Monday's When the Ghosts Perform

“Don’t forget to turn on the ghost light, Maddie!” The stage manager, Ned, shouted at me from across the theatre. It was well past 10 o’clock on the Sunday before Hell Week. Ned had been working at Pascaly Theatre for two months longer than me, which apparently gave him the authority to boss me around. “Tomorrow’s Monday after all, and you know what Monday means.”

Twelve hours of hell? Of jealousy? Of lingering in the back of the theatre cafeteria before daring to grab pizza so I don’t have to talk to the actors? Not the answer Ned’s looking for, probably.

“Monday’s when the ghosts perform,” I called back, rolling my eyes since he couldn’t see me. The theatre community was the center of my life, but I could never get over the ridiculous superstitions.

I crawled out from under the set piece I’d been working on, brushing off sawdust from my white jeans. This morning’s decision to be somewhat fashionable had backfired. Completely. I’d had some lofty idea that since it was the last day of tech week, the director, or one of the crazy talented actors, would notice me. I’d even had some silly daydream of Lindsey Summer (a lead of our production: Les Miserables) getting deathly sick and requesting that I fill in her role, even for just one night.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, I told myself as I picked bits of wood out of my hair. Lindsey Summer had an understudy. And even if something did happen, Lindsey’s singing when sick would far outdo mine when completely healthy. The thought infuriated me to no end. I tossed my tools into the supply drawer, switched off the lights of the theatre, and locked the doors behind me.

On the walk home, I hummed I Dreamed a Dream to myself. The streets were empty, and the roads were quiet. My apartment was only a few blocks away. I remembered moving in and all the excitement from being so close to a theatre. That excitement had curdled since then after three years, six shows, and countless heartbreaks. I wasn’t getting any younger. Or prettier. Or more talented. All the opposite in fact. Some part of me knew, as it had always known despite my dreams and my grandma’s optimism, that me as an actor was never gonna happen.

Madison Snodgrass was not destined to have her name in lights or programs (unless it was in the fine print at the bottom). I crawled into my bed, popped some Melatonin pills in my mouth, and shut my eyes against the unfairness of it all. I didn’t used to need Melatonin to sleep, but since working at Pascaly, my body never got used to sleeping with a sinking heart.

I jerked awake, like someone had shaken me, even though I ditched having roommates months ago. I shoved my hair out of my face and checked my watch.

Midnight.

I slouched back down in my nest of blankets. It was nowhere near time for me to drag myself out of them. And my dream had been so lovely too… something about being discovered by a talent agent. I forced myself to resee the image from my imagination, already fading in the memory. If only I could get this one decent night's sleep…

Oh God.

My eyes popped open at approximately the same second my heart stopped.

The Ghost Light.

I sat bolt upright in bed. The terror that filled me wasn’t from superstition of dramatic spirits filling my workplace, it was the dread of Ned discovering the ghost light unlit tomorrow morning. At best, I’d get a lecture about how the light is a safety precaution for any janitors or night staff. At worst, I’d be mocked by the whole tech crew that I’d let ghosts run rampant into Pascaly. That Maddie Snodgrass couldn’t remember one simple task. My face already burned with premature embarrassment. How had I forgotten?!

I fumbled with the lamp on my bedside table, and my elbow bumped my ring of keys. Keys to the theatre.

I hesitated only a second before scooping them up, kicking on my slippers, and charging out the door. I didn’t even have time to rub the sleep out of my eyes before I was panickedly stumbling back toward my workplace. The streets were sleepy too, quiet and restful. Above me, a red streetlight glared obtrusively into the night.

My slipper caught on a pothole as I was looking up, and I tripped, cursing the whole way down. Something behind me swerved and screeched. I was on my feet again just as a car spiraled, inches from where I stood. My scream was delayed, as was my return to the safe sidewalk.

The car drove away, as if it hadn’t nearly killed me.

I flattened my frizzy hair down, heart racing. The theatre was only a few steps away. Grateful to be inside and away from the road, I unlocked the doors and shut them behind me. I rummaged for my phone to turn on the flashlight. Dammit! My phone was back at the apartment. Okay, fine. I felt along the walls until I reached the main auditorium. Where was the ghost light again? Center stage?

I squinted in the dark. Maybe my eyes would adjust soon? Yes… They were! I could make out something around center stage, tall and narrow. I continued down the aisle.

The thing on stage moved.

And smiled.

The fear I had felt when I remembered not turning on the light or when the car had nearly hit me, didn’t come. There was no terror, just a mild acknowledgement in my head that I was not alone here. The woman on stage opened her mouth and sang. Suddenly, she wasn’t the only one. Other actors in costume joined her for what was a ravishing end to a song. The woman caught my eye and motioned toward me.

Ghosts. It’s Monday.

The ghosts are performing.

I needed to leave, but something deep inside me kept me rooted to my spot. And then, that something pulled me forward. I mounted the steps on the side of the stage.

The beginning notes of I Dreamed a Dream drifted on stage, and the woman reached out a pearly hand to me.

“That’s your cue, Maddie,” she whispered.

I took center stage. The bloody marks from where the tires ran me over shone in the beautiful spotlight that told me I was exactly where I was meant to be.

And all thoughts of the green ghost light were drowning, drowning, gone…