The Thirteenth Turn

The wind tore at the ornate copper roof of the Beaumont Grand Theater. Snow piled thick against the loading dock doors outside. Inside the main auditorium the temperature had dropped below freezing. Twelve actors huddled in a tight circle on the center stage. The city power grid had failed three hours ago when the blizzard reached its peak. The only light in the massive cavernous room came from a single industrial flashlight resting upright on the dusty floorboards.

Elias held a stack of yellowed paper near the harsh white beam. The pages felt brittle under his numb fingers. He had found the old manuscript in the basement archives while looking for spare blankets. It was a distraction. Something to keep their minds off the dead phone lines and the massive storm trapping them miles away from the main road.

"Your turn," Clara said. She blew into her cupped hands to warm them.

Elias looked at the faded type. He cleared his throat. "The guests gathered around the fire," he read aloud. "They thought the stone walls would keep the cold away. They thought they were safe in their numbers. Twelve souls seeking shelter."

"A bit on the nose," David muttered from the edge of the circle.

"I am just reading what is written," Elias said. He traced his finger down the page to find the next line. He frowned. The ink looked strangely thick under the flashlight. "But the twelfth guest was mistaken. The shadows in the room did not belong to them alone."

Elias stopped.

"Keep going," Clara said.

Elias squinted at the paper. "The shadows stretched. The twelfth guest looked up and realized the circle had grown. Thirteen breathing chests. Thirteen pairs of eyes."

A heavy silence fell over the stage. The wind rattled the high upper balcony windows.

Clara stopped rubbing her hands together. She slowly turned her head and looked around the circle. Her gaze moved past Elias. Past David. Past the twins sitting near the prop box. Past the director sleeping under a pile of heavy winter coats.

She started moving her finger. Pointing at each person in the dark.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Her finger stopped. It pointed directly at a shape sitting just outside the bright halo of the flashlight. The shape wore a heavy canvas winter coat. The hood was pulled up and completely obscured the face inside. The person sat perfectly still.

"Who is that?" Clara asked. Her voice cracked.

Nobody answered. The sleeping director stirred but did not wake. The others turned to look at the hooded figure.

"Very funny guys," David said. He stood up and took a step toward the edge of the circle. "Which one of the stagehands is hiding under there? Marcus? Is that you trying to scare us?"

The figure did not move.

Elias looked down at the script. The words on the page seemed to shift as he focused. His breath caught in his throat.

"David stands up," Elias read aloud. His voice was barely a whisper. "He asks if it is Marcus under the coat."

David froze. He looked back at Elias. "What did you just say?"

"It is in the script," Elias said. He shoved the pages toward the light. "It says exactly what you just did."

The hooded figure stood up.

It was tall. Much taller than anyone in their cast or crew. The canvas coat brushed against the wooden floorboards. The figure reached into a deep pocket and pulled out a solid iron stage weight. The heavy metal block was normally used to secure the rigging lines high above the stage. It looked brutal in the dim light.

"Hey," David said. He took another step forward. "Put that down."

The figure swung the iron block.

It connected with David with a sickening crunch. David collapsed instantly. He did not scream. He just crumpled onto the stage. Dark liquid began pooling rapidly on the dry wood.

Chaos erupted.

Clara screamed. The twins scrambled backward and knocked over the wooden prop box. The sleeping director jolted awake and stared in horror at the bleeding man on the floor.

The figure turned its hooded head toward the rest of them. It raised the wet iron weight.

"Run!" Elias yelled.

The group scattered into the dark theater. Elias grabbed the flashlight and the script. He sprinted toward the side exit leading into the narrow hallways of the dressing rooms. Footsteps pounded in all directions. People were screaming and slamming doors. The massive theater swallowed the noise quickly.

Elias shoved through the heavy fire door and found himself in the corridor. Clara was right behind him. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the first dressing room they saw. Elias clicked off the flashlight. They plunged into total darkness.

They crouched behind a row of makeup counters. Clara pressed both hands over her mouth to muffle her breathing. Her whole body shook violently. Elias squeezed his eyes shut and listened.

Heavy boots walked across the stage overhead. The sound was deliberate. Not rushed. The killer was hunting.

Elias remembered the script still clutched in his left hand. He needed to know what it said. He needed to know if it knew where they were. He pulled his jacket over his head to create a tent and clicked the flashlight on its lowest setting.

