Return to the Dark House (2 page)

“Well, it isn’t good enough.”

“Ivy.” His voice softens. “Leave the manhunt to us, okay? That’s
our
job. Your job is to get better and then get out of here.”

“Have you had a psychologist examine the winning contest essays?” I ask him. “Or analyze our personality profiles to determine how the killer chose us?”

“What do you think?”

“That’s why I’m asking.” I start flipping forward and backward through the pages of my notebook, pointing out charts and parallels I’ve drawn.

Detective Thomas indulges me by reading over a chronology I wrote—my summation of what happened on the Dark House amusement park night.

The second worst day of my life.

But then he closes the cover and slides the notebook across the table at me. “Take care of yourself, Ivy. Get some rest and get yourself better. If we find out anything, we’ll let
you know.” He gets up to leave.

“No!” I shout, getting up too. I flip the notebook back open and scramble to the page marked Unanswered Questions. “Did you find any of the people who helped set up the
amusement park? Or how about the drivers who picked us up from the airport...or Midge?”

“The amusement park had been there for years.” He sighs again. “It was abandoned and then revived for the Dark House weekend. The same goes for the cabin; someone made it look
like the real Dark House. The FBI was able to find one of the drivers and he was brought in for questioning, but it seems he never met the suspect in person, only corresponded with him via text
messages and e-mail. Those accounts have since been deleted.”

“Okay, so what about all of the creepy voice-overs that were used at the park?” I point to item number seven on the list of unanswered questions. “Do we know the identity of
those people?”

“Ivy...”

“It’s a valid question.”

“It’s hard to find someone based solely on a voice—particularly a voice that none of the authorities heard. Need I remind you that all of the audio and visual equipment was
gone by the time the officials got to the park? The people who were hired to do those voice-overs probably didn’t even know what they were participating in—what the suspect’s
project was, that is.”

“In other words, no one’s contacted those people.”

Detective Thomas holds up his hands, as if he wants to talk me down off an imaginary ledge. If only I could jump.

“Parker is alive,” I snap. “He’s going to star in the sequel. The killer is making another movie. What are you doing to stop him?”

“Get better,” he says again, stepping back from the table.

“Doesn’t anything I say mean anything to you at all?”

“Of course it does. I’m here, aren’t I? You asked to speak to the authorities about a new lead in the case. I come all the way down here, and all you have are recycled clues,
not to mention well-covered territory.”

“The killer has a scar.”

The detective’s eyes widen as he studies my face, perhaps waiting for me to take the words back. When I don’t, he grabs a notebook and pen from inside his jacket and sits back down.
“How do you know?”

I draw an invisible line down my face with my finger. “I only remembered the scar recently. It’s a diagonal mark that extends from just below his right eye to just above his
jawbone.”

“Hold on,” he says, jotting the information down, “I thought you said before that he was wearing a mask during your nightmare ride. Did he take it off?”

I open my mouth to answer, feeling my face flash hot. A sickly sensation churns in my stomach. Acid burns a hole in my throat. I look back up at the clock—
ticktock,
ticktock
—realizing what I’ve done.

“
Ivy?
Did he take the mask off?”

I shake my head, suddenly feeling like I’ve morphed into a little girl, caught for stealing from her mother’s purse.

“Then how do you know about a scar?”

I bring a strand of hair across my eyes, as if it could possibly hide me. I take a deep breath and travel back in my mind to the instant that I remembered the scar—around four this
morning, after having just woken up from a nightmare about my parents, about their killer, only he’d been dressed like the Nightmare Elf from the Dark House case. Parker’s voice had
called out to me (another Dark House detail). Plus, also in the dream, I’d been searching for Taylor’s cell phone (a third Dark House detail).

“Ivy?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d been so swept up in the detail of the scar that I hadn’t stopped to question it.”

Thomas’s furry blond eyebrows knit together in confusion; they look like caterpillars mating.

“I did remember a scar,” I tell him. “But it was on the face of my parents’ killer from seven years ago. You’re right. The Nightmare Elf
was
wearing a mask
at the amusement park. He never took it off.” I breathe in and breathe out; there’s tightness in my chest. “All of the nightmares I’ve been having...they’ve been
colliding inside my head, bleeding into one other. Sometimes it’s hard to decipher which details go with which case.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He closes up his notebook. “Stress like this can wreak havoc on the brain...distort your sense of reality.”

“But it
is
real,” I insist. “The scar, I mean. I remember it distinctly. Isn’t there a name for instances like this? Repressed memories or something?”

He gets up once again, not dignifying the question with an answer.

“Not yet,” I bark, grabbing at the ache in my head. “There’s so much more to talk about. Did anyone check out the hardware stores within a twenty-mile radius of the Dark
House? Here, I’ve located three of them.” I pull a map from the back pocket of my notebook and open it up; it covers half of the table. “The red
X
is for the Dark
House,” I tell him. “The purple one is for the amusement park. The hardware stores are marked with blue
X
’s. The green
X
is for the Horror House, a tiny one-room
theater that’s only open at night and only plays scary films. I was thinking that maybe the killer liked to go there.”

