Curtain Call

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural…ah, if only…I have my dreams. Oh, and the Bucks County Playhouse is a real playhouse, but it isn't haunted.

Authors Note: This is my first fanfiction in a while (I used to write LOTR fanfics under another name)…just saying!

Summary: His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."


August 15th, 2001--Bucks County Playhouse

"Remind me again how you managed to forget your jacket, if it was so freakin' expensive?" Grumbled James as he swung himself from the driver's seat of his treasured 1964 Mercury Comet Caliente. His girlfriend, Clarissa, huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him.

"Shut up and give me the chain…scissor…things. Cut the chains! My mom doesn't know I'm here," muttered Rissa, jabbing a frosted fingernail at the heavy chains wound around the Bucks County Playhouse doors. James rolled his eyes and extracted the necessary tool from the trunk of his car and walked over to the chained doors, boots crunching on the gravel road. Rissa hurried to catch up with him, running gingerly because of the high heels she wore: towering specimens that made her at least three inches taller.

As James wrestled with the clippers, Rissa put a hand to her forehead, her face twisted up. He turned to her, clippers ready to bite through the shiny chains. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Still a bit hung over from last night, I guess."

"Huh. That was some party!"

"Clip! That jacket is Italian leather!"

James curled his lip at her, and, with a grunt and a strain of his muscles, forced the clippers to bite through the chains. He stepped back, dropped the clippers, and grinned at Rissa. She eyed him expectantly, so he pushed open the heavy doors for her and gestured with his right arm. "Ladies first."

Together, they stepped into the abandoned playhouse, although it didn't look so abandoned; currently, it looked like the site of a wild rave, which, coincidentally, it was. Several of the seats were ripped up, beer bottles and cans littered the ground, and there was a boom box in the corner. There was grafitti covering the walls, some fresh, some in various states of age. The only untouched area was the stage; it was disturbingly pristine. Not even a speck of dust marred the polished oak stage.

"Spooky! Where's that jacket, Riss?" Inquired James, picking up a lacy black bra that was slung over a seat with two fingers. "Someone had a lot of fun."

Rissa snorted in laughter, but didn't look up as she continued poking around the rows of seats for her jacket. She was so engaged in looking under seat Q 18 that she didn't notice the person standing behind her until he draped something over her shoulders.

Before she even fully knew what she was doing, she screamed, whirled around, and tripped herself on the person's ankles. She landed somewhat uncomfortably in the seat, where she screamed again, until the person put a hand over her mouth. It was only then that her brain registered who it was.

"Rissa! Jesus. I found your jacket," James grumbled, rubbing his ankle.

"Great. Now, let's get the hell out of here," she said quietly, picking up her jacket from where it had fallen onto the floor.

"Wait, wait. You owe me something after that," James said slowly, a grin spreading over his face. Rissa glared at him for a moment.

"James! You know I'm flat broke—oh!"

He grinned, as if marveling at her naivety, and leaned down, propping his arms on the armrest of the seat. Slowly, gently, his lips touched hers, and they kissed passionately, until Rissa squeaked quietly and pulled back. Her eyes were wide, and she was biting her lip; she looked frightened.

"Rissa, what's wrong?"

"I…it…I don't like it here! It feels creepy. I want to leave, James," she said in a low voice, struggling up from the seat awkwardly. "We got my jacket, now let's go!"

James huffed and stepped back, dragging a hand across his face. "God, Rissa. You're such a scaredy-cat. Don't tell me you believe that dumbass legend?"

"People have died in here, James! It's haunted! A lot," she answered defensively, and they stood toe to toe, seething, until a raucous creaking noise interrupted the silent argument.

The two of them eyed each other for a long moment, then, as if it had been rehearsed, they turned slowly, just in time to see the heavy, weighted theater door moving on its rusted hinges—by itself. Then, as if someone had pushed it violently, it slammed shut faster than the eye could follow. The auditorium was darker than the blackest midnight, and the two teenagers were alone without a flashlight.

