that the show ever closed. Seems like she spends most of her time correcting pitch in the rafters. I don’t think she knows she’s dead.”