Work Text:
I've always loved the theatre.
Ever since I was little, I wanted to be an actress.
Life had other plans, I guess.
I never made it to the stage.
Instead, I clean theatres for a living.
It's not exactly the career I imagined, but I can't bring myself to complain. Even if I'm only sweeping the stage instead of performing on it, there's something about the atmosphere that keeps pulling me back.
Maybe it's the lingering applause that seems to echo long after the audience has gone home.
Maybe it's the stories left behind in every costume, every prop, every faded set piece waiting in the wings.
Or maybe it's the dreams I never got to fulfill.
Whatever it is, I wouldn't trade this job for the world.
I've been doing this job for as long as I can remember.
Sweeping up leftover popcorn.
Scrubbing stains from the seats.
Dusting the aisles.
Sweeping the stage until it gleams beneath the theatre lights.
It's repetitive.
Predictable.
Comforting.
Sometimes, if I finish early, I'll step onto the stage and dance for a while.
Nothing impressive.
Just enough to pretend.
Just enough to imagine what it would've felt like if I'd made it out there under the spotlight.
Of course, I have to sweep the stage all over again afterwards.
I never really mind.
For the most part, I actually look forward to work.
Because even if I was never meant to perform here...
I still get to be part of the theatre I love.
As I arrive at work, I pull into the staff car park and cut the engine.
I sit in my car for a moment, absentmindedly humming to myself while I wait for the clock to tick over to 5:30 p.m.—the start of my shift.
The minutes crawl by.
My humming loses its melody, becoming little more than a collection of random notes.
Finally.
5:30.
I step out of the car and make my way through the theatre's back entrance.
The matinee performance has only just finished.
Muted chatter drifts through the foyer as audience members make their way towards the exits, their laughter echoing through the building.
I smile.
There's something comforting about hearing people leave happy.
I head to the cleaners' cupboard and pause, staring at the shelves lined with brooms, mops, sprays, and cloths.
What should I start with?
I reach for my broom.
The auditorium is littered with popcorn, crumpled programs, and the occasional abandoned drink cup.
Nothing unusual.
I begin sweeping my way down the aisles, gathering everything into my dustpan as I quietly hum to myself.
Before long, the floor is spotless.
I rest my hands on the broom handle and take a moment to admire my work.
My gaze drifts to the stage.
Even empty, it's beautiful.
I can't help imagining myself standing beneath the lights.
The audience rises to their feet.
Applause fills the theatre.
Bouquets of roses are tossed onto the stage until they're scattered around my feet.
A standing ovation.
My heart flutters at the thought.
I let myself smile.
Maybe in another life.
With a quiet sigh, I pull my eyes away from the stage.
There's still plenty of work left to do.
-
I quietly and efficiently finish the rest of the theatre until there's nothing left to do.
My favourite part of the night.
I slip off my shoes and step onto the stage.
The polished floor is cool beneath my feet.
I close my eyes.
For just a little while, I let myself pretend.
The empty seats before me are filled with people.
The stage lights burn warm against my skin.
An orchestra swells somewhere beyond the curtain.
I raise my arms and begin to dance.
I'm no ballerina.
Not really.
But in my imagination, every step is graceful.
Every spin effortless.
Every movement worthy of applause.
Then—
Tap.
I stop.
Silence.
I frown, glancing around the empty theatre.
Nothing.
I convince myself it was just the stage settling beneath my feet.
I smile to myself and begin dancing again.
Tap.
Tap.
The sound returns.
It follows my movements at first, just enough for me to mistake it for an echo.
I slow down.
So do the footsteps.
I stop completely.
The theatre falls silent.
I let out a small laugh.
"Getting carried away," I mutter.
I take another step.
Tap.
Another.
Tap.
Then I turn.
Instead of following me...
The footsteps drift in the opposite direction.
Light.
Graceful.
Measured.
As though someone is dancing with me.
My smile fades.
The stage is empty.
At least...
It should be.
Right.
I think that's my cue to stop.
The silence suddenly feels different.
Heavier.
I slip my shoes back on and force myself to finish what I came here to do.
One final sweep across the stage.
One last check of the aisles.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
Spotless.
Empty.
Yet I can't shake the feeling that someone is still standing just beyond the edge of the light, watching me.
I don't look back.
I grab my things, switch off the lights, and leave the theatre with a chill crawling up my spine.
That wasn't me.
Those weren't my footsteps.
The drive home is quiet.
Too quiet.
I tell myself it was an echo.
An old building making strange noises.
Anything but what my mind keeps insisting it was.
By the time I get home, I'm determined to forget about it.
I make dinner.
I shower.
I climb into bed.
I tell myself tomorrow will be different.
It isn't.
Long after I close my eyes...
I still hear them.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Slow.
Measured.
Graceful.
