Page 2 of The Most Unusual Haunting of Edgar Lovejoy

Jamie

There was always a moment, about two minutes after Jamie Wendon-Dale took the stage, when performance shifted to embodiment. When the audience fell under their thrall and changed from observers to participants in creation. It was the moment they waited for every time they performed.

In stark contrast, the dressing room where they prepared was always pure chaos—a minefield of curling irons and stiletto heels, cobwebbed with stockings and wigs, the entire thing dusted in glitter so fine it clung to clothes and hair for days.

“Who’s the guy?” asked Deon, handing them a shot of tequila.

“What guy?” Jamie asked, wanting to keep the frisson of attraction they’d felt for the handsome stranger for a little while longer.

Deon, understanding, simply clinked her glass to Jamie’s, and they both drank.

But Marie, midway through donning her towering Marie Antoinette wig, chimed in. “The hottie who looked like he was gonna cry. Ugh, can you help me, please?”

Jamie, who had just started slicking back their hair, held up hands covered in gel and considered that description. Deon sprang up and held the wig straight so Marie could pin it in place.

“I just met him,” Jamie said casually.

They wouldn’t have described Edgar that way, but there had been something that drew Jamie to him. A vulnerability that made Jamie want to crowd him against the wall and soothe and interrogate him in equal measure.

Jamie looked at their reflection in the mirror as they lined their eyes with kohl.

Was there a sparkle in them that wasn’t usually there?

They reapplied deodorant, adjusted the straps and buckles of their costume, and absolutely, positively did not wonder what the handsome stranger from the bar would think of their act.

***

“Now, put your hands together for The Count!” the announcer said as Jamie stood in the wings.

Whoops came from the audience, and a flurry of hands patted Jamie’s back as the music began.

The lights hit first, and that rush of time speeding up, tugging at their every motion.

But the difference between a good performer and a great one was their response to being hurried.

Great performers treated time like it was infinite, like they’d never leave the stage, believed the audience would be happy to watch their slightest movements forever.

Jamie aspired to it.

They’d started doing burlesque at the behest of a friend and quickly realized that burlesque functioned just like their day job: designing haunted houses. Both used concealment to draw an audience in and the promise of revelation to lead them exactly where Jamie wanted them.

It had been what attracted them to horror movies as a child. Even when they were too young to understand the films, they’d been captivated by this interplay between what is hidden and what gets revealed. The wicked special effects hadn’t hurt either.

Halloween costumes became an avenue of expression for them, then fashion. But burlesque specifically had healed something for Jamie, allowing them space to experiment with how they presented their body.

As The Count, Jamie strutted and splayed, menaced and seduced, stripping off their cape and using it as a prop. They bared their fangs and swirled the velvet fabric. The music whirled and coaxed, the lights dimmed and spun, and excitement rushed through Jamie.

They bit down on the blood capsule in their mouth and let the streak of red hit their snow-white shirt. The crowd cheered and whistled, and slowly Jamie stripped it off, letting the red streak their ribbed white tank too.

Jamie couldn’t see the crowd with the spotlight on them, but they felt the energy building. Jamie had them. They were in.

They faced the wings and caught the comically large wooden stake the stage manager threw. For a moment, they played it to the audience as if they were scared of the object. Then they quirked an eyebrow and reconsidered the stake, grinding on it rather than fearing it. The crowd went wild.

They twisted and inched the tank up their torso, revealing more and more skin.

Finally, blood-streaked clothing on the stage and velvet pasties that matched the cape covering their nipples, Jamie turned to the cheering audience.

They held the stake suggestively and thrust their hips forward.

A gong sounded just as the stake ejaculated a spray of red confetti directly into the audience.

The closest table shrieked and laughed, brushing at the glitter in their hair and clothes. Jamie swept a low bow that allowed them to grab their costume from the stage. Then they exited, heart pounding and stomach light, to enthusiastic applause and whistles.