Return to the Dark House (22 page)

“It’s like he’s in love with you,” Taylor says.

“Not in love, just…”

“Starstruck?” she asks, finishing my thought, pointing at a crudely drawn star outlining my MVP soccer photo, done in green crayon.

I nod, thinking how in some twisted sort of way—despite the obvious creep factor—seeing all of these photos feels somewhat cathartic, because it helps explain the constant sensation
I felt of being watched. Dr. Donna believed it was pure paranoia and prescribed pretty little pills to blot out what I was feeling. But here’s proof that I wasn’t being paranoid.

A locker room sign at the bottom of the stairs points us straight ahead and to the left. We’re right near the tunnel. I peer down the hallway—the same one we passed before going
upstairs, the one with the visible pipes. There are no spotlights here, nor one single candle. The music sounds even farther away now. “Shayla!” I shout.

“Holy darkness, Batgirl,” Taylor says, moving down the hall, several steps in front of me.

Something squeaks. Taylor lets out a yelp. I shine my flashlight along the floor, suspecting there must be mice.

But instead I find something else.

A shoe.

Someone’s leg.

I angle my flashlight upward, able to find a pair of eyes. I let out a gasp.

“This way,” Taylor calls. Her voice is coming from a good distance away, but I have no idea where she is; I can no longer see her flashlight beam.

A door creaks open at the end of the hall and then slams shut. My pulse races. My legs start to tremble. I angle my flashlight to see who the eyes belong to.

Danny Decker.

I recognize him from the amusement park, as well as from
Nightmare Elf II
. His brother Donnie stands beside him. Dressed in tuxedos, the ten-year-old twins have slick black hair,
ghost-white faces, and dark, dilated eyes that stare straight back at me.

“Taylor!” I shout.

She doesn’t answer. She must’ve gone into the locker room.

Danny and Donnie’s noses are bleeding. The blood drools over their lips and down their chins. “I’m so glad you’ve come to join us.” They smile—red teeth,
bloody tongues. “We’ve been waiting for you all day.” They move to stand in the center of the hallway, blocking my path.

Piano music starts to play—the tune to “Three Blind Mice.”

They sing in unison:
“One blind mouse, one blind mouse. See how she runs, see how she runs. She thinks she’s so much smarter than he. But he has a better plan, you see. Keep
finding his clues, and you will be, one dead mouse. One dead mouse.”

I grab my knife and start to move past them, slicing through their image, the blade cutting through the air.

I hurry down the hallway. There are two doors at the end, one on each side. A locker room sign hangs crooked above one of them; it’s been scribbled in red crayon, just like the
W
ELCOME TO THE
D
ARK
H
OUSE
sign from the Nightmare Elf movies.

I go inside. Dim spotlights hover over rows of metal lockers, as well as a long wooden bench.

“Taylor?” I shout.

A trickle of something rolls toward my feet. I squat down to see what it is. At the same moment, there’s a banging sound—a series of loud, hard clamors that stop my breath.

I turn toward the sound, covering over my ears. The locker room doors clank open and shut, open and shut. Meanwhile, the trickle on the floor rolls between my feet. It’s red, like
blood.

I go to get up, using the bench for leverage. My legs are shaking. My heart is pounding. I catch myself from toppling over, my hand smacking down on the floor—into the stream of red.

“Taylor,” I shout again, trying to yell out over the clamoring. I shiver at the sight of my palm—at the deep red color and its slimy consistency.

Finally, the clamoring stops. The spotlight overhead blinks. There must be a loose connection. I wipe my palm on my pants and look over at the rows of lockers. One of them has a lock. I approach
it slowly, suspecting it must be number thirteen. With trembling fingers, I fish the key ring from my pocket.

The number thirteen is scratched and faded, but still it’s clear. I push one of the keys into the lock. It turns with a click. I open the door latch.

A picture frame sits on the top shelf. It looks vaguely familiar, but it takes my brain a beat to process what it is.

