Remember Bloody Mary
“Too bad he changed his mind. You are sizzling, girl,” Whitney says to her friend, checking out her fairy costume. “His loss, right?”
Taking a tissue from her friend, Veronica wipes her eyes and sinks back into the couch. “I gave up a killer babysitting job this weekend that would have paid $300 to go to that stupid party.”
Veronica blows her nose and wads the tissue up in her hand, laughing hysterically.
“What’s so damned funny?” Whitney asks.
“I’m sorry, this is a sad moment and I should be crying, but it’s hard when the Queen of Darkness is playing pity-party for me. It isn’t natural, you know?” She giggles and Whitney joins in, giving her a hug and pulling her dark hood up.
“You’re not natural. Okay, I’m cancelling my date with Justin and hanging with you,” Whitney says with an upbeat snap to her voice. “It’ll be more fun anyway.”
Whitney tosses her hood back, calls her date and turns back to her friend, “Let’s play that game we used to play as kids. Remember ‘Bloody Mary’?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t like it much.”
“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Whitney says rushing upstairs with her friend in tow to the bathroom. She closes the door.
“Cool, you even have candles,” Whitney says as she collects them from the sides of the tub and pulls a lighter out of her purse.
“Why do you have a lighter? You don’t smoke, do you?” But Veronica’s question meets with a let’s not get into that now expression. Instead, Whitney lights the candles. Holding one in front of her, she stares transfixed into the mirror hitting the lights. Veronica’s holding a candle of her own.
“Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary…,” they say in unison, growing louder, thirteen times before blowing out the candles and waiting. A piercing screech echoes and a blood-curdling scream reverberates off the porcelain and glass. Veronica flips the lights on. She is alone. A shuffling downstairs demands her attention.
“Whitney?” she says, leaving the bathroom. “Whitney?” The fairy moves to the stairs with caution and sees a cloaked figure in the dim lights by the door. “Is that you?”
Without a response, she descends the stairs. As she draws near, it isn’t Whitney at all, but Justin, her friend’s cancelled date. “Trick or treat, bitch,” he says, his voice cracking, as his hands whisk a hatchet from beneath his cape.
“No,” she manages to say before the blade divides her eyes vertically in a spray of red across the wall. Her body convulses and crumples to the floor–a muddled mess of blood and mutilated brains. He shakes his head back and forth hard, confused. Prying his hatchet out of her head with a sharp jolt, he dashes out the door.
“Why didn’t you look in the shower?” Whitney says, laughing as she emerges at the top of the stairs, her mangled friend lying askew at the bottom. “Bloody Mary. Oh my God!”