Bloody Mary

I knew the legend. Everyone did, didn't they? Even though there were so many different tales that no one knew the first one, the true one. But now I know. And it all started with a game.

I'd invited my friends over for a sleepover that night. My parents were having a date night and wouldn't be home until after twelve, so we had the house to ourselves for over seven hours. We made pizza and ate popcorn and watched old crappy horror movies. That's how we got onto the topic.

We started playing our own version of Truth or Dare. If we picked Truth, then we'd have to tell an embarrassing fact about ourselves that no one knew. I had always picked Dare, a fact my friends didn't like. So I took inspiration from the horror movie we had watched before starting the game and told them something that I thought embarrassing.

I told them that I'd never played the game before. They, being a trio of immature teenage girls, giggled and laughed and handed me a lit candle before pushing me into the bathroom. I heard them say that they wouldn't let me out until I said it. So I turned to the mirror.

The light from the candle cast menacing shadows over the dimly lit bathroom. From the angle I was standing, it even looked as though someone was hiding in the shower. I shook it off, thinking that it was just a trick of the light.

I knew that I was supposedly going to be visited by her spirit. That was all part of the legend. But I knew that no one who had said it ever really saw her, and no one ever, ever died from saying it.

So I did.

"Bloody Mary," I breathed quietly "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary."

The flame on the candle expanded suddenly to five times its size, illuminating my eyes and turning them glistening red. I blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the trick of the light. What was going on? What was happening? This wasn't normal! When the flame finally died down, I sighed in relief. It was just a random fluke. Now I could leave.

But as I was turning toward the door, I saw something in the mirror. Standing right beside me was a strange image. Her chaotic hair was jet black, her white dress in tatters. Her eyes were soulless holes in her skull, and they looked right at me.

It was her. It had to be.

She reached toward me with bloody hands, her fingernails torn out violently. That was when I screamed. I lunged for the door, banging on it as hard as I could, begging for my friends to let me out. I heard giggles and a call to 'quit being such a sissy' as I felt two hands wrap around my throat and throw me to the ground.

I kept screaming, thrashing around and trying to knock her off of me. When she brandished the gleaming blade, I knew that I was going to die. My friends must have finally realized I wasn't joking, as they tried to get inside. They yelled at me to unlock the door, to let them in, but I couldn't get past her.

Then there was a white-hot flash of pain across my throat and my screams descended into wet gurgles. She held the knife up again, stained an awful crimson. My struggles became weaker and weaker as something warm and sticky poured from my neck, coating my clothes and the cold tile floor.

The last thing I saw was her sick, twisted smile.

My friends made me play the game, and I paid the price. But I don't blame them. I guess if you're going to play the game, you should be willing to accept the consequences.

I realized the other day –while watching the episode of Supernatural with Bloody Mary –that I'd never played the game before. You know, the one described above where you say her name three times? Well, I decided to write something about someone who did. Thanks for reading!