Somewhere in the darkness, an unseen ballerina is still dancing.
And somehow...
The melody has followed me home.
I wake the next morning to the sound of my alarm.
For a moment, everything feels normal.
Sunlight spills through the curtains, birds chatter outside, and the strange feeling from last night almost seems ridiculous.
Almost.
I make myself breakfast.
Just a bowl of cereal.
I sit alone at the small kitchen table in my apartment, eating in silence as my mind drifts back to the theatre.
To the footsteps.
To the impossible dance partner.
I shake my head.
Old buildings make strange noises.
That's all it was.
It had to be.
After breakfast, I throw myself into housework, hoping to keep my mind occupied.
I put a load of washing on.
Dust the bookshelf in my bedroom.
Water the few plants scattered around the apartment.
Before long, I realise I've run out of something for dinner.
I head to the butcher and pick up some lamb and put it into the slow cooker.
By the time everything's done, it's only just after midday.
Three hours until my shift.
I sigh.
Too early to get ready.
Too late to start anything important.
I switch on the television, more for the background noise than anything else, and curl up on the couch with a book.
Before I know it, I'm completely absorbed.
Page after page slips by unnoticed.
Time has a funny way of disappearing when you've found a good story.
The alarm on my phone startles me.
2:30 p.m.
Time to leave.
I close the book, slip on my shoes, and reach for my keys.
For just a second...
I hesitate.
Then I tell myself I'm being ridiculous and head for the door.
The drive to work is strangely uneventful.
Somehow, every traffic light turns green just as I reach it.
Lucky, I guess.
Or maybe fate has a funny way of working.
When the familiar theatre comes into view, I can't help but smile.
Whatever happened last night...
It's still my favourite place.
I pull into the staff car park, slipping into my usual space before glancing at the dashboard clock.
2:59 p.m.
Right on time.
I grab my bag, head through the back entrance, and make my way to the cleaners' cupboard.
Broom in hand, I head straight for the auditorium.
The seats are exactly as I'd left them.
Almost.
As I sweep along the front row, something catches my eye beneath one of the seats.
A folded piece of paper.
I crouch down and pull it free.
It's an old theatre programme.
The edges are yellowed, the paper soft with age.
On the front is a ballerina.
She can't be much older than twenty.
Dark brown hair is pulled neatly into a bun, and warm hazel eyes meet the camera with a gentle smile.
She's beautiful.
Beneath her photograph, elegant gold lettering reads:
Beth Adams — The Sugar Plum Fairy
I frown.
"That's odd..."
We haven't staged The Nutcracker here in years.
As I turn the programme over, something else catches my attention.
Across the bottom of the page, someone has scrawled a message in thick black ink.
The handwriting is hurried.
Almost desperate.
THE PERFORMANCE WAS NEVER COMPLETED.
I stare at the words for a long moment.
A strange chill creeps over me.
"...What does that mean?"
I pocket the programme and continue working.
I don't think much more of it for the rest of my shift.
At least, I try not to.
When work finally ends, I drive home and head straight for my computer.
I sit down, open the browser, and type into the search bar:
Beth Adams The Nutcracker performance
I press enter.
Nothing.
A few unrelated results appear, but nothing about Beth.
No theatre programme.
No photographs.
No reviews.
Nothing.
I scroll further.
Still nothing.
It's almost as if...
She never existed.
I glance over at the programme sitting beside my keyboard.
That's impossible.
I pick it up again.
Beth's photograph stares back at me.
She's beautiful.
Unnaturally so.
There's something almost ghostly about her appearance. Her hazel eyes seem brighter than they should be against the faded paper, and that soft smile feels strangely familiar.
I turn the programme over again.
THE PERFORMANCE WAS NEVER COMPLETED.
My fingers trace the edge of the paper.
What does that even mean?
I look closer.
That's when I notice something I hadn't seen before.
A date.
13th of November, 2012.
"Hmm..."
I turn back to my computer.
This time, I type:
The Nutcracker performance The Bellrose Theatre 13th November 2012
I press enter.
The page loads.
And this time...
Results flood the screen.
Articles.
Old newspaper clippings.
Archived theatre pages.
Even photographs.
My eyes widen.
"Okay..."
I lean closer to the screen.
There are dozens of results.
Something happened at the Bellrose Theatre on the 13th of November, 2012.
And apparently...
Everyone knows about it.
Everyone except me.
-
I click on the first article that catches my eye.
The page takes a moment to load.
Then I'm greeted by a photograph.
The caption underneath reads:
The Bellrose Theatre, 2012
I stare at the image.
The building looks...
Different.
Not completely different.
The same grand entrance is there. The same tall windows. The same ornate stonework.
But something about it feels wrong.
The photograph is grainy and slightly blurred, making it difficult to see what's happening.
I zoom in.
Nothing.
