Maria: I woke up when I was pushing the hat pin into his eye.
John: (Startled) What? What’re you talking about? Are you saying you attacked Malcolm with a needle?
Maria: (Looking away almost dreamily) Not a needle. A hat pin. It’s bigger and duller, but it still went into his face very easily.
John: (Angry and shocked) Why? In God’s name, why?
Maria: (Turning to him petulantly, like a child angry for being scolded) Because he asked me to.
I first heard about the play called The Shadowed Sea from an old drama professor of mine. He was famous for throwing parties every few months—sometimes it was a sprawling barbeque, at other times, a more intimate dinner party with just himself, his wife, and a handful of his favorite students invited. For a few months in 2008, I was among that group, and me and my best friend Frieda were over there one night when he started telling us about “forbidden plays”.
Most of it was typical stuff. Oscar Wilde’s Salome banned for religious reasons or Arthur Miller’s The Crucible for political ones. But that wasn’t what people really wanted to hear about. That was stuff for a classroom debate when you wanted to look smart to impress your teacher or the hot girl sitting next to you. But when you were a little tipsy and with friends and the night had grown late and dark, it was easier to set aside some of that bullshit posturing and be honest. And the truth was, you didn’t care about some book that was banned for offending someone or to squelch some contrary ideology. You wanted to know about books that were truly forbidden. Plays that were not just taboo, but dangerous.
In the light, it sounded like a silly thing to ask. How could a play or a book be dangerous? Was it supposed to be like the Necronomicon or something? Stuff like that wasn’t real. Even in the glow of our professor’s attention and brandy, none of us seemed willing to cross the line from tales of literary scandal to ghost stories around his fireplace. All of us except Frieda.
“So have you ever heard of an evil play? Like not something people think is bad, but a play that actually hurts people?”
A couple of the others snickered, but a hard glance from Frieda shut them up. She was usually very laid-back, but when she got that serious, intense look, nothing would back her down. The professor seemed to pick up on this too, and he didn’t take the question as a joke. Instead, he sucked in a slow breath as he raised an eyebrow.
“That’s an interesting question. A strange and interesting and very specific question. Did you have something in particular in mind?”
Frieda gave a short shake of her head as she shrugged, her eyes never leaving his. “Not specific. I’ve just heard rumors.”
I noticed how tense the man had been as some of that tension left him with a small laugh. “Ah. About cursed plays? Well, you know how superstitious act…” She cut him off.
“Not cursed. Evil. Dangerous. Like people have died trying to perform it.”
The professor looked irritated as he glanced away. “Well, no doubt there are plays that have foolhardy stunts or effects that have led to accidents, and…” He glanced at his wife as she put a hand on his arm.
“I think she’s asking about…what was it? You know the one you told me about that time years ago.” She offered the rest of us an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I enjoy seeing you all perform, but I don’t read plays constantly like him.” Glancing back, she favored her husband with a questioning look. “Maybe you should tell them about it. Warn them.”
Grimacing, he shifted in his chair. “It’s nothing that requires a warning. Nothing so dramatic as that. And it’s not as though you’d ever find a copy anyway. It doesn’t exist anymore if it ever did.” He let out a sigh and looked back at Frieda. “There is a play, or there once was, called The Shadowed Sea. Supposedly it…well, I would still say its cursed, but supposedly it drove people insane that read it. Caused them to do strange things. Hurt themselves and others, that kind of thing.” He looked back at his wife sulkily. “Bunch of silly shit if you ask me.”
Frieda just stared at him, but my curiosity was peaked now. “Who wrote it? And when?”
He shrugged. “No one seems to know the author, though it first seemed to pop up in America in the 19…20s, maybe? It’s just like any good campfire tale. Conspicuously vague so you can’t fact-check it.”
Grinning at his joke, I went on. “Did you ever see it? Ever read it?”
The professor had been returning my smile, but all expression died on his face as he began to pale. “No…I…I saw it once, or something that purported to be that…but no. I never read it. I never would.”
Frieda leaned forward, her eyes dark and shining. “What happened to it? Do you know what happened to the copy you saw?”
When he answered, he looked so old and tired, as though he had aged a dozen years in the span of five minutes. “I…I burned it.” He held her gaze for several moments, almost in defiance it seemed, and then he looked back toward the fireplace. “I think it’s time for all of you to go.”
Evan: Father’s different since he returned. You know he is.
(Merigold does not turn from where she works preparing the evening meal, but she does stop her cutting for the moment.)
