I am the Ghost Light, the one who stands and watches the stage when the theatre is closed.
I am here for safety; you wouldn’t want to tumble down into the orchestra pit while fumbling for the light switch, would you? I watch the ghosts who come to entertain the empty seats at night; the usherette in her apron and cap, who drifts through the wall that wasn’t there when she worked here, long ago.
When Constance Dawson died, no-one really noticed nor even batted an eyelid, for she had been ill a long time and also, a bitter old bitch.
When she came back a few days later, re-materialising on a Saturday morning in the middle of the town’s farmers market, the overall response had been a bit more energetic, some gasping, some downright fainting but most whipping phones from back pockets in the hope to catch the eerie sight.
Inspector Yao pushed his glasses back to the top of his nose, adjusted his suit jacket, blinked and looked again. He could have sworn he saw a girl standing beneath the archway, but it was two o’clock, and the students would not be permitted to leave for another hour and a half at least.
She certainly wasn’t there now.