I scroll back out and begin skimming through the article.
Most of it is irrelevant.
A review of the production.
Something about ticket sales.
A quote from the director.
Then my eyes catch on a single word.
ACCIDENT.
I stop scrolling.
My stomach twists slightly.
I read the paragraph beneath it.
An accident interrupted the performance that night.
I lean closer to the screen.
So something happened.
Something bad enough to stop the show.
My eyes drift back to Beth's photograph sitting beside my keyboard.
I look at her smiling face.
Then back at the article.
The performance was never completed.
I swallow.
"...What happened to you, Beth?"
-
I vaguely remember my manager mentioning something about The Nutcracker.
We don't perform it anymore.
I never really questioned why.
But now...
I wonder if Beth had something to do with that.
I open a new tab, leaving the first article open behind it.
I type into the search bar:
Why doesn't The Bellrose Theatre perform The Nutcracker anymore?
I press enter.
Another article appears.
I hesitate.
I don't even know if these articles are reliable.
But they're all I have right now.
I click on it.
The page loads slowly, the old website struggling to display the article.
I skim through the text.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then I see a word that makes me stop.
FIRE.
My eyes move back to the beginning of the paragraph.
I read it again.
Then again.
Bellrose Theatre's fourth fire when performing hit musical "The Nutcracker". It's quite bizarre... the past three times, this being the fourth, once the song "The dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" starts playing, a fire is reported. We are unaware if this is a coincidence or a planned attack.
Unfortunately, performer Beth Adams perished in the blaze. Our hearts go out to her family.
I stare at the screen.
Four fires.
Four performances.
All beginning when the same song plays.
And Beth...
I glance towards the programme beside my computer.
Beth Adams — The Sugar Plum Fairy.
My stomach drops.
I scroll back up.
The article is dated November 14th, 2012.
The day after the performance.
The day after Beth died.
I sit back in my chair.
For a moment, I don't know what to think.
Then something clicks.
The melody.
The footsteps.
The dance.
My blood runs cold.
I slowly look towards the empty room around me.
There is no music playing.
No television.
No computer audio.
Nothing.
And yet...
I can hear it.
Faintly.
A melody drifting somewhere beyond the door.
The dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
I force myself to ignore the melody and keep reading.
The article continues.
More names are listed beneath Beth's.
Beth Adams was the fourth performer to play the character of the Sugar Plum Fairy who perished in a fire.
The other three were:
Maisie Chapman
Charlotte Ross
Sarah Preston
I stare at the names.
Four performers.
Four fires.
All playing the same character.
How bizarre.
I scroll back up, rereading the article as though I might somehow find an explanation hidden between the lines.
Nothing.
It's getting late.
I should go to sleep.
I shut down the computer.
I don't go to bed.
Instead, I grab my keys.
If there really is something strange happening at the Bellrose, I want answers.
I head outside, climb into my car, and start the engine.
The drive to the theatre feels longer than usual.
It's well past the time of the evening performance, and the streets are almost completely empty.
When I finally reach the Bellrose, the building looks different beneath the night sky.
Darker.
Older.
I park in the staff car park and sit there for a moment, staring at the theatre.
Then I get out.
Luckily, I have keys for when I work late.
I'm not supposed to be here tonight.
But curiosity wins.
I unlock the back entrance and slip inside.
The door closes behind me with a heavy click.
I make my way to the master switch and flick it on.
One by one, the lights throughout the foyer illuminate.
The familiar golden glow returns.
For a moment, I relax.
It's just the Bellrose.
My Bellrose.
I walk further inside.
The auditorium opens up before me.
Rows of plush seats stretch into the darkness.
The stage sits at the far end, barely visible beneath the dim lighting.
I stop.
Something feels different.
I can't explain it.
The theatre I've walked through hundreds of times suddenly feels unfamiliar.
The silence is heavier.
The empty seats seem to stare back at me.
Even the air feels colder.
I swallow.
"...Hello?"
My voice echoes through the auditorium.
Then fades.
No answer.
I take another step.
And somewhere from the darkness ahead of me...
I hear a single, quiet tap.
Tap.
I approach the stage with careful precision.
For some reason, my footsteps feel louder tonight.
I slide off my shoes and leave them at the edge of the stage.
Then I step onto the hardwood.
The familiar feeling returns almost immediately.
Warmth.
Comfort.
This is where I belong.
I close my eyes.
Slowly, I begin to sway.
There's no music playing.
Not that I need it.
I let the melody exist inside my head instead.
My arms rise gracefully above my head as I begin to move.
A plié.
A demi-plié.
A turn.
Then a grand jeté.
I smile.
For a few moments, I'm not a cleaner standing alone in an empty theatre.
I'm a ballerina.
The stage is mine.
I continue dancing, letting myself become lost in the movements.
