A couple years back, I played Miss Honey in a community theatre production of Matilda. I had an absolute blast, and I have super fond memories of that show.

That process did, however, supply me with one of my very favorite theatre horror stories, and I love to share it.

Towards the end of act one, Miss Honey sings the song “This Little Girl.” I was blocked to stand downstage right, right next to the proscenium, at the very front of the stage. It’s a big emotional beat in the story– Miss Honey approaches the Wormwood family to ask about getting Matilda into special classes at school, because Matilda is the most brilliant child she’s ever met. The family is not supportive: Mrs. Wormwood sings a whole song to make fun of Miss Honey and then unceremoniously throws her out of the house. Standing outside, Miss Honey debates going back inside to give Mrs. Wormwood “a piece of [her] mind,” but she is overcome with self-doubt and decides to leave instead, defeated. Just as she starts to walk away, though, she remembers that Matilda is a miracle, and deserves all the support she can get… and it seems like Miss Honey is going to be completely alone in figuring out how to support her. She is emboldened, but afraid; it’s a complex and very human moment in a high-energy, larger-than-life show.

My blocking was very simple. At one point, I would turn to walk away, but remember what a miracle Matilda is and slowly turn back to face front. The rest of the song would be delivered straight out to the audience– I found myself staring straight into a spotlight for this part. After the song, I was to leave down a small staircase at the front of the stage and exit through the aisle of the theatre. Blackout, end of scene.

This had been rehearsed without a hitch, but on open night, something was different.

When I arrived at the theater that day, I had noticed some of the kids in the cast painting the two staircases that lead into either aisle of the house. That was good, they’d really needed painted, they were so scuffed!

The issue is that those children very helpfully painted over the glow-in-the-dark tape that illuminated the edges of these black staircases.

No one noticed this until I did, at the end of my song. I sang “This Little Girl” looking into the spotlight, as I had been doing. I finished the song to excited opening-night applause, and the lights went to blackout. I stepped forward, as I had every night of tech week, and looked down to find the first step of the staircase.

I absolutely could not see it.

I blinked a few times. My vision was a little funny from looking into the spotlight earlier, and now I had been plunged into darkness. I couldn’t make out the glow tape at all, it was as if the stairs weren’t even there!

Well… I’d walked down them every night of tech week. Maybe muscle memory would be good enough. I took a step.

And… yeah. I fell off the stage.

I only fell about two feet. I wasn’t actually hurt, though my ego was magnificently bruised; I’d caught the very edge of the top step and tumbled down the rest. I heard the audience gasp, but I popped right back up and scampered up the aisle like I was supposed to, thoroughly embarrassed. The director was beside herself at the back of the house, I whispered a hurried “I’M FINE I’M FINE I’M FINE” as I passed and went to assess the damage before my next scene.

I scraped my shin on the way down, but this was the extent of my injuries. I’d ripped a hole in my tights, though, so I took that pair off, put a band-aid or two over my scrape, and threw on a new pair of tights before the next scene. The rest of the show went off without a hitch, and they made extra sure there was glow tape on the steps for the rest of the run. I’ve been a stickler about glow tape ever since.

Pro tip: Don’t step off the edge of the stage if you can’t see where you’re trying to step… it won’t go well, but at least you’ll have a good story to share.