I was lost. And I was pretty sure I was going to die. How did anyone manage to see shows here? I kept driving and driving, and there were no signs, no buildings, no break in the trees that would indicate a theater anywhere around here. The road had already gone from smooth to pot-holey and fairly soon it was going to turn into gravel. If it turned into dirt, I was going to turn around. I already lost all radio reception, and my CD player was broken. This probably was not worth it.
After driving another five miles on gravel, I finally saw a sign for Darkwoods Theatre. Thank god, because it was getting dark, and I was really starting to get freaked out. I turned onto a dirt road, and finally I saw lights, a building, and a break in the trees. I was going slowly now, trying to get a lay of the land. As I drove closer, I saw a parking area – all dirt, and a cabin next to a large building. I saw Marta at the door of the cabin; she was waving. I pulled into an empty parking spot, and grabbed my backpack. Hopefully I wouldn't need anything else until tomorrow.
“I'm so glad you made it! I was afraid you'd get lost!”
“Me too. If I hadn't seen those signs when I did, I probably would've turned around.”
“Well, the cabin where you'll be staying is around the side. It's fully furnished, except there's no TV or anything. We don't exactly get great reception up here.”
“I've noticed.”
Marta looked a bit uneasy. “I didn't want to have to do this to you your first night here, but the artistic director really wants to meet you now.”
I shrugged. “That's no problem. I mean, I'm tired, but I can handle it.” That did not seem to appease her.
“It's just that... well, remember when I asked if you believed in the supernatural?” Without waiting for my answer she opened the door to the cabin, and ushered me inside. I saw a dead man sitting in a comfy chair. His skin, what was left of it, was patchy and gray. There were a few wisps of gray hair on his head. His jaw was half off. Both eyes were completely sunken in and clouded over. He wore a button up shirt, tweed pants with suspenders, and a bowtie. Everything was threadbare and heavily patched. Why was there a dead man in the office? And then he stood up. I stumbled back into Marta, and was about to scream when she put her hand on my shoulder.
“Sophie, this is Paul Grayson, the artistic director of Darkwoods Theatre.”
“Ggrahrwa.” Said the zombie, sticking out his hand, which was missing two fingers. I was definitely going to die.
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