PROLOGUE
545 Words
PROLOGUE
Denise Holder shuddered with dread as fog billowed up around her feet until she couldn’t even see the floor
I ought to be used to it by now, she thought.
But even after several performances, the effect of the fog machine still seemed weird to her. It gave her the feeling of dancing through a cloud that obscured something scary beneath the surface.
Denise was making her Act 3 entrance as one of the three witches in the Boundless Bounty Theatre Company’s production of Macbeth—or as she and the other actors preferred to call it, “The Scottish Play.”
Shakespeare’s tragedy was said to be cursed.
It was considered to be very bad luck to even say the name of the play aloud in a theater except during rehearsals or performances. Much of the cast was always on edge about the curse, more than half-expecting something awful to happen on that gloomily-lit stage. But Macbeth was very popular with the company’s supporters and therefore a necessity in their repertoire.
Accompanied by creepy music, Denise and the other two witches chanted and danced through the thick carpet of fog.
Poor Gentry, she thought glancing upward.
The actress playing Hecate, the queen of the witches, was about to descend from some 30 feet above the stage. Denise knew that Gentry Chapman was terribly afraid of heights, yet night after night she sat up there all alone until it was time for a stagehand to lower her in her throne. Of course, the technicians said that the fly system was absolutely safe, and that Gentry was in no danger of falling.
I wish I could believe that, Denise thought.
As she continued to dance, Denise felt something wet on the back of her extended hand—like a droplet of rain, except that it was warm instead of cold. Still dancing, she glanced at her hand and saw that the drop was bright red.
Blood? she thought.
Fake blood?
She glanced behind her and saw that the other two witches were now evading a few similar drops of the red liquid falling from high above them.
Like the others, Denise did her best to keep dancing and chanting and staying in character as the throne bearing the queen of the witches appeared overhead and floated downward.
But as the base of the throne neared the foggy floor, Denise saw that something seemed very wrong. The queen was slumped forward, not looking at her followers and not appearing ready to speak her lines.
Denise danced closer and had to stifle a gasp at what she saw next.
What appeared to be a dagger was protruding from Gentry’s chest, and all around it her elaborate gown was stained red.
For just a moment Denise thought that this must be something else that the director had added without mentioning the change.
A fake knife? she wondered.
Fake blood?
Then the throne touched down on the stage with a gentle bump.
Gentry’s head lolled to one side.
Denise clearly saw the open staring eyes, the gaping mouth.
She let out a piercing scream, which seemed to echo again and again.
But it wasn’t really an echo.
The other two witches were screaming as well.
Gentry Chapman was dead.
- Writer
