It takes a lot of work to keep culture alive in a big city. I’ve dedicated most of my life to arranging community projects and keeping people engaged. Late night movie screenings, flea markets, chaperoning at youth centers, concerts, game nights… you name it. I’m the face in the crowd that people can’t help but to recognize.
It didn’t take long for me to expand my interests to amateur theatre, opera, and ballet. While I didn’t know much about what makes a ballet or opera good, I did know a thing or two about promotion and just keeping a steady schedule. So over time I became a sort of a tag-along, and while I couldn’t speak a line of dialogue without looking at a paper, or stand on my toes for a plié, I’d grown quite essential to the local performance groups.
I didn’t get paid much, but enough to get by. I had a total of 16 so-called micro-jobs that paid the bills. But I’d been looking to get into something a bit more stable. So, using my experience with the local cultural scene, I applied for a full-time job at a local (and very prestigious) ballet school. This place had international recognition!
And lo and behold, I got the job.
Mostly administration and logistics, but I also just helped out during classes. One of my favorite things to do was to help with fliers and social media accounts. I’ve always been a bit of a hobby photographer, and ballet has such stunning visuals.
I had worked there for eight months when we were putting on one of our biggest shows yet; our rendition of Coppélia. There’d been all kinds of drama for months about who was getting which part, what venue we would use, what costume design to go for; all kinds of issues. I tried to help to the best of my abilities, but there was a limit to what I could do.
I’d read up a lot on ballet history during my time there, and it is a genuinely interesting subject. So when we were getting closer to the first show date, I had an idea.
See, back in the late 1800’s, there was a tradition among certain Parisian companies to perform a “ghost ballet”. It was essentially just a final rehearsal with a few more extra steps, but it was something I’d never seen performed before.
The ghost ballet is performed the day before the first show. It is performed to an empty audience, and with no music. The idea is that by keeping the seats empty, you leave room for past dancers to bless your performance. And by performing without music, or “killing the music”, it leaves room for instruments past to be heard by the spectral audience. It is all just a way to remind the performers of their prestigious history, and also paying your respects to those who came before. The dance itself is usually just a silent version of whatever you’re debuting the following night.
I suggested we perform a ghost ballet before our Coppélia debut. I could take pictures and make a few posts about it on our social media accounts. Hell, we could even make it a bit spooky by using the black outfits from our swan lake performance. It would make the rehearsal a bit more fun, while also paying tribute.
Everyone was on board. Sabrine, who had the role of Swanhilda, went all-in. She even suggested we take it a step further by inviting friends and adding a sort of skeleton make-up. I wasn’t completely on board with it, but the others loved it. How could I say no?
So when the night of the ghost ballet came, it was a mini-event in and of itself. There were about 20 people in the audience and we’d dimmed the lights. The music was turned off, but it felt like we missed the point of it when there were friends and family invited. The point was to keep the seats empty, but… yeah. Times change, I suppose.
The performance went perfectly fine. I think the relaxed atmosphere made them all take a few more risks and really give it their all. People were cheering from the crowd, and in the dim lights it all looked sort of… haunting, in a way. Just hearing their feet and panting was strangely unnerving. I took plenty of pictures. Our followers would love this.
When the show was over, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d done something wrong. The dancers seemed happy though. Two of the guests even brought flowers to throw on stage. Mostly discolored blue sunflowers picked outside, but still, it was a nice gesture. Sabrine was beaming.
But all in all, this hadn’t been a “true” ghost ballet. But the dancers were happy, so… all is well that ends well.
Not quite.
As I was driving home that night, I had this awful feeling. I’d uploaded a few pictures and made some posts on our social pages, but I couldn’t help but feel that we’d missed the point. They’d just had fun with it, but the tradition itself had originally been a means of reverence. It wasn’t meant to be posted about online, or for the dancers to dress up in black with skeleton paint. Would we do that to an ordinary audience? No, of course not. This was not a circus.
Halfway home, I remembered that I hadn’t properly engaged the alarms. The code was still tucked away in my wallet. Sure, I’d locked the doors, but without any alarms anyone could just pick the lock and walk right in. It would probably be fine, but I felt like I had to do something right. If only just one thing. So I turned around and drove all the way back.
I heard my phone ding over and over with likes, shares, and messages. The “ballet after dark” aesthetic was an interesting take and made for great pictures. Maybe it’d inspire something new someday.
Once I got back to the venue, I double-checked all the doors and windows. Not only had I missed turning on the alarm, I’d left one of the back doors unlocked. As I locked the place up and turned off all the lights, I hurried through the main hall to lock down the side doors. As I was about to turn on the alarm, I noticed something; a single light that refused to turn off.
It wasn’t one of our spotlights, as the light flickered like a flame. I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
“Anyone here?” I called out. “Sabrine?”
No answer. Without a word, someone walked out on stage.
She was dressed in this large black dress, with puffy shoulders and a black scarf. She tip-toed on her bare feet. With every step they snapped like twigs.
A ballerina is graceful and elegant, and to some degree, that described the woman who’d stepped out on stage. She might’ve been a great performer once, but that was no longer the case.
The harsh overhead light made it hard for me to distinguish her facial features. Her ill-kempt blonde hair made it even harder. As she stepped out in the middle of the stage, I couldn’t help but to stare.
Every step she took was calculated. As she took the arabesque position, I could tell something was terribly wrong. Her leg struggled to remain straight, and she had no strength in her left foot. She had trouble keeping her balance, and I could hear painful sounds as bones and sinew snapped under the pressure.
