The Dare

“Fine.  I’ll do it”.

The Freshman had no choice.  He was not about to be called a baby for being the only one to decline a dare.  It was a rule; you had to do any dare given to you.  There was no punishment for not doing the dare because that wasn’t even an option.

He was not going to be the person to cause one of these punishments to be put in place.

The others playing the game cheered and applauded as he raised himself from his seated position on the hardwood floor of the very dimly lit gymnasium.  The shouting echoed loudly against the walls of the room, with no people or objects to disrupt the sound waves.

The Freshman waved as if he were the president walking out of Air Force One, though he wore a fake, half smile on his face.  He wanted to entertain the other players but not like this.  Not with a dare like this one.  He was sweating profusely, his tee-shirt slowly becoming damp.  A headache began to set in, right in-between his eyes.  He rubbed his eyebrows roughly as he walked toward the door to the foyer, pinching his skin into a peak where the headache was springing from.

The group moved out of the gymnasium in concert, the Freshman in the lead.  The foyer and the hallways protruding from it were dimly lit, with only the red LEDs of the exit signs and the moon in the windows emitting light.  The procession turned down the hallway to the right and marched on.  There was chirping throughout this crowd, people wondering if he was really going to go through with this dare.  

It was the last thing that he wanted to do but he had to.  

The Freshman didn’t want to know the truth.  Rumors had been circling for years but only one person had looked into the matter to see whether or not these rumors were true.  That person, Bryce Woods (The Freshman would never forget that name, as long as he lived), came out as a different person.  Bryce stayed at home for two weeks following this incident.  No one heard from him for 14 days in a row.  When he finally returned to school, he didn’t speak about what happened.  He spoke when prompted with a question but never more than that and never about that day.  He walked around with his eyes wide, as if, well, as if he had seen a ghost.

Since that day, no one had gone back there.  Tonight, however, that would change. 

From the crowd emerged his friend, Brenna.  “You can’t actually be going through with this, right?  I knew you were a dumbass but come on, think!”  she slapped him on the shoulder, as if to jumpstart his already hyperactive brain.

He broke out of his daze and struggled to find the ability to speak at first.  Before he could even come back to his senses, Ian, who was a decent friend of the Freshman and Brenna, pulled her back by her shoulder, begging: “Brenna, stop.  You know he has to do it and if you get involved, they’re going to make you go with him”.  At this, Brenna fell back into the group of eager kids awaiting the most ambitious dare since the last time this dare was issued, with a harumph.  As she backed off, she gave him a look of sincere worry.

The Freshman didn’t even comprehend the look at the time; he had too much stuff going on in his mind already.  

They pushed on, through the science wing, past the cafeteria.  Ambling his way through the hall, a light was reflected into his sight.  His eyes began a search for the source of this reflection, gazing further down the hallway.  The object that caught the Freshman’s eye was bronze and in a vase-like shape.  A trophy.

He approached the trophy, which was accompanied by a modest amount of other awards.  He read over the descriptions attached to each of them; “1998 Varsity Football - Sectional Champions”, “2001 Womens’ Soccer - Sectional Runner-Ups”, among others.

“Quit stalling, we all know you have no clue how any of these sports work” hollered a deep voice from the back of the gathering.  He was right, of course.  By that time, however, his gaze was transfixed on something that wasn’t sports related at all.  He was not quite sure how it got there but on the left-most side of the trophy case laid a small plaque.  This plaque was obviously not done by professionals; the writing was shaky and looked to be engraved with a knife of some sort.  It read: “Bryce Woods - The Bravest of Us All - 2016”.  He stood there, quizzical as to who might have gone to such extremes to get this plaque inside the trophy case.  

Soon after this first thought came another; why hadn’t the plaque been removed?  It had been 5 years since Bryce’s incident, someone must’ve noticed the plaque, right?  This thought gave rise to a storm of others.  They just kept coming and he could do nothing to slow the flood.  Had someone noticed and decided against removing it?  Does the school know about the incident?  Does the school know about what Bryce saw?

He had completely zoned out.  What finally pulled him out of this trance was screams of “campus security!” from behind him.  He jumped, his breathing now rapid.  His eyes darted across the crowd to try to find the source of the shouts.

The shouts came again, the voice the same as the last.  This time, he saw that the shouts had not come from campus security themselves; they had come from a member of the game.

