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Spirits at Play

When the Ghost Light Fades

By Justin ElliottPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
1

The sun drops behind the buildings west of Times Square, the shadows stretching across 45th Street, caressing the front of the Lyceum Theatre. As the windows darken, the little light that pierces the interior fades, and a sensor activates, turning on a single light stand in the middle of the historic theatre's stage. Atop the stand is an old style, incandescent bulb made of green glass, and as the filament begins to burn, the stage is bathed in a soft green glow. This is the ghost light, the traditional bulb left burning when a theatre is dark. This bulb has been burning every night since March 12, 2020, when all Broadway theatres were closed; and tonight, August 31, 2021, after 537 days, the bulb glows, flickers, and goes dark.

In the darkness, all is silent. No one is there. No living soul has been inside the Lyceum at night for well over a year. The stage is devoid of life.

"What do we do?" A woman's voice asks in the blackness. The voice sounds young, in her twenties or perhaps early thirties, and speaks with a vaguely English accent that sounds almost, but not quite, authentic. There is a tiny movement, a wisp of bluish smoke, a wisp that grows, expands, and coalesces into a beautiful young lady. She stares at the blown out bulb with a frown. "How are we to perform without a light?"

Seemingly in response to her, several other wisps appear, forming into a variety of people of either gender and a range of ages. They all move about the darkened stage with confidence, apparently unbothered by the lack of illumination. "Fear not Ms. Miller, I'm certain that a hand will be along shortly to change it out." The speaker, the spirit of a man in his late forties, has a fully American accent, and speaks with confidence. A scoff is heard from a rotund man's spirit at the back of the stage.

"Come now Eddie! Do not be foolish. There hasn't been a hand here in months! No one is coming to change the bulb!" This spirit too is American.

"Thank you, Mr. Mostel, but I think you're mistaken. The Phantom Light has always burned for us. It lights our productions, tells us that today's actors remember and respect us. They won't let it go out." The spirit known as Eddie retorts.

"Now gentleman, let us keep things professional." Interjects a black woman with her hair pinned up in a flapper style. She has a Creole accent. "After all, Messer's Frohman, Herts and Tallant are here tonight."

"They are here every night Ms. Baker. They, like us, haunt this theatre and cannot leave." Replies Mr. Mostel. "They founded, designed, and built this theatre, and now find themselves here until the final curtain." Mr. Mostel gestures dramatically to one of the private boxes, where three spectral figures can be seen. "And mark my words, all of you, that time is now. The place is finished! Boarded up! No one has been here, no show has been performed, no rehearsal has occurred in over a year! And now look at this!" He marches across the stage to the Ghost light, gesturing even more dramatically at the darkened globe. "They haven't even bothered to pay the bill! By this time next year, this will be condos! Or a parking lot. Or an empty box, where sad old ghosts while away their time, forgotten and ignored." Mr. Mostel finishes his diatribe somberly, having reached a crescendo before falling back to a quieter, softer tone as he proclaimed their fate. The crowd moves slower now, a marked sadness in the still theatre. For several hours, there is silence. Spirits become unanchored to time, and can be still for hours, even days at a time.

"But what do we do?" A small, quiet voice asks once more. Ms. Miller has sunk to the floor, folding ghostly legs beneath her. "When all we have done, in life and death, is perform, what are we to do when the curtain falls, and the show closes?" She looks up plaintively at the others, insubstantial tears forming in incorporeal eyes. "Where does a character go when you finish a book?"

Eddie lowers himself down next to her, clasping her hand in his. Though both are smoke and spirit, to the other, they are as real and solid as the living. "Then we take the show on the road, Ms. Miller. Audiences pass on just as often as actors, perhaps more so, being that there are so many of them. Where there's an audience, there should be performances. We'll go forward, to whatever's next, and find an audience." Eddie wears a reassuring smile, but as good of an actor as he had been in life, this smile doesn't fully hide the apprehension in his eyes. For her part, Ms. Miller looks from him to Mr. Mostel to Ms. Baker. As she looks past Ms. Baker, she lets out a gasp. For the first time in 75 years, Mr. Frohman has left his private box, and is now standing on the stage with them.

"Eddie is correct, Ms. Miller." He says. "We are creatures of attention, and without an audience we are but shadows and smoke." He waves his hands demonstrably, the blue smoke swirling in his form. "And Mr. Mostel also speaks plainly. It seems my old theatre may have raised her last curtain." Mr. Frohman circles the burnt out Ghost light for a few long moments, staring into its depths. "It is a shame, but she did last quite a while. Did you know, I actually had a Lyceum Theatre before her? It was on Fourth Avenue, barely made it 17 years before it was shuttered and razed." He wanders as he speaks, caressing the open curtain. "This old girl passed a century already. 118 isn't too poor a run, is it girl?" He is addressing the theatre itself now. After another pause of several minutes, he turned back to the assembled spirits. "Time to strike the set." He says sadly, tears in his spectral eyes too. "I'm sorry I won't be able to offer new contracts to any of you. As Eddie said, time to move on. As for me…" he looks up into the lighting rigs again, "I think I'll stay with my old girl 'til the end."

The spirits all consider this, none aware that the sky is brightening in the East. As they all move together, ready to take their final bow, there is a resounding CRASH from the depths of the theatre. They all stand frozen, listening, and soon hear a voice, a new voice. A living voice.

"...take a bit to refamiliarize myself with everything, it's been over a year after all. But I'm just glad Shubert called me. And don't worry about being new, people come and go all the time!" The voice has grown very close, and the spirits suddenly see a light pierce the gloom. "And here's the stage! Hey, the Ghost Light's out." Two young men walk across the empty stage, one holding a flashlight. He examines it for a minute before speaking again. "Oh, yeah, it burnt out. No surprise, it's been running for a year. You know about the Ghost Light?" When the other man shakes his head, the first replies, "it's an old theatre tradition. You keep one light burning for the ghosts of the old shows. And our old shows had amazing actors! Since Daniel Frohman opened the theatre in 1903 he had some of the best; Eddie Cantor, Zero Mostel, Marilyn Miller, even Josephine Baker! Man, I wish I could have seen them. Anyway, we should put a new bulb into the Ghost Light, some of the actors and producers are superstitious. Come on, I'll show you the lighting booth and we can get set up for the new shows rehearsals." The two men walk away, acting as though they didn't see the spirits, which of course, they did not.

After they were gone, Mr. Frohman and the actors all stared at each other for several long minutes. Finally, Ms. Josephine Baker spoke. "Well Mr. Frohman, if you're agreeable, perhaps we'll do a few encore performances."

Short Story
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About the Creator

Justin Elliott

An aspiring writer that's just trying to hone his skills in his spare time.

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