The Show Must Go On!
Read The Show Must Go On! Online
Authors: P.J. Night
âThere's Something Out There' Excerpt
THIRTY YEARS AGO . . .
“You're fired, Ms. Wormhouse!” barked the principal of Thomas Jefferson Middle School. “And we are canceling your play, forever.” He leaned forward on his desk and locked his piercing gaze on the eyes of the woman seated across from him.
Mildred P. Wormhouse stared back, her dark, sunken eyes blazing with anger. “Canceling?” she sneered. “I've worked on this play my entire life. Fire me if you wish, but the play will be performed!” Her curly shock of jet-black hair shook with every word.
“Maybe somewhere else,” the principal said, standing now, his tone growing increasingly impatient. “But it will
not
be performed here, at this schoolâever! Do you have such little regard for human life?”
“Bah!” Wormhouse snarled with a dismissive gesture. She stood, her long black coat flapping near her ankles as she turned away from the principal.
“A girl died last night, Ms. Wormhouse,” the principal said through clenched teeth. “On this school's stage, playing the lead in the play you wrote and directed. And that was only the final terrible incident. The rehearsals have been marred with accidents and other troubles. In fact, strange things have been happening at this school since the day you arrived. I've heard rumors that your play is cursed. I'm not a superstitious man, but I'm starting to believe them. I've seen to it that every last copy of the play has been thrown out.”
Wormhouse turned slowly back toward the principal. “Cursed?” she hissed, her lips curling in a slight smile. “You really shouldn't let your fears get the best of youâ”
“This conversation is over,” the principal interrupted. He marched across the room and threw the door open. A roar erupted from the angry mob of parents and teachers who had gathered outside the office.
“There she is!” one man shouted.
“It's her fault,” a woman yelled. “Her play!”
Wormhouse squirmed out the door and through the
crowd; her head bent low, her black coat flapping with every step like a cape. She headed for a hallway that led to the front door of the school. Pausing, she turned back toward the irate crowd.
“You may fire me,” Wormhouse cried. “But you cannot stop my play. The show must go on.” Then she turned down the hall toward the front door of the building.
“Good riddance!” someone in the mob shouted.
“Don't ever show your face around here again!” screamed someone else.
Wormhouse disappeared from view around a corner in the hallway. But instead of turning left toward the front door, she turned rightâtoward the school's auditorium, where her play had opened last night and where the girl playing the lead had died.
Walking quickly down the center aisle of the empty auditorium, glancing back over her shoulder every few steps, Wormhouse made her way backstage. Spotting an old steamer trunk, she shoved a pile of costumes off the top, then yanked open the lid. Inside the trunk were props from all the years of school productions. She reached into an inner pocket of her long coat and pulled out the last remaining copy of her play. Burying it
beneath the mound of props inside the trunk, she gently lowered the lid.
Seething, her breath now labored, she repeated her vow, muttering to herself, “The show must go on.”
PRESENT DAY
 . . .
Felix Gomez shoved aside a rack of hanging costumes and looked around backstage in the auditorium of Thomas Jefferson Middle School. He had been the drama teacher at the school for a few years now, and he really wanted to do something different this year. He would put on a new play, he decided, not just the same old, same old. Tasked with revitalizing the school's sagging theater program, he had spent weeks reading new plays, but so far nothing had grabbed him.
Then it startedâan inexplicable urge, at first vague, then specifically focused on the backstage area of the school's auditorium. Gomez had no idea why he was drawn back there, but somehow he knew that the obsessed, panicky state of mind that had gripped him
for days now could only be eased by searching there.
In a dark corner, buried under long-discarded props and scenery, Gomez spotted an old steamer trunk. He knew instantly that this was what had been calling out to him, driving his obsession.
Throwing open the trunk, his handâfeeling as if it were being controlled by some other forceâreached in. He pushed aside old props and grasped a stack of pages, bound together by three rusted metal fasteners.
Blowing off a cloud of dust from the top, Gomez read the title of the play.
The Last Sleepover
. He slammed the lid of the truck and sat down in the dim light to read the play. It looked like it had been typed on a typewriter. “This is it!” he said to himself before he had read a single word. “I know it. This the play I have been looking for!”
But as Gomez read the play, the force that had driven him here battled with a new feeling, one of inexplicable anxiety and horror. The more he read, the more intense the feeling of dread grew. Somewhere deep inside, he knew there was something wrong with the play.
“No. This isn't right,” he muttered to himself, staring at the script, fighting the urge that had been driving him. “I can't do it. I won't put on this play.”
Gomez stood and hurried to the trunk to put the play back where he'd found it. Feeling a sudden sharp pain in his ankle, he tripped over a low stool that he was certain had not been there a moment before. He crashed to the ground and clutched his right leg in pain.
Bree Hart paced up and down the center aisle of the Thomas Jefferson Middle School auditorium and nervously twirled her curly dark hair around her finger. The meeting for students interested in auditioning for this year's play was about to begin. The auditorium was filled with energized students, busily chatting, eager to know what the play would be about. Bree had never felt this way before. She was equal parts excited and terrified.
“Trying to wear a hole through the carpet?” asked someone from behind Bree.
She spun around to face her best friend, Melissa Hwang.
“Oh, Lis, I'm so glad you came,” Bree said, hugging her friend. “I'm so nervous!”
“I told you I would come,” Melissa replied. “You think you're the only one who wants to be in the play?”
“I can't believe the time is here!” Bree exclaimed. “I've dreamed about acting for as long as I can remember, but I've never had the guts to actually audition for anything.”
“Good for you, Bree,” Melissa said. “You don't want to spend the rest of your life living in Megan's shadow, do you?”
Bree thought about her older sister, Megan, who had gotten the lead in every school play since the third grade. Melissa was right. It was time for Bree to take center stage.
“I wonder what's keeping Mr. Gomez,” Bree said. “He was supposed to be here, like, ten minutes ago.”
“Anxious to begin your new life in the theater?” Melissa quipped.
“Something like that, yeah.”
Just then the auditorium door swung open.
“And here he is,” Melissa said.
But instead of Mr. Gomez, a tall woman strode slowly down the center aisle, carrying a large briefcase. As she passed, Bree noticed the dark circles around her eyes and her jet-black hair.
“Who's that?” Bree whispered to Melissa. Melissa shrugged.
The woman climbed the steps to the stage and walked out to the center. Adjusting the single microphone that had been set up for the auditions, she spoke in a surprisingly pleasant and gentle voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention please,” the woman began. “My name is Ms. Hollows. Unfortunately, Mr. Gomez had an accident yesterday afternoon. He broke his leg and will not be able to direct the play. I will be your substitute drama teacher for the next few weeks, and I will be directing this year's play.”
A buzz went through the crowd. Mr. Gomez was one of the most popular teachers at the schoolâmany of the students sitting in the auditorium that afternoon were there because of him. Bree could hear the sighs of disappointment throughout the room.
“I was really looking forward to working with Mr. Gomez,” she moaned.
“Me too,” Melissa concurred.
Having given the students a moment to digest this unexpected bit of news, Ms. Hollows continued. “The play I have selected for us to perform is called
The Last Sleepover
.”
Ms. Hollows opened her briefcase and pulled out a
thick stack of papers. “I have copies of the play for those interested in auditioning,” she said, placing the pile onto a stool next to where she stood. “Please form a line and come up and take a copy. You are to read the play this weekend and decide which role you would like to audition for. Auditions will be held after school on Monday. I will see you then.”