Her black scarf wasn’t just an accessory; it was there to keep her wobbly neck in place. As the scarf slowly unraveled, I could hear the crack of her neck as she moved from position to position. As she readied herself for a sissonne jump, I just gasped a hoarse ‘no’!
She collapsed onto the floor; a pile of broken limbs dressed in black. Her arm twisted and turned the wrong way, and her right wrist seemed close to falling off. Chunks of her hair were falling out on stage, and still, she tried to get back up. One snapping tendon failing after another.
A chill crept up my spine as I noticed a wind coming from the ceiling. It almost sounded like a flute.
I let out a forced breath, only to see it blossom into a cloud. How hadn’t I noticed the cold?
The “performer” couldn’t get back up, and instead just lay there. I had to show this to someone. I just had to. Someone had to see what I was seeing.
As I brought up my phone and aimed the camera at the stage, I felt a light tapping on my shoulder.
“Pas de photo” somebody whispered.
Somebody cold.
I put down my phone.
It seemed like an eternity. I just stood there, watching. The broken woman groaned and turned, failing to get back on her feet. Instead just lay there, writhing back and forth like a wounded insect. Her frustrated cries echoed from the stage. Groans turning into pained wheezing.
Without turning my head, I tried to see whoever was behind me. I didn’t want to turn around. I had this instinct screaming at me to just wait it out. One more bad move, and I might not make it out. Rational thought would have to take a back seat.
I must’ve stood there for the better part of 10 minutes. I was so stiff my feet were getting numb.
Suddenly, a cold wind blew through the hall, and with it, the overhead light went out. Before the stage drowned in darkness, I met the eyes of the broken dancer.
Her eyes were empty.
Once the stage grew quiet, I ran towards the exit. I slammed the door open, leaving the building and everything in it behind. I didn’t think a second about closing up or locking; I was just getting as much distance between me and that building as possible while my mind tried to make sense of what I’d seen.
The next day, I woke in at 3pm in the afternoon. I had 27 missed calls, and I was running a massive fever. I texted my boss, giving up on describing the previous night entirely. Maybe it’d all been a fever dream. It was certainly warranted. I was shaking.
I tried going back to sleep, but those empty eyes kept haunting me. The words whispered in my ear ran a chill up my spine, worse than any fever. I couldn’t let it go. Had I really seen it? How could that have happened?
I twisted and turned, hour after hour, not finding the slightest bit of rest. I had to do something.
It took me almost two hours just to get dressed and brush my teeth. I tried getting in my car, but I realized I might kill someone if I got into traffic like this. Still, I had to see the show. I couldn’t miss it; I’d promised I’d be there. Sabrine was expecting me.
I called up an uber, chugged a yoghurt, and got to the show just as it was about to start.
The back doors were unlocked, much to my chagrin. I stumbled inside, waving at the security guard. They recognized me, but was visibly worried. Maybe I didn’t look my absolute best. Not really a premiere night type of outfit. Sweatpants rarely are.
As I got backstage, there was the usual excitement in the air. The first act had just started, and I could feel the magic in the air. I had to see it for myself, just to make sure they were doing okay.
It seemed fine. Sabrine was giving it her all. As she and Gaspard performed a perfect fish dive, I could hear the audience ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’. Just like the performers were doing what was expected, so (in a way) was the audience.
Then, a camera flashed.
For a brief moment, I saw something in the empty seats.
I heard something. Maybe I imagined it, but right alongside Sabrine, I heard this other set of footsteps. I found myself holding my breath, waiting for something to snap or twist, like the broken dancer. It struck me how, even with all her training, all it took was for a misplaced step for the show to be over.
Another camera flash.
I looked at the other dancers backstage.
“We… we have to-“
I couldn’t find the words. My mind cramped. I just stared out at the stage, whispering what I’d already been told.
“Pas de photo”.
Even so, there was another flash from the audience.
For a brief moment, every seat in the house was full. Elegantly dressed men and women, clad in black funeral garment. Mummified faces and dirt-filled mouths. And there, ready to run in from the side of the stage, was the broken dancer. Right there, in the dark corner of my eye.
The lights went off.
A power outage.
And somewhere on stage, unhindered by the music, a terrible scream.
They say that Sabrine lost her balance when the lights went out. She, on the other hand, claims someone tackled her. Either way, when the lights came back on, she was writhing on the floor with her leg broken in four places. Gaspard was screaming almost as loud as she was. The audience were taking more photos than ever, flash after flash. I have never heard a scream like hers since, and seeing the terror in her eyes was one of the worst experiences of my life. It was more than just a broken bone; it was the broken heart of a ruined dream.
People were rushing to help. Our backstage paramedic hurried out. Curtains were drawn, and our volunteers were trying their best to calm the audience down.
I caught a glance of Sabrine as she was carried away.
Her eyes, for an instant, looked empty.
We have not performed Coppélia since.
We have changed venues, and I’m no longer arranging ghost ballets. For a long time, I’ve suspected that it was inviting outsiders to be part of the audience to be the main problem, but I have another theory.
See, by the turn of the 19th century, photography was still a budding art. It was forbidden at many venues, and many ballerinas refused to allow photographers. In fact, that was one of the many rules of the Parisian companies, from which the tradition stemmed; “Pas de photo”.
No photography.
I can only hope our transgressions are forgiven in time.
I hope Sabrine is allowed to recover.
And I hope, dearly, that I someday forget those hollow eyes.