The Bleacher Ghost

During my sophomore year at Westbrook High in Asheville, I had to take a mandatory phys ed class. I dreaded every second of it. The echoing shouts of the coach, the squeak of sneakers on the polished wood floor, the smell of sweat and floor wax – it all made me want to disappear. When we weren’t playing some pointless game or running laps, I would sneak up to the top of the bleachers in the corner of the gym. There was a weird spot up there, right where the metal seats met the wall, where I could hear the faint strains of an orchestra. At first I thought it was coming from the auditorium next door, but the music was always the same haunting melody – a waltz, I think – and there was no orchestra class at that time. And you couldn’t hear it anywhere else, not even a few feet away.

I never told anyone about it. It was my secret, a little piece of strange beauty in the otherwise drab gym. I’d close my eyes and pretend I was at a grand ball, spinning in a gorgeous dress under glittering chandeliers. The music would swell and fade, always the same, never ending. I began to look forward to my gym class, just for those few minutes of escape.

Senior year came, and I joined the drama club. It was supposed to be a fun extracurricular, but I mostly did it for the college applications. Our fall production was a modern retelling of some Shakespeare play – I don’t even remember which one. All I remember is those Saturday rehearsals, sitting in the empty auditorium with the ghost light on stage, eating my lunch on the faded velvet seats. I’d sit with my friends, but sometimes I’d get this eerie feeling, like we weren’t alone.

One particular Saturday, I was sitting with a group of friends, laughing at something silly. Suddenly, I felt an arm loop around my neck from behind, and a chin rest on my shoulder, as if my boyfriend had come up behind me for a hug. But my boyfriend was at home, sick. My body went ice cold, except for the spot where the arm and chin pressed against me – that spot was strangely warm. I turned my head slowly, half expecting to see someone, but there was no one. My friends kept talking, oblivious.

The feeling lasted only a few seconds, but it left me shaken. I was about to brush it off as a weird muscle spasm when I heard it – the same orchestra melody from the gym, but now it was coming from the auditorium’s empty stage. I looked around, but no one else seemed to notice. The music grew louder, and then I saw a figure on the stage – a girl in a white gown, dancing gracefully as if to the tune. She was translucent, like a hologram, but there was a sadness in her eyes.

I stood up, transfixed. ‘Hello?’ I called out. The girl stopped dancing and looked directly at me. She smiled, a knowing, sad smile, then pointed to the spot where I’d been sitting. I felt another wave of coldness. When I blinked, she was gone.

The next day, I did some research. I found out that the gym and auditorium were built over an old theater that had burned down in the 1930s. A young ballet dancer named Grace had died in the fire, and her ghost was said to haunt the area. The melody I’d been hearing was from a ballet called ‘Swan Lake’ – a piece she’d been rehearsing for a solo.

After that, I never heard the music again. I tried going to that spot in the gym, but it was just silence. I think Grace had been trying to reach out all along, and felt alone since I didn’t respond. I think she needed someone to remember her. So I made sure that her story was told. The drama club put on a small tribute in her memory, and after the show, I felt a warm breeze, and for a fleeting moment, I saw her in the front row, smiling. Then she faded away, and I knew she was finally at peace.