The table is set for twenty-seven. But so far, only four of us sit here peering through candelabras and their hazy light to get a glimpse of each other. And what am I even doing at this elegant black, white, and orange table loaded with bloody roast beef and pork paté dotted with candy corn? I'm a vegetarian after all. So I stand up, push aside my plush velvet chair, and am ready to take off. But all of a sudden, I can't move. Three cool hands are pulling me back to the seat, and I somehow find them irresistible. I sit down.

"Who are you, and what are we doing here?" I ask them.

The brunette with a fancy beehive hairstyle laughs and rolls her eyes. "Amy, Janis, and Jimi. And you know, just ask fewer questions and listen." I recognize the sly smile, the north London accent. And yet. Who is she?

Janis says something about them being part of the Twenty-Seven Club. I'm clueless until Jimi pulls out a guitar and starts playing. And with that first chord, the candles burn brighter, and I can see my dinner mates more clearly: Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix.

I fangirl for about five seconds, then stop.

"Wait a minute. The three of you all died at age twenty-seven. And today is my twenty-seventh birthday." I start to panic, feel my heart hammering in my chest. Or wait a minute? Has my heart stopped? Have I died and joined the Twenty-Seven Club?

As if she heard my question, Janis laughs, then answers it.

"You're not dead. We just want you to sing this song." She whispers lyrics in my ear, then offers me a pumpkin cooler. "To loosen you up," she adds.

I tell her I'm the worst singer on Earth, but she reminds me I'm not exactly on Earth at the moment. So I chug the cooler, take a deep breath, and belt out the tune. It sounds strangely good. The three of them clap, then serve me pumpkin bread.

Next thing, I'm stumbling into my shower—no trace of the Twenty-Seven Club, but I'm singing their song. A few minutes later, I'm dressing and still singing.

"Your voice." My musician boyfriend sounds like he's in shock. "Have you been taking lessons?"

"Kind of." I grin, thinking how amazing it is that a simple dream unlocked some sort of confidence or skill that turned my boring old voice into something better.

And then, as I make the bed, I see the crumbs. I sniff them, taste them, then sink down onto the bed. Crumbs from pumpkin bread.

"What about joining the band?" my boyfriend is saying.

But suddenly, I can only hear the voices of Amy, Janis, and Jimi.