Prom Night Terror
It was prom night, 1958. The gymnasium at Maple Hill High shimmered under flickering disco balls and rows of paper lanterns that swayed as if breathing with the music. Laughter and swing tunes filled the smoky air, tangled with the scent of hairspray and aftershave.
Marilyn Rae Delaney stood near the punch bowl, radiant in her emerald green satin dress, the fabric catching the light like starlight on lake water. Her date, Dean Lancer — the school’s star quarterback with a pompadour as sculpted as his jaw line, had just pulled her close when the music took a jarring twist.
The band crackled. The lights dimmed, flickered. Then… the fire alarms screamed. Chaos ignited. Screams echoed as flames leapt from the gym’s far corner, licking across banners reading “Forever Tonight, Class of '58!” Dancers scattered like marionettes cut loose. But Marilyn… she couldn’t move.
Dean hadn’t let go. His hands were ice-cold. She looked up into his face, and what she saw stole the scream from her throat. His features blurred, softening like melting wax. His skin faded to pale mist. His once-sparkling eyes glowed hollow blue. Through his cheek, she could see the burning gym wall behind him.
"Dean?" she whispered,
voice trembling.
“Don’t leave me, Marilyn,” he
rasped, his voice echoing as though trapped in an empty hallway. “We never
finished our dance…”
She staggered backward, eyes wide with terror, her perfectly curled hair bouncing as she recoiled. Her heels scraped the floor, catching on her hem as she tripped against an overturned chair. The lanterns above flickered, casting long, twisted shadows.
In the background, couples rushed for the exits, but some never made it. A glowing fog spread across the gym floor, swallowing students into silence. The fire didn’t burn them. They simply vanished. Marilyn crawled backwards as Dean hovered closer, his smile sad, mournful… pleading.
“This night was ours, remember? You
said it’d last forever.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, mascara running like smudged ink. “You died in the car crash last year,” she whispered. “I only dreamed you’d be here…” Dean’s smile faltered. A single tear, silvery and slow, slid down his spectral cheek, fading before it fell.
Then, as if the gym itself exhaled, the flames vanished. The band stopped. Silence. She was alone. Clutching her chest, dress torn and soot-stained, Marilyn stood beneath the last swinging lantern, the echo of ghostly music lingering in the smoke. Some say she never really left that gym.
On prom nights ever since… if the
lights flicker and the air turns cold, you might just spot a girl in green…
waiting for her lost love.