Rissa squealed and threw herself at James, who opened his arms accommodatingly. "Hang on, I gotta lighter…," he muttered, fishing through his pockets. "Aha! Found ya, you little bastard," he added, triumphantly holding up a little red cigarette lighter. He flicked it on, and by the light of the tiny flame, they made their way to the door.

A grating noise filled the air, and by the insubstantial flame, the pair saw the heavy metal bolt slide through its casing, locking securely into place. James gulped audibly, and Rissa whimpered.

"James…I don't like it here…" she whispered, her voice echoing eerily through the pitch black auditorium.

"Cool it, Riss. I'm just gonna open—up—the—bolt—my God! Little fucker's in there tight!" He grunted, straining at the bolt. No matter how hard he tugged, it wouldn't budge. Rissa turned her sightless eyes down the aisle, to the stage, then squealed loudly and pressed herself against the door, whimpering incoherently.

"What now? A stray cat? Or maybe a—" He turned around and fell silent for a moment, gaping like a fish. "Oh…my…fucking…God…"

There was a cloud of mist on the stage, about the size of an average pillow, and creamy white in color. It was puffy, like a cumulus cloud, and exuded a pleasant, rosy smell. James tilted his head, enthralled, as a pretty tune filled the air, a tune Rissa recognized as the opening notes to 'Masquerade', from the Broadway show The Phantom of the Opera. Rissa gulped, but James grabbed her hand and dragged her down the aisle.

"I think it wants to help us, Rissa…maybe it knows about a door…"

"Help? Yeah, right! James, let me go! I don't want to put my life in the…uh, hands…of a singing cloud!"

But he only rolled his eyes and continued down the aisle. 'Masquerade' grew louder, but it was taking on a more sinister air; it was less pretty, and less pleasant. The cloud was growing darker; now it was a rather unpleasant shade of brown, and the rosy smell was being overpowered by a revolting smell of rotting flesh.

"James! Something's wrong!"

He only grunted, and continued pulling her down the aisle. As she became more and more frightened, she tugged harder and harder, until she finally wrenched her reddened wrist from his death-grip. The sudden pressure released, she fell onto the floor, where she lay still as James turned his glazed eyes upon her.

"Watch the show, Clarissa."

"James—James, something's wrong…we need to get out of here…"

"Stay and watch the show. It's going to be incredible, Clarissa," he murmured in an eerily deadpan voice. His eyes were still glazed over; slowly, slowly, they were turning white, and his tanned skin was growing paler by the second. She merely whimpered and scooted backwards; James gave her a plastic smile and turned on his heel, his movements jerky, as if he were a marionette, under the command of an amateur puppet-master.

As she watched, frightened into a state of immobility, he slowly climbed the steps onto the stage, his footsteps echoing into the auditorium. His foot on the final step, he turned to face her and gave her another eerie, fake-smile, and whispered, "This is my scene."

And as 'Masquerade' shrieked in her ears, he turned and stepped onto the stage. She watched, breathless with terror, as he walked to the center of the meticulously clean platform, and knelt.


He bowed his head and whispered something: the ending words to the song.

"Let the spectacle astound you."

And he threw his head back, the sound of his neck popping filling the auditorium. A horrendous, unearthly scream was drawn from his throat, an ear-popping, window-shattering shriek. His head drooped, then was flung back again, and another hideous cry was torn from his throat.

By now, Rissa was screaming too—the cloud, the same cloud that had lured James to its territory, was drifting over to James, who was still kneeling on the stage, still screaming hideously. Leisurely, it came into place above him, then drifted down. It stretched itself, so to cover his body completely, and abruptly, his screams stopped; the cloud became opaque, and Rissa lay on the floor, motionless, breathless.

Then the cloud vanished, and James' skeleton pitched to the floor.

All right! That's the first chapter of Curtain Call. I hope you like if you did or didn't, I appreciate any comments!