Merigold: Your father was lost at sea for months. He had to do things to survive and…well, we have no idea what all he’s seen.
Evan: (Angrier now) We don’t know because he won’t tell us. He keeps secrets from us. You know it’s true.
(Merigold does turn around now, one arm still back on the counter as she gestures a red-stained knife toward her son.)
Merigold: He will share more as he deems he should. And you should mind your tongue.
(A look passes between them and both Merigold and Evan break into uncontrollable laughter. The spell is broken when Merigold’s other hand is jerked and she frowns back in the direction of the counter. Not looking back to Evan, she gestures him over with the knife.)
Merigold: Come hold your sister’s legs. If the knife slips, it could spoil the meat.
After school, I tried to keep in touch with all my friends, but over the years many fell away without me even noticing. The one that I really missed was Freida. There’d been a time when I thought we might wind up as more than friends, but around the time of that dinner party she’d began to grow strange and distant. We still spent time together through the rest of school, but there was this background hum of tension most of the time—her mind was elsewhere and I could never seem to fully bring her back. By graduation, I felt like I was saying goodbye to a stranger.
That didn’t keep me from mourning the loss of our friendship, though, and over the years I did try to find her and reconnect, though I never had any luck. She wasn’t on the internet that I could find, and the few mutual acquaintances we still had were as clueless about where she’d went as I was. Still, over a decade later, hardly a day went by when I didn’t think about her. That’s why, when I got a large yellow envelope with her cramped, uneven writing on it, I was more excited that it was from her than anything that might be inside.
I turned the envelope over in my hands, nervous excitement creeping across my belly like I was opening an admission letter or maybe some long-awaited medical results. The envelope wasn’t huge or heavy, but there was definitely something thick inside it. Maybe a long letter detailing what she’s been up to? Or some pamphlet from a cult she’s joined that needs new members? That was the thing. I was anxious to hear from her, but I was also nervous about what that would actually look like after so many years of her being who-knew-where. I glanced at the clock. Alison would be home in just a few minutes, and while I didn’t plan on hiding whatever this was from her, I did want to open it while I was still alone. Sucking in a breath, I tore it open and reached inside. The first thing I removed was a small scrap of paper with Freida’s handwriting again. It just said:
I finally found it.
Frowning, I reached back into the envelope to pull out the other item inside. It was a small book with a weathered cover of faded blue. On the back, there were a couple of spots that were worn to white, and near the spine, there was a small reddish stain as well, but no summary or other sign of what the book was. Turning to look at the front, I could barely make out the ghosts of letters spread across a patch of darker blue. I twisted it in the light until I was able to read out the words.
“The…Shadowed…Sea.”
I felt a wave of fear and sadness roll through me. I’d always known, hadn’t I? We’d never talked about it back then, but I’d always known after that dinner party that Frieda’s strangeness seemed connected to that stupid “evil” play. The way she’d talked about it that night was only part of it. I’d seen her doing research, taking odd phone calls, and a part of me had suspected that she had some weird obsession with it. I think I’d told myself that she’d eventually get tired of chasing some silly literary urban legend, but the truth was I’d been afraid to ask. Afraid that if I pushed the issue, she’d cut me off more than she already had.
And now? Now I was holding whatever this was. And real or fake, the thing it really represented to me was that the woman that had once been my best friend had probably slowly gone off the deep-end, wasting years on this instead of living her life. It made me unbearably sad, but more than that, it made me feel guilty. Maybe if I hadn’t been such a coward, had been a better friend, I would have stepped in and helped her stop it before it consumed her.
Sighing, I thumbed through the pages of the book. It was definitely a play of some kind. The formatting was right, and while I didn’t really read any of it, I glanced enough to see different character names. John, Marigold, Maria, Evan, Peter, Valerie. It didn’t mean it was the real deal, of course, and even if it was, who cared?
My eyes fell back on the envelope. Frieda had just put her name, no address. But there was a postmark, and while it was smudged, I was pretty sure it said Phoenix, Arizona. At least that was a start.
When Alison got home, I told her about the envelope from an old school friend. That she’d sent me an obscure play without any real explanation, and wasn’t that a funny and odd thing for someone to do. I didn’t tell her that I thought Frieda needed help and I was going to try and find her, or that once upon a time, I thought I’d loved her. I didn’t tell her that the play was supposed to be cursed or that anything was wrong, because at the time, I didn’t know there was.
Not until the next day. When I found Freida.
Police are still investigating the double murder and suicide in Chandler, Arizona that occurred on May 27th. Officers first responded to a complaint of gunfire at a local residence, and after receiving no response, they breached the front door and entered to do a welfare check.
