Chain Letter by Christopher Pike

police,” Alison said finally, “then we must at least bury him.
     We must show some decency.”
    “Would that be OK, Tony?” Kipp asked desperately. “We could say a prayer?”
    So sorry, young sir.
    Tony nodded, closing his eyes. That’s how it was with prayers. They were always said
     when it was too late.
    · · ·
    They carried the body fifty paces into the field, the skeletons of the sun-baked bushes
     grabbing for them like the claws of the cursed. They did not have a shovel. They used
     the bar that undid the wheel bolts, a large screwdriver and their bare hands to dig
     with. The ground was hard. The grave was shallow.
    Fran gave them a brief scare when she suddenly jumped and screamed that the man was
     groaning. A quick check, however, showed that that was nonsense, and Joan belted Fran
     on the back of the head and dared her to open her mouth again.
    They lowered him without ceremony, folding his hands across his heart, leaving what
     could have been a wedding ring on his finger. They begged Neil not to do it, but he
     insistedupon draping his crucifix around the man’s neck just before they replaced the soil.
     They said one Our Father.
    They found the freeway with remarkable ease. The return route was not complicated.
     Tony remembered it well. Had he a desire or a need to return to the gravesite, he
     would have had no trouble.

Chapter Four
    T he rehearsal was going lousy. This early in the morning—before first period—it was
     always hard to concentrate. Alison would have preferred working on You Can’t Take It with You after school, but their drama teacher, Mr. Hoglan, had the erroneous belief that
     they were freshest closest to sunrise and could give him their best effort only when
     the birds were singing. Fran’s swiping of the living room props was not helping matters.
     Alison had difficulty getting into her Alice role when she was supposed to look out
     the window and she had to stare into a featureless wall. But the biggest problem this
     morning was Brenda, who was playing Alice’s sister, Essie. Essentially, the play was
     about Alice’s introduction of her fiancé’s super-straight parents to her own super-wacky
     family. Brenda, though she would never admit it, was effective onlywhen playing weird characters. Essie’s constant spastic dancing and frequent airhead
     one-liners created a role perfectly suited to her talents. Brenda, however, had already
     made it clear she disliked portraying “an unattractive geek.” She was going out of
     her way this morning to reemphasize the point. She had added loudmouthed brain damage
     to Essie’s character. In other words, Brenda was trying to drown out the rest of the
     cast. She was getting on Alison’s nerves.
    Normally, Alison loved being on stage. Turning into someone else seemed entirely natural
     to her. In her brief career she had played a conniving cat, a seductive vampire, a
     spoiled daughter, and even a psychotic murderer, and she had had to wonder if she
     hadn’t at one time been all those things in past lives—she had felt so at home in
     their brains. But she realized a lot of her pleasure from acting came from simple
     ego gratification. She loved having people’s attention totally focused on her.
    “Let’s go again,” Mr. Hoglan called from the last row of the small auditorium. A short,
     pear-shaped middle-aged man with a thin gray beard and a thick jet black toupee, he
     was a superb instructor, knowing how to offer advice that did not cramp one’s individual
     style. He was being very patient with Brenda this morning.
    “From the top?” Alison asked. She was the only one on stage not holding a copy of
     the play. She always made it a practice to immediately memorize her lines. This also
     annoyed Brenda.
    “No, start from: ‘He’s vice-president of Kirby & Company.’ ”
    Alison nodded, taking her position. Mr. Hoglan gave a cue and she walked toward the
     coffee table—or where the coffee table was