Stacey Leadbeatter from Yorkshire had never been on television before. Her hands shook as she gripped the microphone, her nerves visible in every breath she took. The stage lights glared down like judgmental suns.
“Tell us a bit about yourself,” said one of the judges, smiling the way people do when they expect something small and sweet.
“I work in a supermarket,” Stacey said. “I… I cook chickens.”
Laughter rippled through the audience—not cruel, but incredulous. The judges grinned. Stacey smiled back, uncertainly.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Her daughter, Lily, had submitted her name without asking. Stacey only found out when she received the email confirming her audition slot. “Mum,” Lily had said, eyes bright, “you’ve been singing in pubs for years. It’s time the world heard you.”
And now, as the music cue began for Rise Up, her heart thudded like a trapped bird.
She sang.
At first, her voice trembled. Then it rose. It rose with all the strength she’d hidden behind fryer oil and supermarket chatter. The audience shifted from amusement to awe. By the chorus, the arena was electric. People stood. The judges exchanged looks—surprised, moved, captivated.
When the final note fell, there was silence. And then—chaos. Roaring applause. A chant rising: “Golden Buzzer! Golden Buzzer!”
One of the judges slammed it. Gold rained down. Stacey covered her face as her daughter ran on stage. Cameras flashed. The dream had begun.
But dreams, Stacey would learn, can be fragile things—especially when they don’t belong to you alone.
The next morning, headlines exploded: “Chicken Chef Turns Stage Diva!”
By evening, producers were calling. Interviews. Photoshoots. Her story—humble worker to star—was perfect for ratings.
Lily couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re famous, Mum!”
Stacey wanted to be thrilled. But something inside her trembled—an unease she couldn’t name.
During rehearsal the following week, she noticed something odd. When she began singing, her voice sounded different. More powerful, yes—but it carried an edge, like another tone layered beneath it. As if someone else was singing with her.
She stopped mid-song. “Did you hear that?” she asked the sound technician.
He frowned. “Hear what?”
“That—echo. Like there’s another voice.”
He replayed the track. Just her.
Still, the feeling persisted. The next night, she dreamed of the supermarket oven doors swinging open, of golden light spilling out, and a whisper from within: You took my song.
She woke drenched in sweat.
The semifinals came faster than she expected. New dress. New makeup. New song. The producers wanted something “bigger.” They gave her Never Enough from The Greatest Showman.
It felt wrong. Too grand. Too loud.
Before the performance, a janitor approached her backstage. An old man in a faded staff jacket. “You worked at Meadowmart, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, confused.
He smiled, showing crooked teeth. “You remember the woman who sang in the back room? Night shifts, long hair, bit strange?”
Stacey frowned. “You mean Donna? She used to sing when cleaning the rotisserie. Lovely voice.”
“She died last year,” the man said softly. “Heart gave out in the walk-in freezer. Still talks sometimes, they say. When the ovens are on.”
Before Stacey could reply, the stage manager called her name.
She sang.
And halfway through, the lights flickered. Her microphone screeched. Then—two voices filled the air. One hers. One lower, deeper, hauntingly familiar.
The judges looked around in alarm. The audience gasped. Stacey tried to stop singing, but her lips kept moving. Her throat burned. The second voice wrapped around hers like smoke.
You took my song.
The gold confetti machines burst too early. The lights went black.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in her dressing room, producers crowding the doorway.
“Power surge,” someone said. “Half the cameras shorted. But the footage we got—it’s incredible. Eerie. Beautiful. Viral already.”
“Viral?” she repeated, her voice hoarse.
“Over ten million views.”
Her phone was blowing up. #HauntedSinger was trending. Fans claimed the ghostly harmony was “proof of divine talent.” Conspiracy threads dissected every note.
She wanted to tell them the truth—but the truth sounded insane.
That night, Stacey went back to the supermarket. She walked through the quiet aisles, past the cleaning carts and flickering fluorescents, until she stood before the row of ovens.
The metal doors reflected her face, pale and tired. “Donna,” she whispered. “If that’s you… I’m sorry.”
The air hummed. Faintly, from somewhere deep in the machinery, a note trembled—her note, but softer, older.
“You sang my song,” a voice murmured. “Now I’ll sing yours.”
The oven lights glowed red.
The finale arrived. She almost didn’t go. But Lily begged. “You can’t quit now, Mum. Everyone believes in you.”
Backstage, the producers whispered about holograms and “that supernatural energy” that made her special.
When she stepped onto the stage, something inside her felt distant, hollow. Her reflection in the camera lens smiled back—but the eyes weren’t quite hers.
She sang Rise Up again. Only this time, the other voice didn’t wait. It took over.
The sound was immense—two voices intertwined, one earthly, one otherworldly. The crowd was transfixed. Phones lit up like stars.
Then, as the final chorus soared, the arena shook. Stage lights shattered. Gold confetti burst in a blinding wave. When it cleared, Stacey stood alone, microphone still in hand—except it wasn’t quite Stacey anymore. Her eyes glowed faintly amber, her smile too calm.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
The judges rose in stunned applause.
The show crowned her the winner by unanimous vote. The recording of her finale broke every streaming record.
But after the finale, she vanished. Didn’t show up for interviews, didn’t answer calls. Meadowmart’s rotisserie ovens, however, began to act strangely. Employees swore they heard humming from them late at night—soft, angelic, with two voices blending in perfect harmony.
Lily came by once, placing a bouquet near the ovens. When she turned to leave, a faint voice drifted after her:
Rise up… rise like the day…
She froze, tears in her eyes.
“Mum?”
A pause.
Then—so soft it could’ve been the hum of the machines—came the reply:
Always.