As well as who it’s of.

And where it’s from.

It had sat on my real father’s bedside table for years, but I hadn’t thought about it until now. The killer must’ve taken it on the night of the murder. When the police went
through their room, taping it off as a crime scene, I hadn’t noticed that the picture was missing.

I take it from the shelf. A picture of me sits in the middle. I’m six years old, wearing a pink tutu for Halloween. The word “Princess” is printed at the top in pink bubble
letters.

“Anything look familiar, Princess?” His voice crawls over my skin. “Just a little souvenir from your childhood home, but I thought you might like it back.”

I clasp my hand over my mouth to hold back a cry. I couldn’t hate him more.

“I’m sure that Ricky’s very pleased with you so far…setting the note where it should’ve been placed to begin with, and now walking in his shoes. Slippers,
actually.” He snickers. “Ricky had been wearing slippers on the night of his death.”

Next to the framed photo, there’s a pair of slippers inside the locker, as well as an orange, a set of pajamas, and a thick roll of roping. I touch the pajamas; the flannel is stiff. The
pant legs are faded and frayed. The initials on the shirt tag read R.S. Is it possible that these were really his?

“Who knows what Ricky had been thinking that night,” the voice says. “Why did he have an orange? What possessed him to take a shower? Was it some sort of symbolic gesture of
rebirth? A washing away of his sins? Did he simply want his body to be clean when found? Or perhaps the warm rush of water made him feel safe? I must admit, the answer has plagued me for years. But
perhaps you can figure things out. Go find his shower stall now—the one in the far corner, against the wall.”

The sound of glass breaking gives me a jolt. It came from the other side of the locker room.

Someone laughs—a high-pitched cackle that ripples down my spine.

I slip the picture frame into my bag and move around the corner. Ricky’s stall is unmistakable. A spotlight shines over a series of dark red words dripping down the ceramic tile:
W
HY
?; I
CAN
’
T
; I
HATE IT
.

“Of course, I’ve taken the liberty of re-creating the way the shower had looked that night,” the voice continues. “But if you get real close, you can still see the marker
he used. There’s a trace of it on the tile, despite how hard the cleaners scrubbed. Go ahead and have yourself a peek.”

I step inside the shower and bring the flashlight close to the tiles. He’s right. Some of the original letters are still visible. I run my fingers over them; they’re faded cries for
help.

“I used to shower in the corner too, whenever the stall was available,” he continues. “I’d imagine Ricky standing there, the water rushing against his face, and wonder
what he’d been thinking—why he’d chosen those particular words.”

I can’t help wondering the same. What couldn’t Ricky do? What was the answer to why?

“Stand beneath the faucet, Princess. And turn on the water. Let the warmth pour over your skin.”

The inside of my mouth tastes like lead. The sound of glass breaking again cuts into my core.

“Remember, failure to follow my instructions will result in never seeing your co-stars again. Is that clear?”

It’s as if he can read my mind.

I turn the faucet on, bracing myself for a gush of water. But it doesn’t come—not even when I twist the valve all the way.

I look up at the spout. It’s bone dry, not a drop of water. He’s playing with me. I should’ve known better. Why would an abandoned building have running water to begin
with?

“You’ll find a marker on the soap dish,” he continues. “Use it to add your own thoughts. What would your last words be?”

I take the marker and press the tip against the shower tile. A series of words and questions flood my brain, but the one phrase that screams the loudest is the one that I write down:
GO TO HELL
.

The high-pitched giggle repeats. It sounds as if it’s coming from around another corner. I head in that direction—into the bathroom area. The mirrors are broken. Glass lies in the
sinks and on the floor.

All of the bathroom stalls are open, except for the fourth one; the door is partway closed. I take a step toward it, noticing blood dripping onto the floor.

“Hello?” I call.

A pair of feet appear—clunky boots, dark tights. The person steps down from the toilet seat.

