E
Every theater has a ghost light—a single bulb left burning on the stage to keep the spirits away. In the Grand Royal Opera, the light wasn't there to keep spirits away. It was there to give the resident ghost a spotlight.
His name was Julian. He had been a tenor, famous for his high C, before a falling sandbag cut his career (and his life) short in 1894.
Julian wasn't malicious. He didn't rattle chains. He just... critiqued.
"Flat!" a spectral voice would boom from the balcony during rehearsals. "You call that a vibrato? It sounds like a goat shivering in a blizzard!"
The new soprano, Elise, was terrified. She was young, talented, but prone to nerves. Tonight was her debut in La Traviata.
She stood in the wings, shaking. "I can't do it," she whispered.
A cold breeze brushed her cheek. "Nonsense," Julian's voice whispered in her ear. "You have the lungs of a blacksmith. Use them."
"You're the ghost?" Elise squeaked.
"I am the Maestro of the Afterlife. Now, listen to me. Ignore the audience. They are just cabbage heads in fancy clothes. Sing for the rafters. Sing for the dust. Sing for me."
Elise walked onto the stage. The lights blinded her. She opened her mouth, and fear constricted her throat.
Then, she saw him. A faint, shimmering figure in the royal box, conducting with a spectral baton. He nodded.
Elise sang. And she didn't just sing; she soared. Her voice filled the hall, rich and clear. She hit the high notes with a precision that made the glass in the chandeliers tremble.
When the final note faded, there was silence. Then, thunderous applause.
Elise bowed, flushed with victory. She looked up at the royal box. Julian was standing, clapping soundlessly, tears of ectoplasm streaming down his face.
"Brava," he mouthed.
The next day, the reviews were glowing. But the best review was found scrawled in greasepaint on the dressing room mirror: "Not bad for a living soul. - J."