And then I hear it.
Tap.
My foot lands against the hardwood.
Tap.
Another step.
I smile faintly.
Of course.
The theatre's acoustics make every movement echo.
I spin once more.
Then stop.
Completely.
My arms slowly lower to my sides.
Silence.
I wait.
Nothing.
I let out a small breath.
See?
Just an echo.
Then—
Tap.
My smile disappears.
I haven't moved.
Another step.
Tap.
I stare down at my feet.
Still.
The sound comes again.
Tap.
Not mine.
My heart begins to pound.
And then, from somewhere deep within the theatre, I hear something else.
A melody.
Soft.
Faint.
Almost too distant to recognize.
But I know it.
I've heard it before.
My blood runs cold.
The Sugar Plum Fairy.
I don't move.
I can't.
The music continues.
And beneath it...
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Someone is dancing.
On the stage.
I slowly turn towards the sound.
There is nobody there.
"Beth...?"
My voice comes out quieter than I intended.
"Is that you?"
The music stops.
Completely.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I hold my breath.
Then—
Click.
One of the stage spotlights flickers on.
I flinch and shield my eyes from the sudden brightness.
For a moment, I can see nothing.
Then my eyes adjust.
And I freeze.
Someone is standing in the centre of the spotlight.
A girl.
No.
Not just a girl.
Beth.
My heart stops.
She's wearing a red tutu, the fabric hanging perfectly still around her legs.
Her brown hair is pulled tightly back into a neat bun, exactly like the photograph in the programme.
And her face...
It's unreadable.
No smile.
No anger.
No sadness.
Nothing.
Her hazel eyes stare directly at me.
She looks almost exactly like she did in the photograph.
Except for one thing.
She doesn't look alive.
Her skin is pale beneath the harsh stage light, almost translucent.
Ghostly.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
I can barely breathe.
"...Beth?"
Her eyes remain fixed on mine.
Then, slowly...
She lifts one foot.
And places it down.
Tap.
"Beth...?"
My voice comes out as little more than a whisper.
She doesn't answer.
She simply stands there beneath the spotlight.
Watching me.
I take a cautious step backwards.
"You're Beth Adams."
Her head tilts ever so slightly.
Then she takes another step.
Tap.
The music begins again.
Softly.
Beautifully.
The familiar melody fills the theatre, but something about it is different now.
Slower.
Sadder.
Almost as though it's being played from somewhere impossibly far away.
I glance towards the wings.
Nothing.
Back to Beth.
She's still staring at me.
"Why are you here?"
Nothing.
Her expression doesn't change.
Instead, she raises one arm.
The music swells.
And she begins to dance.
Every movement is perfect.
Graceful.
Effortless.
Beautiful.
I can't look away.
She spins beneath the spotlight, her red tutu catching the light as she moves.
And then I notice something.
She's dancing alone.
But there are two sets of footsteps.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
My breathing catches.
I look towards the empty space beside her.
There's nothing there.
Yet the second set of footsteps continues.
Beth stops.
The music stops with her.
She looks directly at me.
Then she slowly points towards the programme now clutched in my hand.
I look down.
Beth's photograph.
The date.
Then I notice something I hadn't seen before.
A line of faded writing underneath the list.
My heart sinks.
The performer must always be replaced.
I look back at Beth.
She is no longer standing beneath the spotlight.
The stage is empty.
"Beth?"
Nothing.
I hurry towards the centre of the stage.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No music.
No dancer.
Just silence.
I let out a shaky breath.
Maybe it was a hallucination.
Maybe I was tired.
Maybe—
Tap.
I freeze.
The sound comes from directly behind me.
I turn.
Nothing.
Then another.
Tap.
Closer.
I slowly look towards the auditorium.
Every seat is empty.
Except one.
The front row.
A woman is sitting there.
Her face is hidden in shadow.
I can't see her clearly.
But I can see what she's wearing.
A red tutu.
My stomach drops.
The woman slowly stands.
She raises her arms.
The melody starts again.
This time, I recognize the footsteps.
They're mine.
I look down.
My feet are moving.
I didn't tell them to.
I try to stop.
I can't.
One step.
Tap.
Another.
Tap.
The music grows louder.
The woman in the front row disappears.
The stage lights flicker.
And suddenly, I understand.
Beth wasn't performing for me.
She was waiting for me.
-
The next morning, the theatre is empty.
The cleaners' cupboard is unlocked.
A broom lies abandoned in the hallway.
And near the stage...
A single pair of shoes sits neatly.
No one knows what happened to the cleaner.
No one remembers seeing her leave.
But every night, long after the theatre has closed...
the audience can still hear the music.
And if you listen carefully,
beneath the melody,
you can hear two dancers.
One is Beth Adams.
The other is someone new.
Someone who never got to perform.
Until now.