Return to the Dark House (23 page)

I scan the room, trying to find an explanation, in lieu of pissing my pants. Meanwhile, the phantom writing continues. I watch the words form, imagining myself on the set of a movie.
This is
only for entertainment’s sake
, I tell myself.
My role is to act scared
.

I blink hard, and then look back up at the board. It now reads
YOU WILL
…

…be sorry you ever came here?
(Too late, I already am.)

…wake up and discover this was just a nightmare?
(Could my subconscious be that cruel?)

…piss your pants?
(Totally possible, though I’m dehydrated and starving to death.)

The light flickers again. I look up. The bulb seems brighter than before, blinding me, making me feel off balance. I glance away and try to refocus on the board. The message becomes clear:
YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT
.

My stomach sinks. My skin starts to sweat. The writing continues. The letters
L
and
O
.

I take a deep breath, spotting something move out of the corner of my eye. A shadow. A flash of light.

The bulb flickers again.

I look back at the chalkboard. Beneath the message are the words
LOVE
,
RICKY
.

I close my eyes a moment, channeling Neve Campbell’s Sidney Prescott from
Scream
, in the scene where Sidney’s on the phone with the killer, acting all ballsy, only to discover
that he’s actually inside the house, hiding in the closet, ready to pounce.

“Is someone there?” I ask, just as the light goes out altogether. I squat back down, searching the floor for my flashlight. I put it down when I was checking out the index cards.

There’s a bulb flashing sound. And a big burst of light. Someone’s here, taking pictures.

“Who’s there?” I shout, shielding my eyes from the blow of light.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

I creep forward, on my hands and knees, toward the door. I reach upward, searching for the knob, pounding my fists against the door panel. “Ivy!” I shout.

Footsteps move in my direction. There’s a deep-throated giggle.

Flash.

Flash.

My back up against the door, I face the room, trying to mentally prepare myself for what comes next.

“Who’s there?” I call again, my heart racing. There’s a spray of colors in front of my eyes.

A moment later, I fall backward. The door’s whipped open, and I tumble onto my back, into the hallway.

Ivy’s there. She must’ve heard me.

“Someone’s in there,” I tell her, able to hear the fear in my voice.

Ivy points her flashlight inside. I move to stand behind her, making sure the door doesn’t close. Her flashlight shines over the skeleton, the brain, the religious stuff.

The chalkboard is clear now—no writing. The candle’s been extinguished. And I don’t see a single soul.

“Your flashlight,” she says, nodding to it, on the floor by the brain tank.

I hurry to snatch it up and then I shut the door behind us.

“W
HAT THE HELL WERE YOU
doing in there?” I ask.

“Let’s go,” Taylor says, speeding past me down the hallway.

I hurry to keep pace beside her. “What happened?” I insist.

She doesn’t answer. She just keeps on moving—past where I saw the Decker twins and back through the tunnel. Eventually, we’re spit out into the hallway we first
entered—the one with the snapshots of Frankie and Shayla.

“Taylor!” I shout, talking to her back.

Finally, she turns to face me.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I ask her. “And what you were even doing in that room?”

“Clearly not my nails.” She angles her flashlight over her chipped green polish. “Look, I’d really rather forget the last twenty or so mortifying minutes of my life, but
suffice it to say that I want to go—like now. Are you with me? This is an old building. There’s got to be a way—a crack, a hole, a balcony window that I can jump out.”

“You know I can’t.”

She grinds her teeth. Her eyes roll up toward the ceiling. And she balls up her fists.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, but only for disappointing her, not for wanting to stay. “But I need to see this through.”

“This is insane. You know that, right?”

I shrug. My heart sinks. “My whole life has been insane. But yours hasn’t. That’s the difference. I understand if you want to go.”

“Okay, fine,” she says, after a five-second pause. She takes a deep breath and looks directly at me again. Her eyes are watery. Her upper lip trembles. “I’ll stay. But
when this is all done, you owe me big time. I see a major spa day in my future, and not just a measly mani-pedi either. I’m talking facial, brow wax, salt scrub, the works.”
There’s a smile on her face, and yet tears streak down her cheeks.

“Are you sure?” I ask her.

“About the spa day? Yes. About enduring another minute of this funked-up-crazy shit? Hell no. But I can’t jump ship—not without you, that is.”

I give her a hug. She quivers in my embrace. It feels weird being the brave one—empowering and unsettling at once.

Instead of going back to the lobby, we move through the door at the end of the hall.

“Where are we going?” Taylor asks.

I lead her down the stairwell, headed for the basement.

There’s a steel door at the bottom of the stairs. I shine my flashlight over it, noticing a metal box above the knob with a blinking red light.

“What’s that?” she asks.

There’s a keypad on the box. I try the knob; unsurprisingly, it doesn’t turn. “We need to enter a code.”

“One that we’re bound to get on one of these crazy-ass challenges. I really think we need to get all of our ducks in a row first.”

“Excuse me?” She sounds like a grandma. “You hardly strike me as a planner.”

“You’re right.” Taylor sighs. “I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl, but still that doesn’t change my mind.”

Except we’re running out of time. I focus back down at the keypad and type in the words
Nightmare Elf
. A red
X
appears.

Too easy. The code word needs to be something more clever. I try Dark House, Parker Bradley, Ivy Jensen, my old name (April Leiken), my parents’ names (Sarah and Matthew Leiken). I go to
type in Ricky Slater, but the keypad doesn’t work. The buttons no longer push.

I’m cut off.