He caught onto what exactly was going on and ran out of sight from the glass doors in the hallway.  The players, adrenaline pumping from the sheer prospect of this dare and running from campus security, ran further than was necessary to avoid detection.  The group ran down the band and chorus hall.  Figuring that they would come back and find him anyway if he fell behind, he kept pace with the crowd.  When the pounding footsteps came to a stop, they found themselves standing in front of the auditorium.  He was so close.  He could feel himself tensing, dreading what was about to come.

Once the group came to the same realization of their location in the building, the chants began.  With steadily growing numbers, they chanted: “Freshman!  Freshman!  Freshman!”  No one knew his name, he was just the new kid.  No one felt bad for a kid that they didn’t know.  So they chanted.

He smiled in a manner that made it look like he actually felt like crying.  No one could blame him.  No one cared, either.

The shouting progressed as he waved uncomfortably to the crowd, clearly overwhelmed by the calling of the group.  His head was racing, all of the voices seemed to be caving his head in.  He backed himself into a corner, cowering away as if there were some escape tunnel he had to push himself deep into the wall in order to enter.  

The pressure continued to amount upon his mind.  The chants became shouts, the shouts became screams, the screams became ear-piercing wails.  He could take it no longer; he broke: “OKAY, OKAY!  SHUT UP!” he paused briefly, “I’ll do it.”  

The crowd cheered at this proclamation.  He paid no attention to this, however.  He made his move towards the auditorium doors.  He figured that if he didn’t go now, he never would.  He let the adrenaline and frustration push him through the door.  The yells got louder as the crowd caught onto what he was doing.  Once the door was shut behind him, the noise drowned out behind him.  

The noise was still there but it was muffled.  His shoulders dropped, his breathing calmed.  That is, until he came to his senses about where exactly he was.  

The auditorium was almost pitch black.  The exit signs and the distant sight of a singular ceiling light backstage were the only light visible.  There was just enough visibility to see the three sections of seats in the room.

He was frozen once again.  He recalled the stories that he had heard about Bryce, most of which started in this room.  He couldn’t help but to be terrified that similar stories would be told about him.  Two more doors and he would be there; the place where Bryce Woods would change forever.  

You have no choice.  You have to do this.  Maybe this time will be different, maybe you won’t turn out like Bryce, he thought.  

This did little to motivate him.  However, it did succeed in convincing him that he had no choice but to move forward.  He shook his head left-to-right, like a dog who had just gotten out of the water.  He came back to his senses and slowly started down the slight decline of the auditorium towards the stage.  

He did his best to block off any negative thoughts from his mind as he took the long walk towards the door leading backstage.  Sweat started to ball up at his hairline and trickle down his face.  His hands became clammy, his hands opening and closing as if that would make the sweat go away.  He wiped the unwelcome moisture on his shorts repeatedly as it kept coming back.

He had reached the backstage door.  His thoughts still blank, he pushed through the door without any hesitation.  The hallway was wide, props from what looked to be a medieval play lined the walls and topped the desk tables that seemed out of place in this hallway.  Though, what did he know?  He didn’t do theater.  

Passing through the medieval wasteland of the hallway, he stopped in front of a box of props.  In this box was what appeared to him to be ancient weaponry.  Maces, battle-axes, swords, and shields were packed in this crate.

Come on, please please please.

His multiple years of lightsaber fights growing up led him to grab the sword out of the bunch.  He grabbed the hilt and his arm flew up like a stretched rubber band being released.  He knew, subconsciously at least, that the sword would not be real; that it wouldn’t be a suitable self-defense weapon.  His optimism must have gotten the best of him, though, because he was expecting the blade to be heavier.

His adrenaline-induced state of determination proved temporary.  His gaze fell, puzzled, upon the blade.  He turned it in his hands repeatedly, observing the hard plastic weapon.  There was a ‘thwack!’ sound, then another, then another.  The smacking continued and when he looked down, he saw his own hands swinging the sword in immediate, direct paths that repeatedly made contact with the box that he had gotten the sword from.

The swinging stopped.  He was panting, beads of sweat were dripping from his brow.  He stood there, staring at the sword.  He burst out into laughter.  He laughed so hard his side began to hurt.  Stumbling backwards, he knocked the props on the table nearest to him over.  He leaned on the table, trying to catch his breath but struggling to quell the laughing fit.  

