The Second Curtain Call

My name is Cora, and I grew up in the small town of Ash Hollow, nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows your truck’s rumble, where the only 24-hour business is the all-night diner that serves grits so thick they could double as mortar. And, like many old towns, we have our own peculiar anachronisms: the town still runs on a party-line phone system, and my grandmother, who raised me, refuses to use anything but her heavy black rotary phone, its dial clicking with a satisfying finality each time she places a call.

My escape from the town’s slow pace has always been the Ash Hollow Playhouse, a grand but decaying relic from the 1920s. It’s a cavernous space with a gilded ceiling that’s peeling and a stage that’s seen more amateur melodramas than Broadway hits. The theatre is my sanctuary, but it’s also a nervous, breathing entity of its own. I’m what they call a ‘techie,’ meaning I handle everything backstage: the spotlights, the sound cues, the shifting of sets, the constant, thankless work that keeps a show alive. It’s a job that makes you familiar with the building’s every creak and groan, and it’s in that quiet familiarity that the other things begin to surface.

The theatre has a reputation, of course. Over the years, a dozen stories have circulated about a woman in white who glides across the upper balconies, or a child’s laughter that echoes from the prop room, but I never paid them much mind. Ghosts are just the stories we tell to make the dark more interesting, I thought. My first real encounter happened during the final week of rehearsals for our production of ‘Arsenic and Old Lace.’ As the stage manager, my routine was to arrive at six in the evening, two hours before the cast, to sweep the stage, check the ropes, and set the props. The theatre, with its dusty velvet curtains and the smell of old wood and ozone from the ancient dimmer board, was my usual quiet companion.

One particular night, I was in the ‘fly loft,’ the narrow catwalk above the stage where the sandbags and counterweights for the scenery hang. I was adjusting a line to fix a slightly crooked picture frame for the set’s living room. The only light came from a small, amber work lamp that cast long shadows across the ropes. I had just tied off my knot when I heard it: a distinct, rhythmic scraping sound, like something heavy being dragged across the stage floor below. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I leaned over the rail, expecting to see the janitor or a stray cat, but the stage was a void of darkness, save for the ghost light—a single bare bulb on a stand—that cast a weak circle of light in the center. The scraping came again, closer this time, and then I felt a cold breeze that smelled oddly of pipe tobacco and dust. I knew then I wasn’t alone. I backed away from the rail, my legs feeling like jelly, and scrambled down the ladder, my hands shaking so badly I nearly missed the rungs.

The next morning, I told the theatre’s grizzled old caretaker, Terry, about what I’d heard. He just nodded, his eyes crinkling in that wise way old men have. ‘That’s just old Mr. Aldous,’ he said, referring to the theatre’s founder, who died in the 1960s. ‘He was a smoker, you know. He paces the stage every night, checking that everything is in order. He doesn’t like it when you hang the sandbags wrong.’ I laughed it off, but I made a mental note to always double-check my rigging.

But the second encounter was far more personal. It was after a performance, the night of our dress rehearsal, and I was the last to leave, as usual. I had just locked up the back stage door, my keys jingling in the quiet, when I heard my name. Not a whisper or a ghostly breeze, but a clear, warm voice: ‘Cora.’ It came from the direction of the auditorium, from the empty rows of seats. I spun around, my heart in my throat, and the main house lights were off, but the emergency exit sign cast a dim red glow. I saw nothing. I told myself it was my imagination, but I walked to my car with a speed that would have won me a race.

Then, a week later, something happened that I cannot rationalize. I was alone in the basement, sorting through a pile of old costumes for our upcoming production of ‘The Crucible.’ The basement is a labyrinth of moldering props and racks of moth-eaten garments, and the only light is a single fluorescent strip that flickers intermittently. I was in the far corner, near the old boiler, when the fluorescent light sputtered and died, plunging me into absolute darkness. I stood still, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but the blackness was so complete that I could see nothing. Then, I felt a presence, a warmth behind me, just inches from my neck. A voice, so low it was more of a vibration than a sound, spoke directly into my ear. It said, ‘The stage is set. They’re waiting.’ A wave of pure terror washed over me, colder than any draft. I stumbled backward, colliding with a rack of costumes that clattered loudly, and the light flickered back on. The basement was as I had left it, but the silence was oppressive, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst into the lobby, where I found the director, Marie, reviewing her notes. She looked up at my ashen face and asked if I was alright. I blurted out what had happened, and her face grew serious. She told me that the theatre was built on the site of an old church that had burned down in a great fire in 1919, and that several people had died in the blaze. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘when the old theatre is quiet, you can hear the congregation singing.’ But what she said next chilled me to the bone: ‘And there are some who say that on the anniversary of the fire, you can see the shadows of the victims in the auditorium, watching the stage.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying those words in my head: ‘The stage is set. They’re waiting.’ I thought about all the nights I had spent alone in that building, all the times I had felt watched, but I had dismissed it as paranoia. Now, I knew it was true. There was something beyond the proscenium arch, something that wanted an audience. The following evening, I decided to face my fear. I arrived at the theatre alone, before anyone else, and I walked onto the stage, not with my usual purposeful stride, but with a quiet reverence. I stood in the center, under the ghost light, and I spoke. ‘I know you’re here,’ I said, my voice steady. ‘I don’t know what you want, but I’m not afraid.’ I waited, holding my breath. A single, cold breath of air brushed past my face, and the ghost light flickered slightly. Then, I heard it again, that voice, but this time it was softer, almost grateful. ‘Stay,’ it said. ‘We have a show to put on.’

From that night forward, I stopped being a skeptic. I now treat the theatre as if it has a living soul. I greet the empty auditorium when I arrive, and I thank it when I leave. And I’ve noticed that my cues are always perfect, my sets never stick, and the shows run smoother than ever. But I never stay after a performance anymore. I leave as soon as the audience is gone, because I know that the theatre isn’t empty. It’s just waiting for the next show, and I’m not sure I want to be a part of that audience. The stage is set, and they’re always waiting for the final curtain call.