My chest tightens.

I slam my fist against the door, hoping to get another shot—that I’m only allowed a certain number of tries, within a certain amount of time, before the keypad locks up.

“I hate to say
I told you so
, but…” Taylor chides.

I rest my forehead against the door. “They’re in there,” I whisper. “Shayla’s in there. I heard her. Natalie called me.”

“On the phone? I thought your cell was dead.”

“Before, I mean. In the parking lot at the police station.” I don’t have time to explain. I need to crack this code. I take out my notebook and scribble down the new clue.
“Forty-one R,” I say aloud.

“It obviously supports the locker combination theory.”

“How are we doing for time?”

“An hour and a half left.”

“We need to get to the theater,” I tell her.

“How do you know?”

“Because after Ricky took his shower, that’s where he went. Center stage.”

“Upstairs,” Taylor says. “I saw a sign for the auditorium.”

We race back upstairs, down the hall, and through the lobby. As we pass by the library, I’m able to hear the familiar music—the piano playing and Denise Kilborn’s voice.

“That way.” Taylor shines her flashlight over a double set of doors. A sign for the theater/auditorium hangs over them.

We step inside. It’s dark, but a light clicks on, illuminating the center stage. A noose hangs from the ceiling, wavering back and forth, as if someone just touched it.

“It’s show time, Princess,” his voice whispers into my ear. “Go have yourself a seat. I’ve reserved the front row just for you.”

Taylor takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Slowly, we walk down the aisle, toward the stage. I keep my eyes focused on the noose, imagining a body hanging from it: feet dangling, eyes open,
limbs pooled with blood.

“There,” Taylor says, bringing me back to earth, pointing to the front row. A bouquet of dead roses rests on one of the seats.

I move closer, noticing two cardboard buckets tucked beneath the seats, filled with movie snacks—popcorn, soda, Sno-Caps, Jujyfruits.

“I wonder if he can hear the growling of my gut.” Taylor plops down in a seat and starts digging into her bucket o’ crap, like it’s a Saturday afternoon and we’re
here to see a movie.

“Do you like your view of the stage, Princess?” the voice asks. “Ricky hung himself during his sophomore year. I’d see his body throughout my school day—in the
shower, out the window, in the corner of every classroom. Dangling, swaying, eyes open, mouth arched wide. You know a thing or two about being haunted, don’t you, Princess?”
There’s amusement in his voice.

A screen drops down in front of the noose. The lights go out. My skin starts to itch.

Parker and I appear on the screen. We’re lying in bed, facing one another—me, beneath the covers; him, on top of them.

“Holy shit,” Taylor mutters.

A lump forms in my throat.

“I’m assuming that’s at the Dark House,” Taylor says.

“It is.” I nod.

She doesn’t say anything. Meanwhile, I can’t help feeling everything: angst, frustration, sadness, regret.

On the screen, Parker swipes a lock of hair from in front of my eyes. The camera angles on his face, highlighting the upturn of his lips.
“You’re pretty cool, you know
that?”

The sound of his voice sends a shockwave through my body.

“You’re only saying that because you feel sorry for me,”
I tell him.

He makes a confused face.
“What’s to feel sorry for?”

“You’re kidding, right?”
I smile and roll my eyes. My hair’s draped over the pillow, and there’s an unfamiliar glow on my face. I look so happy, despite
where I am.

“I’m not kidding,”
he says.
“So take a compliment, okay?”

“You’re just being nice to me because I’m the biggest scaredy cat ever…not to mention because I made a mistake by coming here.”

“Ivy…”

“Parker…”
I say to mock him.

“You’re braver than you think. I mean, you made it here, didn’t you?”

“I guess.”

“And as for this being a big mistake…I’d like to think that it wasn’t a mistake at all.”
He ventures to touch my forearm.

I remember the moment distinctly—the swelling sensation inside my heart, the warming sensation swimming through my veins.

“Now, on to more important topics,”
he says.

“Like what we’ll be doing tomorrow?”

“Like best movie kisses.”
He smiles, sneaking a glimpse of my lips.

I sit up straighter in my seat, anticipating what comes next. But the scene fades to black.

The room goes dark again.

“What happened?” Taylor asks. “Things were just getting good.”

I want so badly to replay the scene—to see his crooked smile when he says the word
kisses,
to hear him say my name, to watch his mouth as he tells me about Spider-Man and Mary
Jane.

“No wonder,” Taylor says, snagging me from my thoughts. Her flashlight’s on. How long has she been watching me?

“No wonder?”

“Why you’re here, I mean. You guys really had something special, didn’t you?”

Before I can answer, numbers flash across the screen—from ten down to one. “It’s starting again,” I say, reminded of our first night at the Dark House, in the theater
room, when Midge disappeared.

A loud, blaring buzzer sounds. The number one flashes on the screen.

Taylor swivels in her seat, pointing her flashlight toward the back of the auditorium. “Wait here,” she says.

“
Why?
Where are you going?”

Without a word, she stands and moves out into the aisle, aiming her flashlight upward, where there’s a balcony with a projector.

“Did you see something?” I ask her.

She doesn’t answer. She just keeps on moving farther away, closer to the exit doors.

“Taylor!” I shout, remembering Harris’s unfinished warning:
Don’t let her out…

“I’m going to find some answers,” she says.

…
of my sight?

“Taylor,
no
!”

“I’ll be right back,” she says, disappearing up the aisle.

From the Journal of E.W.

Grade 7, August Preparatory School