“I wasn’t aware that Internet access was allowed at this place.”

“It’s not. I’ve been working on this map since before I got here.”

“What are the orange
X
’s for?”

“Electronics stores where he might’ve purchased video equipment. Maybe one of the shop owners remembers him. Or maybe the shops use surveillance video. Or what about the real estate
agent who sold him the Dark House?”

Detective Thomas stares at me with an amused expression, the corner of his mouth turned upward. “I’m impressed. But, as I’ve said before, you can rest assured that we’ve
got all of these angles covered.”

“What about Taylor then?” I persist. “What made her leave the Dark House early?”

“That’s of no concern to you right now.”

“Tell me,”
I insist.

“All you need to know where Taylor’s concerned is that she saw something at the Dark House that alarmed her enough to leave. By the time investigators got to the house, they were
unable to find that something.”

“What was it? What did she see?”

“Ivy,” he says yet again.

I hate my name. I hate my life. I stand in front of the door so he has no choice but to hear me out. “Why won’t you help me?” A sob gets caught in my throat. “I mean,
there has to be some reason.”

“Some reason for what?”

“For why Taylor left. For why you’re keeping key pieces from me. For why the two worst experiences of my life are melting together inside my brain, haunting me while I
sleep.”

Ticktock, ticktock
. My whole body’s sweating and yet I feel chilled to the bone.

“Step out of the way.” There’s tension on Detective Thomas’s face, scrunched up on his brow.

I secure the knob in both of my hands, behind my back.

“I’m not asking you,” he insists.

“Wait,” I blurt, the answer finally clicking.

Thomas reaches behind me to grab the knob, but I widen my stance so he can’t. “You know you’re only going to buy yourself more time in here, don’t you?” he asks,
lowering his voice. “What good will that do you or any of the missing victims?”

“Like you give a shit about any of us!” I shout. “You’ve already written them off as dead.”

“You leave me no other choice.” He goes to knock on the door, but I block his fist with my hand. “The killer knows where I live,” I remind him, referring to the package I
received just weeks after the Dark House weekend. It was filled with the winning essays of all of my fellow contest winners. I brought the package to the authorities, but with no postmark and no
fingerprints, it was another dead end.

“You’re safe in here,” he says, pulling his fist away. He knocks on the door, right above my head. The sound echoes off the bones of my skull.

“No!” I shout, pushing myself against him—fists and arms and chest and head.

Because he won’t hear me.

Because I have to make him hear me.

Everything that happens next feels like it’s been set to fast forward—like I’m watching it on a TV screen, like it isn’t actually happening to me.

The door whips open and I get pushed to the side. Two nurses grab me from behind. They pull up my hospital gown, exposing my legs. Detective Thomas’s eyes go straight to my knees—all
bruised and swollen and purple and yellow—as a needle’s stabbed into my thigh.

His face falls flat—the tension replaced by something else. Surprise? Repulsion? Pity? Remorse?

My slipper has fallen off. My heel catches against a floor tile. A layer of skin scrapes free. It takes me a moment to realize that I’m being dragged through the common room from
behind.

People are talking.

Fingers are pointing.

A plastic dish falls to the floor with a clatter.

I’m brought into a room. My head hits something soft. A pillow. Cold sheets. What happened to my notebook? Where is my map?

Ticktock, ticktock
. Another clock on yet another wall. But this medicine seems to do the trick, darkening my mind, dulling all of my sharp edges.

Until I can no longer hear the ticking.

Until all of my fight slips away.

NORTHBRIDGE

PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

INCIDENT REPORT

Date and Time of Incident:
9/13, 3:30 p.m.

Patient Name:
Ivy Rose Jensen

Age:
18

DIAGNOSIS

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depression, Anxiety Disorder

DESCRIPTION OF INCIDENT

(as reported to Amanda Baker, C.N.P., by Detective Clive Thomas)

Detective Clive Thomas had been in Private Meeting Room Two, per Ivy’s request, to discuss details of the “Dark House” case in which she was involved. When
Detective Thomas tried to leave the room, Ivy became hostile and began shouting at him. (Note: the shouting was heard in the common area of the hospital, as confirmed by Brooke Cantor, L.P.N.)
Thomas reported that Ivy took hold of the doorknob and tried to keep him from knocking on the door. When he was finally able to knock, she shoved herself into him headfirst, and swung her arms at
his face. Thomas reported that Ivy punched his jaw and elbowed his neck. At that time, nurses Dan Leiberman and Jonathan Zakum entered the room to assist.

PATIENT MEDICAL HISTORY/SHORT FORM

PATIENT’S DEVELOPMENTAL HISTORY

Past medical records for April Leiken (adoptive name, Ivy Jensen) show that April was the product of a full-term pregnancy and unremarkable birth. Neonatal is neither remarkable
nor contributory, and developmental milestones for motor skills and speech/language acquisition occurred within average expectancies.

BEHAVIORAL PROBLEMS

(filled out by Gail Jensen, adoptive mother, upon hospital admittance):

Does your child currently have or has he/she ever had
(place an X beside all that apply)
: