by P. J. Night
“When they reached the girl’s house, the boy kissed her good night and went on his way. Once inside the door, the girl realized that the boy’s school jacket was still on her shoulders.
“She turned to yell out to him, but he was nowhere to be seen. It had been only a minute since he’d left, but the street was now dark and empty.
“Then the girl remembered that while they were walking, the boy had mentioned where he lived. She hurried to his house, which was only about ten minutes away. When she arrived, the girl stepped up to the front door and rang the bell.
“A woman answered the door. The girl asked if the boy was home, figuring he had to be. Where else would he have gone? The woman’s eyes filled with tears as she explained that the boy was her son and that he had died three years earlier.
“‘But that’s impossible!’ the girl exclaimed. ‘I just saw him at the school dance. In fact, he lent me his jacket. Here it is!’
“The woman took the coat and hugged it tightly as tears flowed from her eyes. ‘Thank you for returning this,’ she said. ‘My son died due to an accident at a school dance three years ago. I’ve wanted his school jacket as a memento, but the people at the school said they never found it. Thank you for bringing it home!’”
The girls onstage breathed out a collective sigh. Each girl, without even realizing it, had slid off her pillow and was clutching it tightly.
“That was great,” Bree said to Melissa.
“Pretty creepy,” Dara added. “I heard one once that my cousin told when my family went up to my aunt and uncle’s cabin by the lake. We were sitting around a campfire, and my cousin told us the story of a school tour group on a trip to Colonial Williamsburg.
“A small group of kids got separated from the main group and found themselves in front of an old house that looked like it hadn’t been touched since actual colonial times.
“‘This is not on the tour,’ one of the friends said. ‘I don’t think we should go in.’
“‘Come on,’ said another. ‘The tour is boring. Maybe we’ll find something cool in there.’
“The group slowly pushed open the creaky old front door and stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind them loudly, startling everyone in the group. Then a man dressed in full colonial costume stepped into the entryway.
“‘Good day to you,’ the man said. ‘Welcome to my home. My name is Jeremiah Hobson.’
“‘I thought you said that this house wasn’t on the tour,’ one friend whispered to another.
‘It’s not supposed to be. I guess they added it or something.’
“As Jeremiah Hobson led the group on a tour of the house, he described the day-to-day activities of his daily life in colonial times. The friends were all impressed by his detailed descriptions.
“‘This guy’s the best actor yet,’ one friend whispered.
“‘Yeah, but you’d think they would clean the house up before they took people on a tour,’ said another. ‘This place is a filthy wreck.’
“Just as the tour ended, the kids heard the front door burst open.
“‘Hey! Who’s in here?’ someone shouted.
“The kids ran toward the voice and found themselves face-to-face with a police officer. ‘What are you kids doing in here?’ he asked them as he stepped inside.
“‘We were taking the tour,’ one of the students explained.
“‘The tour?’ the officer replied. ‘What tour? This house has been closed up and condemned for years.’
“‘But what about Mr. Hobson, the tour guide?’
“‘Hobson? Jeremiah Hobson?’ the officer asked.
“‘Yeah, that’s him.’
“‘Jeremiah Hobson lived in this house two hundred years ago! You say you saw him?’
“‘Yeah, he’s right over—’
“The kids all turned to the spot where a moment before, Jeremiah Hobson had been standing. He had vanished. Turning back to the police officer, their eyes opened wide in shock as they watched the front door slam closed . . . with no one having touched it.
“‘Good-bye, Jeremiah,’ the officer said, which was when the kids realized that they had been given a tour of the house by its original occupant—or at least by his ghost.”
“Cool!” Melissa cried. “I like it. But I wish the lights would come back on so we could keep rehearsing.”
“I have one,” Tiffany said with a sly grin.
“My story is about the very play we’re performing,” Tiffany began. “I did a little research and discovered that it was first performed thirty years ago. In fact, it was put on in this school, in this auditorium, on this stage where we are now sitting.
“A creepy drama teacher named Wormhouse wrote the play. She insisted that the school put it on, but she met a lot of resistance from parents and teachers who said it was too strange and too scary and that it didn’t have a happy ending. They all wanted Wormhouse to do a safe, nice musical, something everyone knew and was comfortable with. But she would have no part of that. She insisted that her play be performed, and in the end she got her way.
“Right from the start, though, the rehearsals were plagued with strange incidents. Props would break, scenery would collapse for no reason right in the middle of a scene, and lights would go on and off by themselves—kind of like what happened to us tonight.
“Finally opening night came. But as soon as the girl playing Carrie stepped out onto the stage to begin the show, something fell from above. It struck her and killed her instantly.”
All the girls onstage gasped.
Tiffany had them in the palm of her hand, and she knew it.
“Back then there were rumors that the play itself is cursed . . . and that whoever plays the lead is destined to die!”
As Tiffany said the word “die,” the lights in the auditorium blazed back to life.
Bree looked around and realized that everyone on the stage was wide eyed—and they were all staring right at her!
CHAPTER 5
“Thank you, Tiffany, for that very entertaining piece of folklore,” Ms. Hollows said as she came back into the auditorium. “As you can see, the problem with the lights has been resolved. Now if we can all get back to reality, I’d like to run through one more scene.”
Bree did her best to focus as the rehearsal continued, but Tiffany’s story had really shaken her. Cursed! she thought. Could the play really be cursed? Was that what she had been feeling all along? Was such a thing even possible?
Bree was by nature a pretty rational, straightforward person. She liked ghost stories but never truly believed in the supernatural. But a strange feeling of dread began to work its way into her subconscious. She was sure she wanted to be here doing this play. But there was something else . . . something she just couldn’t put her finger on that was making her question that decision.
When rehearsal ended, she headed from the auditorium feeling unsatisfied. She thought that the first part of the rehearsal had gone very well. Then the lights had gone out and Tiffany had told her story. Bree was much less pleased with the quality of the scenes she had run through after that.
“You okay?” Melissa asked, catching up to Bree at the front door of the school. “You seemed kinda out of it during that last scene.”
“I don’t know, Lis, that story Tiffany told about the play really freaked me out,” Bree explained.
“Oh, she’s just trying to get under your skin,” Melissa said. “She’s still all bent out of shape about not getting the lead. She’s probably trying to rattle you so Ms. Hollows reconsiders. Don’t let her mess with your mind. You’re doing a great job. You were born to be Carrie!”
“Thanks, Lis. I think,” Bree said hesitantly. She knew that Melissa’s comment was intended as a compliment, but it reminded her of what Ms. Hollows had said on the day of the auditions: The play has been waiting for you. Both statements carried a strange sense of destiny that made Bree very uncomfortable.
Bree and Melissa stepped out of the building and
into a raging thunderstorm.
“Okay, well, that explains why the lights went out,” Bree said, looking out at the wind-whipped trees and sheets of torrential rain. She felt relieved to find a logical explanation for the creepy incident that had so closely mimicked the events in the play.
“For sure,” Melissa agreed. “I just hope I have power at home. I have tons of chatting to do online! See ya tomorrow, Bree.” Melissa trotted over to where her older brother waited in his car to give her a ride home.
“Hi, Gabrielle,” said someone from behind her. Bree spun around and saw Tiffany standing on the steps of the school.
“Tiffany!” Bree cried, startled to hear a classmate calling her by her full name.
“I have something to tell you,” Tiffany said.
Bree thought she had said quite enough for one day already. Or was she actually going to apologize for always being so snotty?
“Okay,” Bree said cautiously.