A whining sound comes from the door hinge, and yet the door doesn’t move; it remains half-closed.

Natalie comes out. There’s a wide smile on her cut-up face and a piece of glass in her blood-soiled hand. Her image wavers slightly as she brings the glass up to her face and makes a
sideways slit. Blood drips down her neck, over her clothes, and onto the floor. “You know that I don’t like mirrors, right?” Her voice sounds exactly as I remember it.

She moves over to the mirror and pounds her fists against the glass, producing the familiar shattering sound. “Seven years of bad luck,” she says, grabbing another piece of glass.
She turns in my direction, staring out into space. “You’ve had seven years of bad luck too, haven’t you?” There are two pieces of glass in her hands now. She rubs them
together, as though sharpening knives; there’s a slashing sound. Then she moves back into the bathroom stall and climbs up on the toilet seat.

I wait for the scene to repeat—for her to come back out, so that I can go in. Once she does, I open the stall door wide. There are words above the toilet, written in bloodred lettering
with someone’s finger; I can see the fingerprint marks: R
ICKY WAS HERE BUT NOW HE
’
S DEAD
,
NOBODY EVER LISTENED TO A WORD
HE SAID
.

I search the stall: under the seat and in the toilet paper dispenser. I even remove the lid of the tank, knowing there must be a clue somewhere.

The sound of glass shattering startles me.

“Seven years of bad luck,” Natalie repeats. “You’ve had seven years of bad luck too, haven’t you?” Her voice is followed by the slish-slash sound as she rubs
the blades of glass together.

She comes back into the stall. And climbs onto the seat. Frantic, I reach through her image—right into her gut—to pull up on the seat. She blinks her eyes; they’re exactly as I
remember them: light blue, dark makeup, a mole on her lower lid.

When she gets up again, I can see something sitting at the bottom of the toilet bowl. I reach in to grab it, but it jumps from my hands, moves further into the hole.

I pull up on my sleeve and reach in farther, my fingers grazing a box—plastic, the size of a cell phone. I pull it out and open it up. There’s a slip of paper inside. I turn it over,
my fingers trembling. It says 41R.

Forty-one Right?

The giggling starts up again. It’s louder now. A piercing shrill. It sounds so familiar.

Music starts to blare—a guitar, drums, cymbals. I recognize the tune: “Wipe Out” by the Surfaris.

My heart quickens to the beat. I move out of the stall, passing right through Natalie, racing to get away.

T
HIS CLEARLY ISN
’
T THE LOCKER ROOM.
A lightbulb fixture with an extension cord attached hangs down from a ceiling with
exposed beams. It’s like I’ve just walked onto the set of
Night Terrors III
—in the scene where high school junior Reva Foster plays hide-and-seek in an old, abandoned paper
factory and ends up getting sliced and diced by a supersize paper shredder.

There are boxes of books everywhere, and random school supplies: a chalkboard, a photocopy machine, one of those rolling skeletons from bio class, and a human brain encapsulated in some
jellylike substance and kept in a glass tank.

The room is long and narrow. I walk a little farther, spotting a lit candle on the floor. It highlights the word
RICKY
, written in big black capitals on the cracked
cement, and crossed out with a giant
X
.

The candle sits in the center of a bunch of other items—a ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary, a string of rosary beads, a chalice, and a big chunky crystal.

I squat down in front of the candle, and a tendril of smoke floats up my nose. It smells like beeswax.

There’s also a deck of index cards held together with a rubber band. The cards have yellowed with age. The corners are torn. The ink is smudged. I remove the band to take a closer look.
It’s hard to tell what they are. Poems? Chants? Prayers? I start to read one of them, but then the lightbulb blinks. There must be a loose connection. I stand, just as there’s a knock
on the door.

“Ivy?”

The knocking shifts to the back of the storage room. I look in that direction. There’s writing on the chalkboard. The letters
Y
and
O
. It wasn’t there before. The
letter
U
is forming now, like phantom writing.