He opened the pages. The old text was gone. Fresh black ink covered the yellow paper.

"The cowards scatter like rats," Elias read silently to himself. "The leading man and the girl hide in the star dressing room. They think the dark will conceal them. But the thirteenth knows the layout of the Beaumont better than anyone."

Elias felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The script was calling him the leading man. Clara was the girl. They were in the star dressing room right now.

He read the next line.

"The thirteenth ignores the stars for now. He walks to the catwalk stairs. The director is trying to climb to the control booth. He is old and slow."

Elias turned off the light and pulled his jacket down. He grabbed Clara by the shoulder and leaned close to her ear.

"He is going after Thomas," Elias whispered. "The director is on the catwalk stairs."

"We have to help him," Clara whispered back.

"How? We have no weapons."

A scream echoed from the main auditorium. It was a raw sound of pure terror followed by a loud metallic crash. A heavy body hit the wooden stage floor from high above. Then silence returned.

Clara began to cry quietly.

Elias went back under his jacket and turned on the light. He stared at the script. He watched the ink bleed onto the page forming new words right in front of his eyes.

"The director takes his final bow. Two down. Ten remain. The thirteenth turns his attention to the basement. The twins are crying in the prop room."

Elias read the words as fast as they appeared.

"He unlocks the heavy metal door. The twins realize they are trapped among the fake swords and plastic shields. The thirteenth uses the iron weight again."

Elias could not hear the basement from where they were hiding. But he knew it was happening. He was reading a live account of a massacre. He flipped the page desperately looking for a way out. Looking for a line that said someone survives.

The rest of the pages were blank. Only the current action was being written.

"We cannot stay here," Elias said. He emerged from the jacket tent. "The script says he is in the basement right now. This is our only chance to move."

"Move where?" Clara asked. "The doors are chained. The snow is blocking the loading dock."

"The upper balcony," Elias said. "There is a fire escape window up there. If we can break the glass we can jump onto the snowbank outside."

They crept out of the dressing room. The corridor was completely dark. The emergency lights in this section had completely died. Elias kept the flashlight off to avoid drawing attention. He kept one hand on the cold cinderblock wall and guided Clara with the other.

They navigated through the backstage area. They smelled copper and dust near the main stage. The iron weight had left a trail. Elias forced himself not to look toward the center stage where David and Thomas lay broken.

They reached the grand staircase in the main lobby. The moonlight filtering through the frosted upper windows cast long pale shadows across the carpet. They started climbing the stairs.

Halfway up Elias stopped.

He heard a sound coming from the lobby below.

Heavy boots dragging on the carpet.

Elias turned on the flashlight and shined it down.

The hooded figure stood at the bottom of the stairs. The canvas coat was now dripping red. The iron weight hung heavily from a massive hand.

The figure looked up at them.

"Run," Elias said.

They sprinted up the remaining stairs. The heavy boots followed them. The killer did not run. He just walked at a steady rhythmic pace. He knew they had nowhere to go.

Elias and Clara burst into the upper balcony seating area. Rows of velvet chairs stretched down toward the railing. The massive stained glass window stood at the very back of the seating section.

"The window!" Elias yelled.

They ran toward the glass. Elias looked for something to break it with. He grabbed a heavy brass stanchion from the aisle and swung it at the thick pane. The glass cracked but did not break. He swung again.

The door to the balcony opened.

The hooded figure stepped inside.

Clara screamed and pushed against the cracked window. "Break it Elias! Break it!"

Elias swung a third time. The glass shattered outward. Freezing wind and snow blasted into the balcony. The drop was steep but the snowbank below looked soft enough to cushion the fall.

"Go!" Elias pushed Clara toward the jagged opening.

She climbed through and jumped into the white storm outside.

Elias turned around to follow her. He felt a massive force hit his leg. The iron weight crushed his knee. Elias fell hard onto the carpeted floor. The brass stanchion rolled away from him.

The killer stood over him.

Elias tried to crawl backward toward the window. The cold wind bit his face. The killer stepped heavily onto his crushed leg. Elias screamed loudly into the empty theater.

The killer reached into his coat with his free hand. He pulled out the script.

He dropped the yellowed pages onto Elias.

Elias looked at the paper. The fresh ink was forming the final lines of the play.

"The leading man fails," Elias read in his mind. "He falls before the exit. The thirteenth raises the iron weight. The curtain closes."

Elias looked up.

The iron weight came down.