As his laughing sputtered out, he took deep breaths to try to return his breathing to normal.  There were tears in the corners of his eyes, threatening release upon the arrival of more laughter.  He wasn’t quite sure what was so funny or if there even was something comical about the situation.  

He let go a few restrained chuckles and shook his head, saying: “alright, let’s get this over with.”  The tears fell as he took one final deep breath before facing his fate.  He decided not to allow his nerves any time to come back and grabbed the round door handle.  He pushed the door in and breached the threshold of what he thought to be his final destination.  

It was dark and dusty, just how he had imagined it.  The room was meant to be for props but, as evidenced by the excess amount of props in the hallway, they rarely made it to the room.  Most players and theater members believe that this is because of the story of Bryce.  No one wanted to take their chances.  

In the middle of the room sat the home to the source of the countless horror stories told about this room; a large chest, beautifully designed and crafted out of what looked to be mahogany.  It seemed innocent enough but the Freshman could feel something sinister growing in the air.  This sensation could not possibly be contained by the door to this room, it was too strong, too overwhelming.

It felt as if the chest were calling him.  As if there were an invisible rope tethered to his waist, tempting him to explore the contents of the chest.  The rope was effective.  The Freshman waltzed, in a dreamlike state, towards the trunk.  As he drew closer, the latch popped open and hung loose from the catch.  His hand was guided toward it.  The soft caress of the air in the room convinced him to grab the latch.  

His eyes had not blinked once since entering the room.  It would seem, after that day, that they would forever stay open.  

With eyes looking as though he had already witnessed something unspeakable and a blank mind to boot, he pulled on the latch.  The immense weight of the lid did not seem to affect him; he pulled it open effortlessly.

What the Freshman saw in the crate left him speechless.  He stared, mortified, for a few seconds that felt like hours before falling backwards to the floor.  He scrambled, heart racing, words struggling to fall from his mouth.  “N… nnn.... NOOOO! STOOOPPP!” he shouted.  The Freshman cowered, his hands flying to his eyes to block out the horror.  The tears came streaming down his face as he fought throwing up from hyperventilation.  He scrambled to his feet, slipping like a dog on ice.  

Once he finally gained some semblance of a footing, he bolted toward the door.  Fear had taken over.  The few props near the door fell as the Freshman knocked them over with his flailing limbs.  He grabbed the doorknob, his sweat drenched hands slipping repeatedly.  He tried repeatedly but the knob just refused to turn.  The panting was quickly getting worse.  Tears came rushing down his face even faster now.  The more he struggled with the door, the more light-headed he got.

The seemingly demonic pressure of the room continued to press down upon him and he continued to cry.  The Freshman’s vision became blurry but he pushed on with the door.  Still, not a budge from it.  He decided he was done trying the doorknob and started to throw his shoulder at the door instead.  No movement from the door.  He tried again, his vision not even reliable enough to know if he would hit the door the second time.  He didn’t feel it give way.

With his third attempt at bursting through the door, he gave a warrior cry reminiscent of an ancient warrior charging into a blood-drenched war.  He hit the door with a force that was quite contradictory to the battlecry that he had shouted while rushing the door.  His vision went dark, the feeling in all his limbs no longer existent.  He collapsed, cold and immobile, with the contents of the chest his only company.

**********

This is the story of the second person to voyage into the prop room of our school, as it was told to me.  No one even knew his name; he never got the chance to tell us.  As far as we know, none of us got the chance to learn it either.  The most common rumor amongst us players is that he turned out just like Bryce Woods and his family moved him out of state.  Others believe that he eventually got out of the room but couldn’t live with what he saw, so he took his own life.  However, I believe that the majority of us don’t really believe these to be the truth.  My belief is that, deep down, all of us think that he died in that very room that day; that his skeleton is still laying behind that final door.  

I am the oldest player in the group, now.  As far as I am concerned, I am the only one who knows this story in such detail.  At least, I think I know.  Mind you, this story was passed down to me from one of the players who was there the day that the Freshman became the second to do this dare.

Back on track, I am writing this to preserve this story.  Tonight, I will become the third player to do this dare.  I hope to God that my story does not turn out like that of Bryce and the Freshman.  If I turn out fine, then I wrote this for nothing.  However, if you’re reading this, then I suffered the same fate as the previous two.

If you’re in the game, do yourself a favor: make friends with everyone else in the game.  Do anything and everything you possibly can to not become the fourth in line.  

If you are given this dare, may God protect you.