she did count all the productions she could remember from Boxgrove Theatre’s history. It almost always worked. The first play she usually thought of was Deathtrap, then she went through the rest of that entire season: The Merchant of Venice, Blithe Spirit, Conviction, an early play by Eve Ensler, and there was one more that Abigail couldn’t remember. She knew it wasn’t another Shakespeare—they only ever did one Shakespeare over the summer—then she remembered that they’d actually done Into the Woods, a rare, and unsuccessful, foray into musical theater, or at least that’s what her parents had concluded.
Abigail went back over several other seasons, then began to tire, and just as she was on the edge of slipping into sleep, she heard what sounded like a branch scraping against the window. It stopped, and she wondered if she’d been dreaming it, but just as she was about to fall asleep again, it started up.
She slid out of the bed, pulled on her nightgown, which had been bunched up on the floor, then pulled her robe from the back of the chair. The fire had died out entirely and the bunk was cold and dark. She went to the window that faced the open lawn in front of the lodge and peered out. She didn’t immediately see anything and wondered if it really had been a branch moving in the wind, when she noticed a figure crouched in one of the low shrubs that ringed the bunk. She caught a glimpse of blond hair and pale skin, and realized it was Jill, hunkered down, squatting. There was a three-quarter moon in the sky and Abigail could see the fear in her face, the wide eyes and set jaw. Abigail waved to her before realizing that she wouldn’t be able to see through the window, then went to the front door and opened it as quietly as she could. It was windy outside, and her robe flapped open as she stepped onto the threshold. She pulled the door closed behind her.
“Jill?” she whispered, and stepped toward the shrub she’d seen her hiding in. “Jill, it’s Abigail.”
Jill stood up and took a step backward. She was wearing a long satiny nightgown that was either white or yellow. Down her right side, under her arm, there was a dark stain on her nightgown that looked black in the moonlight. “Are you hurt?” Abigail asked, and Jill took another step backward, looking confused. She held up her arm, the inside of which was also coated in what was clearly blood.
“Who are you?” Jill said.
“It’s Abigail, Jill, what’s wrong?” She moved rapidly toward her, and Jill turned and began to run across the lawn toward the line of trees that bordered the end of the bunks.
Abigail froze for a moment, wrapping her robe around her, shocked by what had just happened. The moon was bright, and Jill was moving fast, her white nightgown whipping around her. Abigail didn’t know if she should dart back into the bunk and wake Bruce, but if she did that Jill would be long gone. Abigail began to chase her across the lawn, the grass damp under her bare feet.
As she ran, the moon must have moved behind a cloud, because it darkened. Even so, she could see that Jill had reached the line of trees. She disappeared into the woods.
Abigail slowed down, breathing rapidly, staring into the darkness. “Jill,” she shouted. She stepped right up to the edge of the woods, staring into them, letting them come into focus. There was nothing to see, though, and nothing to hear, except for the wind whipping through the tops of the trees. Inside the woods was total darkness. Even so, Abigail, shaking now from the cold, took a few steps farther. She could feel the fallen pine needles sticking to the soles of her feet, and she could smell damp soil and rotting vegetation. “Jill,” she shouted again, but she knew that she was gone.
Suddenly scared, Abigail turned and raced back across the lawn toward her bunk. A few lights were on at the main lodge and they jangled in her vision as she ran. She considered going straight there, but decided she needed Bruce with her.
She pushed through her door and into the bunk, going directly to the bed and shaking Bruce by the shoulder. He woke, as he always did, sluggishly, looking at Abigail as though he didn’t know who she was or what she wanted.