Whispers In The Walls

Celeste spent the next week buried in blueprints, preservation manuals, and structural reports. If Adrian thought she would just be a figurehead—a convenient name to slap on his project to appease the town—he was sorely mistaken. She was involved in every decision, from material selection to hiring specialists.

But the Fairmont wasn't making it easy.

The deeper she dug into the building's history, the more inconsistencies she found. There were gaps in the records, old permits missing, and blueprints that didn't quite match the actual structure. It was as if someone had deliberately erased parts of the theatre's past.

And then there were the… other issues.

At first, she ignored them. A draft here, a flickering light there. Old buildings had quirks, and the Fairmont was no exception.

But by the third time she heard footsteps echoing in the empty mezzanine, she couldn't chalk it up to coincidence anymore.

"It's just the workers," she told herself as she climbed the grand staircase one afternoon, tracing the intricate gold-leaf trim along the railing. But the construction crew had already gone for the day. She was alone.

Or at least, she should have been.

She reached the mezzanine and peered down at the main floor. Shadows stretched long in the dimming light, and the air felt heavier up here, thick with something unnameable.

Then—soft as a breath—came a whisper.

Not words. Just a presence.

Celeste spun, heart hammering.

Nothing.

Only the hushed stillness of a forgotten place.

Get a grip, she scolded herself.

Shaking off the unease, she turned back toward the main staircase—only to find Adrian standing at the bottom, watching her with amusement.

She scowled. "Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?"

His smirk deepened. "You looked lost in thought. Or terrified. Hard to say which."

Celeste descended, ignoring him. "Did you need something, or are you just here to be insufferable?"

"Little of both," he admitted. "I wanted to show you something."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's never a good sign."

Adrian only grinned and gestured for her to follow.

He led her through a side door and down a narrow, dust-coated hallway. The air was stale, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper. Celeste hadn't been in this part of the theatre before.

"This wing wasn't included in the original restoration plans," Adrian said as he pushed open an old wooden door. "Mostly because I didn't know it existed."

Celeste stepped inside and immediately understood why.

It was a hidden room.

Dim light filtered through high, dust-coated windows, illuminating an abandoned space untouched by time. A long-forgotten lounge, perhaps, or a private viewing room. Velvet-upholstered chairs sat in neat rows, their once-plush fabric rotting. A faded Art Deco mural covered one wall, its colours muted but still striking.

But the strangest part?

It looked lived in.

An old blanket was draped over one of the chairs. A stack of yellowed newspapers sat on a nearby table, their pages carefully arranged.

Celeste frowned. "Someone's been here."

Adrian nodded. "That's what I thought. But the place was locked up tight. No forced entry, no signs of squatters."

A chill prickled down Celeste's spine.

"You think someone from the crew is using it?" she asked.

"Doubt it." Adrian crouched near the table, lifting a book. "This thing's from the 1950s. And it's not covered in dust like everything else."

Celeste knelt beside him, studying the book. It was a journal. The leather binding was cracked with age, but the pages inside were carefully preserved.

She flipped it open.

The handwriting was delicate, looping. A woman's.

April 14, 1948

He promised he would come.

I waited in our seat. The show started. The lights flickered, just for a moment, but I knew it was him.

Celeste glanced at Adrian. "This was written before the fire."

He nodded, eyes dark. "Keep reading."

She turned the page.

April 21, 1948

I can still hear the music when I close my eyes. I can feel the warmth of the lights and see the way the chandeliers sparkle. But he wasn't there. Why didn't he come?

Celeste swallowed. The handwriting grew shakier in later entries, the ink smudged in places as if the writer had been crying.

And then, the final entry.

May 3, 1948

I can't leave. Not yet. He'll come for me. I know he will.

A silence stretched between them.

Finally, Celeste closed the book and exhaled. "This was written right before the fire."

Adrian leaned back against the chair, frowning. "Looks that way."

Celeste studied the journal in her hands. She never left. Not by choice.

"Do you think she—"

A creak interrupted her.

Both of them froze.

The air shifted.

Somewhere in the shadows, something moved.

Celeste's breath caught. Adrian stood abruptly, stepping in front of her before she could react.

Then—silence.

Celeste forced a breath. "We should go."

Adrian didn't argue.

They left the hidden room, closing the door behind them. The hallway felt colder now, the silence pressing.

Celeste still didn't believe in ghosts.

Not really.

But as she and Adrian walked back toward the main theatre, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone—something—had been listening.

And that it wasn't done with them yet.