Inside, they found 6-year old Judith Sebring dismembered, as well as her father and well-respected businessman, Tony Sebring. Mr. Sebring had been stabbed repeatedly in the neck and face, and initial reports are saying some kind of object—perhaps knitting needles—had been left in his eyes.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that police located the suspected perpetrator of these horrific crimes—Freida Sebring—wife and mother of the victims. She was found in an upstairs closet, apparently the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Police say this investigation is ongoing, and if you have any information pertaining to these tragic crimes, you are encouraged to come forward.
I felt my gorge rise as I reread the article. It had happened the day after the postmark on the envelope. Had she really mailed me the play and then went home and murdered her family and then herself?
The world seemed dark and drowned out around me as I left work and headed home early. None of this could be real, could it? And if it was, how much of it was my fault? A part of me wanted to say none of it, but was that true? Could I have stopped whatever cancerous insanity was growing inside of her if I’d just confronted her back when it was starting? Or if not stopped it, at least pushed her in the direction of getting help? Maybe not, but my lack of certainty terrified me.
Pulling into the garage, I went inside and sat down. I wanted to talk to Alison about it—part for confession and part for comfort—but I knew it would be hours yet before she was home. I moved restlessly around the house before finally winding up in the kitchen. That’s when I saw the note on the refrigerator.
Be out for awhile. Made you some meatloaf. Eat it while it’s fresh!
The suggestion made me realize how hungry I was despite everything. I heated up a slab of meatloaf and wolfed it down while standing in the kitchen, as I was still too jumpy to want to sit down for long. I was about to head back into the living room when I noticed the blue book sitting on the window ledge above the kitchen sink.
The Shadowed Sea
That wasn’t where I’d left it. I’d put it back in the envelope and left it in the entry hall last night, hadn’t I? I picked it up and flipped through it again. Had Allison gotten it and started looking at it? I saw a page with the corner turned down and I moved to it.
(Valerie opens the small wrapped package, salt spilling out across her hands and the floor as she does so. Her expression turns from one of curiosity to one of horror as she realized what lay at its center. A small, very human-looking tongue.)
Valerie: Oh…Oh God.
(There is a moment…just a moment…where she starts to back away in revulsion. This is all too much for her. Too horrible. Then her eye falls on the book she’d been reading. In an instant, her troubles seem forgotten, or perhaps some great joy or truth is remembered. Regardless, her face clears like the swift passing of storm clouds on a cold, dark sea, and the smile that breaks across her face is not just beautiful, but beatific.)
Valerie: Yes, oh yes. He’ll understand. He will. When it’s all done, he will.
(With a hurried breath, she gently clasps the tongue and heads to the kitchen, eager to prepare his final meal. Once there, she set to work grinding—not only the meat she’d been provided,)
A chill of intuition shot through me as I sat the book down and went to the trash can. Near the top I found an envelope similar to mine—same color, same cramped handwriting across the middle, same postmark other than being a day later. The inside of the envelope, however, had plastic wrapping still coated with a thin rime of what looked like salt.
Reeling back, I looked around for my phone even as it began to buzz.
Alison: Did you enjoy your meatloaf, honey?
Me: What did you do? Did she send you something?
Alison: I just read that lovely play she sent. It really is wonderful. And as soon as I was done, I heard the mailman driving away. It all made sense by then.
Me: I know this sounds strange, but did you feed me someone’s tongue?
Alison: More than that. You must not have read enough or you’d know. And if you just read the whole thing, you’ll understand. I promise, sweetheart.
I picked up the play and found where I’d left off.
(Grunting, Valerie uses her rolling pin to grind down the thin goblet into a powder of razor-sharp glass. It must be invisible to the eye and untraceable to the tongue, so fine will it be mixed into her love’s meal. Only when it is in his belly will it slip free, a million diamond teeth eating him from the inside.)
Valerie: (wiping away a tear) Oh, I love him so.
I threw down the play and tried calling Alison, but I got no answer. When I texted her back, she finally did reply, but just with one text over and over:
Alison: Song of my soul, my voice is dead.
I thought about going to a hospital, but at first I felt fine. It was all a misunderstanding and I was overreacting. And maybe if I read more of the play, I really would understand.
So I’ve been moving through it as I write this. At first it was just confusing and strange, but I’m starting to see how it all fits. How exciting it all is. My stomach is killing me now, but I think its just the anticipation of seeing what will happen next.
