The Stage Manager’s Last Cue

My family has always had a weird streak, a touch of the old country superstition that my dad swore was in our blood. I never bought into it, not really. I was a rationalist, a pragmatist, someone who believed in what she could see and touch. But then, a year ago, something happened that shook that belief to its core, and I’ve been carrying it alone ever since.

I’m an actress, and at the time, I was deep in rehearsals for a production of ‘Our Town’ at a small community theater in the mountains of Vermont. The director, an eccentric man named Mr. Holloway, had the bizarre idea to cast me, a woman in her late twenties, as the Stage Manager. It was a role typically played by a man, but he insisted I had the gravity and the voice for it. I was flattered, and a little scared, but I took the part.

I’ve been deaf in my right ear since a childhood infection, and I’ve learned to compensate by always angling my good ear toward the sound. But during rehearsals, I started to notice something odd. Occasionally, I would hear a whisper in my deaf ear, a faint, sibilant voice that seemed to come from nowhere. At first, I thought it was my imagination, a trick of the acoustics in the old theater. But it grew more distinct, more insistent, until I could almost make out words.

One night, during a late rehearsal, I was alone on stage, running through my lines. The theater was empty, save for the ghost light on its stand, casting a pool of pale light in the center of the stage. I was in the middle of a monologue, when I heard it clearly in my right ear: ‘You are not the first.’ I spun around, but there was no one there. My heart hammered. I told myself it was exhaustion, stress. But the voice had sounded so close, as if someone were standing right beside me.

I tried to shake it off, but the incidents escalated. During the next few rehearsals, I began to see a figure out of the corner of my eye, a man in an old-fashioned suit, standing in the wings. When I turned to look, he was gone. I asked the cast if they’d seen anyone, but they all shrugged. I started to doubt my own sanity.

Then came the final dress rehearsal. I was in full costume, a simple dark suit and tie, with a hat. As I delivered my lines, I felt a cold draft, and the ghost light flickered. A sense of dread washed over me, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was not alone. I turned to my left, and there he was, standing in the shadows: a man with a hollow face, his eyes like black pits, wearing a suit that looked like it was from the 1920s. He raised a hand, pointing a long, bony finger at me, and spoke in a voice that was both a whisper and a roar: ‘Your lines are wrong.’

I froze. He was right. I had missed a cue, fumbled a line. But how could he know? He continued, ‘I have been here for a hundred years, watching every performance, waiting for the wrong one. You are not fit to be the Stage Manager. You must leave, or I will make you leave.’

I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. He took a step closer, and I could smell the musty earth of a grave. ‘I was the Stage Manager, once. I died on this very stage, and my soul is bound to it. You are an intruder. You must go.’ I finally found my voice and stammered, ‘I… I don’t understand.’ He smiled, a ghastly grin that showed rotted teeth. ‘You don’t need to understand. You need to leave.’

I backed away, but my foot caught on a cable, and I stumbled. He lunged, and I shut my eyes, bracing for impact. But when I opened them, he was gone, and the theater was silent. I ran offstage, my heart pounding, and I knew I couldn’t do this anymore.

I went to Mr. Holloway the next day and tried to quit, but he refused. He said it was just nerves, that I had opening night jitters. I didn’t tell him about the ghost. I couldn’t. He would have thought I was insane. So I stayed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, that the ghost was waiting for his moment.

Opening night came. The theater was packed. As I stepped onto the stage, I felt a cold presence beside me. I glanced to my left, and there he was, standing in the wings, watching me with those empty eyes. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to go on. I began my opening monologue, and I was doing fine, until I reached a certain line. The ghost spoke in my ear, louder than ever: ‘Stop this performance.’ I could feel his icy breath on my neck. My voice faltered. I looked out at the audience, and they were all silent, their faces strange, blurred. I realized, with a jolt, that they were all looking at me with expressionless faces, like mannequins.

The ghost spoke again, his voice echoing in my skull: ‘They are not real. You are not real. This is my play.’ And then, everything went black.

I woke up backstage, lying on a couch, with Mr. Holloway and a few cast members hovering over me. They said I had collapsed on stage, mumbling nonsense. I tried to explain, but no words came out. I felt a deep chill, and I knew the ghost had not left me. He was still there, inside the theater, biding his time.

After that, I tried to distance myself from theater. I couldn’t set foot on any stage without feeling that presence. I left the company and moved across the country, hoping to escape. But sometimes, in quiet moments, I’ll feel a cold draft on my right ear, and I’ll hear a faint whisper: ‘You are not fit.’ It has been a year, and I still haven’t told anyone the full story. But I know the ghost is real, and I know he will find me again. I just hope that when he does, I’m ready.