“You’re going to hate playing the lead,” Tiffany spat out, contempt dripping from every word. “In fact, you’re going to be sorry that you ever even tried out for this play.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The amount of work is intense,” Tiffany continued, stepping up right next to Bree. “Learning all those lines. All the pressure of the whole play revolving around you. Everyone is depending on you, you know. That’s what comes with being the lead. And it’s so easy to let down the whole cast . . . the whole school, actually. One little mistake, one tiny thing done wrong, and you could ruin the play for everyone.”
Bree was startled, and for the moment, speechless.
“I’d quit now if I were you,” Tiffany said as she brushed past Bree. Then she stopped and turned back toward her. “But fortunately, I’m not you.”
Bree watched Tiffany disappear into the driving rain and darkness, stunned and confused. She got onto the late bus for students who were involved in after-school activities, her mind still reeling from the bizarre encounter with Tiffany.
Was that a threat?
After dinner, Bree hunkered down at her desk and dove into what felt like a week’s worth of homework. As she plowed through her math and science assignments, she wondered how Megan had managed to be in all those school plays, for all these years, while remaining a straight A student.
“Have a good day, Superstar?” Megan asked, poking her head into Bree’s room, startling her.
“Pretty good,” Bree said. She was not about to share all that had happened with Tiffany that afternoon. Megan would probably say that Tiffany was right. I’m not giving her any reason to put me down again. I’m sure she’d love to see me flop . . . or even better, quit.
“Well, be sure to let me know if you need any acting tips,” Megan offered.
“Yeah, right, Megan,” Bree replied sarcastically. “You’ll be the first one I’ll go to.”
Megan shrugged and closed the door.
After another hour of homework, Bree began to feel sleepy. She had gotten a good chunk of her assignments done and felt satisfied. Slipping into bed, she read for about five minutes before drifting off to sleep.
In her dream, Bree found herself sitting in the front row of the school’s auditorium. The props and scenery for The Last Sleepover were set up on the stage. “How did I get here?” she wondered aloud.
A crowd of people filed into the auditorium and took their seats.
“What am I doing sitting in the audience?” Bree wondered. “I should be backstage, or up on the stage, or . . .”
At that moment she noticed that something was wrong. Glancing around at the people entering the auditorium, she realized that they looked strange. What are they all wearing? And what’s with that hair? They all look like they stepped out of another era.
Was it an eighties theme night at the school? But why would they do that on the night of a performance? And why would they ask the audience to also play dress-up? None of it made any sense.
The lights went down and the actors made their way onto the stage in the dark. Dim stage lights set the mood, and the play began.
RACHEL: Nice, Carrie. The place looks like it was decorated by a wrecking ball!
CARRIE: Cute. You know we only moved in a few weeks ago. My family and I haven’t had a chance to fix it up yet. I just couldn’t wait to have my first sleepover. It helps to make it feel like home.
LAURA: Yeah, if your home’s been condemned!
That’s the scene we just rehearsed today, Bree thought. Then she focused on the girls up onstage. Okay, now this is officially weird. Even the actors have hairstyles from another era.
As the play continued, Bree grew more and more confused.
(SUDDENLY LIGHTNING FLASHES AND THUNDER RUMBLES.)
LAURA: Eiii!
CARRIE: Laura?
LAURA: Sorry, I’m just a little afraid of thunder. I—
(THE THUNDER SOUNDS AGAIN . . . LOUDER THIS TIME. LAURA SCOOTS OVER NEXT TO CARRIE. SUDDENLY THE CHANDELIER OVERHEAD FLICKERS ON AND OFF, AGAIN AND AGAIN.)
RACHEL: Okay, now I’m officially creeped out. I—
CARRIE: Look!
(CARRIE POINTS TO THE CHANDELIER. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING REVEALS THAT THE CHANDELIER IS SHAKING.)
Bree heard a sharp snapping sound that seemed to be coming from overhead. Looking up, panic flooded through her as she realized that a stage light had broken loose and was plunging down from above. The light was headed right for the girl playing Carrie!
CHAPTER 6
“Look out!” Bree screamed, leaping from her seat.
