Ghost Light

It is said, that in every theatre there are ghosts and shadows from the past. Performers, dancers, musicians and entertainers. Happy times, where the lights go out and the curtain rises.

Eric Cartwright had served his time in the Royal Navy for his King and country as an engineer, a young man with dedication, who could turn his hand to anything.

For the last thirty years or so, he had taken employment as the caretaker and maintenance man, for a local Davenport Theatre.

He could certainly entertain many a young or old sceptic, with his tales of shadowy presences and his encounters, on a lonely shift at night.

When the dancers and actors had left through the heavy stone steps to meet their fans at the stage door. Eric’s job was to check the building, to make sure all was secure. He never quite got used to descending into the bowels of the dark dingy passageways into the nocturnal pit under the stage. The dank air chilled him to the bone every time, as the knocking old pipes clanked within the dusk.

He would methodically check, that everywhere was safe and secure. Without looking behind him, or casting a glance over his shoulder, he would make his way to the open theatre.

Rows and rows of empty seats, some within the light of the stage, the rest encased in the blackness. Never straining his eyes into the dark as he didn’t pursue what his eyes didn’t see.

He worked well on his own. Proud to be the one the production team and the theatre goers relied on. A very proud cog within the large clock. Oiling the mechanism, as the musicians, scriptwriters, opera singers and conductors could count on him for their premiers.

He neither acknowledged nor dismissed what his senses spoke to him, at times, as his skin would crawl and his hairs would stand on end. Especially when a door, would suddenly close shut unexpectedly.

Thoughts of those spirits around him never left his brain.

Whether you believe, or whether you do not, does not concern me. I’m just conveying to you his story. He would tell you that there is nothing more unsettling, than the chill, that rises up within your spine, when working in a place that should be so full of life.

Performers, playing out to an audience. Tragedies, actors, memorising and channelling the scripts of Shakespeare, Romans and the Greeks. Plays, over 2000 years old. Brought to life. A connection, a medium between the there, and the now.

Stills and skills of a bygone age, memories, like photographs, captured in time.

Glimpses of nocturnal shadows, hiding behind veils. Returning, while those who sleep, relive their glory, on the stage.

The tradition of the ghost light, steeped in its history, back to the time of gas lit venues. Dim lights were left on during the night, to relieve pressure on the gas valves.

Moving forward in time to Eric Cartwright’s employment there, the lights were still very important, but now a floor light, left on to shine on the stage, whilst the theatre slept, and the doors were closed until morning.

It is said that this was to enable the navigator of the stage, to search for the lighting control console, without the misfortune of stumbling over props, or worse still, falling into the orchestral pit.

Some spoke of the ghost lights as being left on for some nocturnal thespians. As dusk fell, ghostly beings would return to the stage, and re enact their final performances.

Balconies were permanently left open, for ghostly guests to view these nightly performances.

As a naval apprentice, the rule of thumb was never to whistle whilst on ship. The same applied to the stage, neither on, nor off. As this would bring bad luck. Eric respected this superstition and applied it. Never to upset those who were there, or not, performing their roles.

His heavy key ring jangled. His eyes lowered as he locked up for the night. Not one to look at the lamp, nor the surrounding areas of the stage. Not one to stare, his eyes not wanting to graze the empty chairs. Respect for the nocturnal visitors. They too, avoiding his gaze, a mutual admiration for the key holder.

No need. As usual the chill followed, as Eric’s ears detected the faint sound of a bow grazing the strings, as the haunting melody of a Cello akin to that of the human voice, moved sorrowfully and beautifully through the auditorium.

The door closed on these theatrics as Eric walked the grey, wet flags to his lonely empty house.

Proud to keep these souls safe, within his theatre of dreams.

Julie Modla

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19445198.Julie_Modla