Six Feet Underground

Theatre

The best turnout the musical ever got was the night of the murder.

The audience flaunted glittering gowns and smooth tuxedos, pulling up in limos, stepping daintily along in heels and spit shined dress shoes. They sat up attentively in their seats, elegant drinks clutched in their hands.

Anastasia put on her best performance that night, starting the show with a fiery monologue that had the audience captivated. The other actors followed suit, throwing their hearts and souls into every line they spoke. The energy spread through the entire backstage crew.

When the show's hit song rolled around, Anastasia decided at the last minute to wear a brand new dress from her favorite personal designer. It swept the floor, gold and glimmering, every time she shifted the sequins caught the light. The other actors were silent with awe backstage as Anastasia belted every high note flawlessly and with ferocity like never before.

Critics would have fussed over her, calling it a fabulous night. They would have referred to Anastasia's dress the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. Instead, headlines screamed dramatic tragedy, terror onstage, legendary actress shot twice in the heart.

Guitars screamed and black hair flew. Every hand in the audience was in the air, every head banged and phones were raised up to take video. Analise's fingers snapped across the frets, the wild music pulsing through every inch of her skin, bursting out of every pore. She could hear herself, below the treble melody, a pounding bass thrum. The mic, poised on a stand right at her height, was inches from her lips.

The climax of the song fell upon them. The roaring guitar receded to a wiry hum. She plucked a few strategic notes on her bass as the rhythm slowed. Her cheeks flushed with thrill. Her mouth opened, and she began to sing, her voice ringing out in the quiet onstage. She felt every lyric, let every emotion they were meant to provoke sweep through her, taking control of her voice and bringing it up to a perfect, wailing high note. The audience screamed in response, fists pumping.

There was a sudden catch, the whole crowd seemed to freeze as if they, too, sensed a sinister presence. Analise's fingers slacked, cold dread washing over her with overwhelming force, then a deafening crack ripped through the room, and her head tipped down to see a crimson splotch spreading across her gray corset. Her jaw dropped, the world spun, and pain crashed over her like a wildfire.

Another bang, and another bullet hole appeared. Her lead guitar's arms caught her as she swayed in a dizzy shock. The audience was in chaos, pushing and shoving for the exits in wild terror. Analise took one more ragged breath, her band screaming desperately in her ears, then she was sucked into a gold, glittering, bloody abyss.

Cobwebs brush your skin, dead whispers throb in your head. Your heart races, fear gripping your throat in tight fingers as you grope around in the dark, searching blindly for an exit. Something ferocious thrives here, something seeking blood.

The voice in your head expands to fill the rafters. It forms a song, something eerily familiar, something you New Yorkers always sing when you're telling horror stories. You catch glimpses of shadowed figures, flecks of glitter and a distant clicking of heels.

The halls press in on you as you dash through them, tripping over loose floorboards. You swear you can see lights flash, but maybe it's only the panic sweeping through your mind. A wave of dizziness rolls over you and the world, silent yet flaming, spins before your eyes. You stumble, hands slamming into the walls, and suddenly burst onto the stage.

Lights blind you momentarily, and you squint, heart racing. A sparkling silhouette stands alone in the spotlight. She turns to face you, and you stagger away from her. Two bullet holes pierce her chest, scarlet staining her golden gown. You throat closes up and you cannot scream.

Another onslaught of dizziness causes your vision to tumble before your eyes. Pain tears across your torso, and you look down to see bulletholes that match the woman's. You groan softly, and your legs buckle in slow motion and you are dead before your limp body strikes the floor, echoing through the silent theatre.