The stage vanished, as did the girl and the falling light and the audience. Bree was sitting upright in her bed, her heart pounding and her hands shaking. After a few seconds, her mind cleared and she realized that she had just awakened from a terrible dream. She was in her room at home, and the sun was shining through her window.
It was like I was right there, when the play was first performed. And that poor girl getting hit by the light. Thank you, Tiffany, for planting that vision in my brain.
Trying to shake off the effects of the dream, Bree pulled herself together and headed downstairs for breakfast.
“You look horrible,” Megan said when Bree joined her at the kitchen table.
“Thanks. I didn’t sleep well. Bad dreams.”
“About what?” Megan asked.
“The show,” Bree replied through her sleepy haze. She immediately regretted having shared that with her sister.
“Stage fright, huh?” Megan said casually, shoving another spoonful of cereal into her mouth.
“No,” Bree replied defensively. “I’m fine when I’m onstage. It’s just the play itself. It’s hard to explain, but it gives me the creeps.”
“It’s a scary play, Bree,” Megan said, shrugging her shoulders. “Giving people the creeps is what it’s supposed to do.”
“Yeah, but it’s supposed to give the audience the creeps,” Bree pointed out. “Not the actors. I’ve had a nagging feeling that something isn’t totally right with the play. Then Tiffany told us that story.” Even mentioning the story sent a shiver through her.
“Story?” Megan asked, leaning in toward her sister.
Bree recounted the tale of the play as it had been performed thirty years earlier and the death of the girl playing the lead.
“And then last night I had a dream about it,” she said, finishing her story. “And I saw it happen, Megan. I was right there, sitting in the front row when the light fell down on that girl. It seemed so real.”
“Sounds to me like that play is really getting to you,” Megan said. Bree thought that her sister almost sounded glad. “You know, some people just aren’t cut out for the theater. There’s no shame in that. Maybe acting isn’t for you.”
“Thanks for being so sympathetic,” Bree snapped, shoving her chair away from the table. “You’re a big help.”
She stormed back up to her room to get dressed. That’s the last time I go to her with my problems, she
thought. I’m just going to get through this play and everything is going to be fine. It was just a dream. That’s all. A dream.
At school that day, Bree felt more focused than she had in a long time. The dream faded from her mind, and she didn’t think about the play at all.
When the last bell rang, Bree hurried to the auditorium for rehearsal with a renewed sense of purpose. After her fight with Megan that morning, she had managed to push aside her uneasy feeling about the play and was once again excited about playing Carrie.
“You look positively perky,” Melissa said as she and Bree headed to the stage.
“Perky, huh?” Bree echoed. She decided not to tell Melissa about her dream, preferring to forget it. “I guess I have been a bit serious about all this. I let that story Tiffany told us get to me, but I know she was just making up all that stuff about it being cursed to get me to quit the play. This is just a play.”
“Uh-huh,” Melissa said, looking at her friend a bit strangely. “Right, and this is just a stage, and this is just a chair, and this is—”
“Okay, okay,” Bree said, sighing. “Never mind.”
Ms. Hollows hurried into the auditorium.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “Let’s run the Carrie and Rachel scene, please.”
Bree was thrilled to notice that the set for Carrie’s room was looking more like a real room than it had the day before. The set decorators had added more touches. Clothes, books, and general junk were strewn everywhere around the room. A few old, worn-out sleeping bags were arranged in a circle on the floor. A complete mess, Bree thought. Perfect for the scene of a haunted sleepover.
“Ooh, the sleeping bags are here,” Melissa cooed when she stepped onto the stage. “Now it looks like a sleepover!”
The scene they were about to rehearse featured only Carrie and Rachel. Bree was thrilled to be alone on the stage with her real-life best friend. They walked onstage, and Bree immediately let herself be transported into character. She was no longer Bree, she was Carrie. Melissa was no longer Melissa, she was Rachel. This was not the stage in the auditorium, it was Carrie’s bedroom.