The Show Must Go On (4) (youre Invited To A Creepover), De Night, P.j.. Editorial Simon Spotlight, Tapa Blanda En Inglés, 2011

Descripción

Bree acts in her first play in this scary You’re Invited to a Creepover tale. Bree Hart has secretly wanted to act on stage for as long as she could remember—it’s all she ever thinks about. Determined to make her dream come true, Bree tries out for this year’s school play, The Last Sleepover, and gets the starring role! After a few creepy incidents on set and persistent nightmares at home, Bree quickly learns that this is no ordinary school play. Is it stage fright? Or is the play haunted?

This creepy tale is a level 4 on the Creep-o-Meter.

About the Author:
A lifelong night owl, P.J. Night often works furiously into the wee hours of the morning, writing down spooky tales and dreaming up new stories of the supernatural and otherworldly. Although P.J.’s whereabouts are unknown at this time, we suspect the author lives in a drafty, old mansion where the floorboards creak when no one is there and the flickering candlelight creates shadows that creep along the walls. We truly wish we could tell you more, but we’ve been sworn to keep P.J.’s identity a secret…and it’s a secret we will take to our graves!

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER 1 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 dnot just is string_containing decidede 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 started—an 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 hand—feeling as if it were being controlled by some other force—reached 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 not been is string_containing hadere 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