The Glow of the Exit Sign

I was nine when I first stepped into the Marigold Theater’s backstage maze. It wasn’t a grand place, just a converted warehouse on the third floor of the old Meridian Mall, a place that smelled of dust and overcooked popcorn. My first show was ‘The Robot Who Dreamed of Butterflies,’ and I had a single line: ‘Look, it’s a real one!’ I was thrilled, but that thrill died the moment I crossed the velvet curtain into the wings.

The temperature dropped. It wasn’t the kind of chill you get from a draft; it was a thick, humid cold, like stepping into a walk-in freezer filled with breath. My skin prickled, and the fine hairs on my arms stood at attention. I remember the way the heavy black curtains seemed to press in, and the floorboards creaked even when I stood still. The air was different backstage, tainted with old sweat and something else, something metallic and sweet, like ancient chewing gum gone wrong.

My first solo trip to the toilets was a trial by fire. The ‘facilities’ were down a narrow, zigzagging stairwell that led to a corridor on the second floor, lined with doors to abandoned dressing rooms. The stairwell had a single, buzzing fluorescent light that flickered, making the shadows dance. I remember the sound of my own footsteps, too loud, too sharp, like they were being recorded and played back slightly off-sync.

As I reached the bottom, I saw the exit sign at the end of the corridor, a red glow that seemed to pulse. It wasn’t the normal steady hum; it flickered in a pattern, like a heartbeat. I felt a presence, an observation, but not from any person. It was as if the darkness itself was watching me, breathing slowly in time with that red glow. I hurried into the toilet, my heart hammering, and I swear I heard a sigh, soft and content, right behind me as the door clicked shut.

When I came out, I decided to take the longer route back, past the dressing rooms, to avoid the stairwell. But I found myself stopping in front of a door with a frosted glass window, beyond which I could see a faint, warm light. I had never noticed this room before; maybe it was a storage closet. But as I leaned closer, I saw a shape inside, a silhouette of a figure sitting at a vanity, head bowed. The light was warm, like a gas lamp, not the sterile LED of the rest of the building.

I felt a pull, a curiosity that overrode my fear. I slowly pressed my eye to the glass. Inside, I saw an old woman in a tattered, floral dress, brushing her long, grey hair. She looked up suddenly, and our eyes met through the glass. Hers were dark, empty sockets, yet I felt a deep loneliness from them. She smiled, a thin, cracked smile, and raised a hand to the glass, as if to touch my face. I stumbled back, my breath caught in my throat, and I ran back up the stairs, not daring to look back.

That year, every time I was backstage, I felt her gaze. The cold would intensify, and sometimes I would see her out of the corner of my eye, always a few steps behind, always watching. I never told anyone, not even my parents. I was just a kid, and who would believe me?

Years passed, and I grew up. I eventually forgot about the Marigold Theater, until I saw an article online about the old mall being demolished. A photo showed the theater’s backstage area, and there was a caption: ‘The eerie dressing room, supposedly haunted by a former actress who died in the 1970s.’ I clicked on the article, and my heart stopped. There was the same room, the same frosted glass, and in the corner, a small, faded photograph nailed to the wall: the old woman in the floral dress. Beneath it, a plaque read: ‘In memory of Elsie, who gave her last performance in 1974.’

I realized then that the presence I felt was real, and it had been waiting for me, year after year. The chill, the sighs, the red glow of the exit sign – it was all her, reaching out, asking me to remember her. And now, as the mall comes down, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not gone. Last night, I woke up to find my bedroom temperature had dropped, and I could smell the faint, sweet scent of old gum, and I heard a soft, contented sigh right next to my ear. She’s followed me home, and I don’t think she’s ever going to leave.