Return to the Dark House (24 page)

“G
ET UP
,”
THE
E
LF TELLS ME.

I do as he says, but not too quick—slow, slow, slow—imagining that my limbs are filled with lead.

“You need to appear weak,”
Harris says.

The Elf reaches through the bars. There’s a cup in his hand. The tips of his glove are dirty. From chimney soot? Or filling stockings with coal? Is it Christmas already?

“Drink this,” he tells me.

I take the cup, imagining eggnog.

“
Don’t,
” Harris says.

I nod—to Harris—holding the cup at my lips, allowing only my teeth to touch the liquid. I tilt my head back just enough for this to look real. There’s a sweet taste: lemon and
honey. My tongue really wants it. My throat croaks to get it. It’s so hard not to gulp it down.

When the Elf turns his back to pour a second cup, I dump the liquid inside my coat. I’ll be on Santa’s naughty list for sure.

I smack my lips, make a soft “yum” sound, and picture a snowy day, wanting to pull so bad. In my mind, I grab a clump of hairs behind my ear, where it’s been growing real good,
and give a nice yank.

I twitch. My pulse races. My insides feel jumpy.

“Go sit down,”
Harris says.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” The Elf turns back to me. His eyes find mine from behind his mask. He presses his face against the bars of the cell. “I’m just a turn of the key away.”

His singsongy voice sends chills down my spine, but I pretend not to be affected. I’m too weak and tired to be affected. I imagine warm teabags on my eyelids, while trying to hold my eyes
open.

I move to the back of the cell and melt down against ground, as if there’s no other logical choice—as if I’ll collapse if I don’t get down fast.

“Very nice,”
Harris compliments me.

I love making him happy.

I
REACH THE BACK OF
the auditorium, despite Ivy’s pleas for me to stop and turn around. As I suspected, there’s a stairwell that leads
upstairs to the balcony. It’s tucked in the corner, behind an American flag.

I proceed up the steps, using my flashlight to guide the way. I didn’t want to say anything to Ivy, but I could’ve sworn I saw some curtains or drapes flapping up there, as though in
the breeze. If that’s the case, then there must be an open window.

I reach the top step. It’s dark, but there are candles sprinkled about the space, making my stomach churn. This is a setup. I haven’t uncovered the secret cave that houses the
precious jewel.

Still, I point my flashlight toward the billowing drapes—a good fifteen feet away. They hang from a giant window, with no bars and no boards. It appears wide open.

A trick? A trap?

I peer over the balcony, searching for Ivy, but she’s no longer standing at the front of the theater. She must’ve moved backstage.

I point my flashlight toward the window again, able to see the darkening sky. It’s gray out. It must be approaching dusk.

Slowly I begin toward the window, aiming my flashlight all around—in all corners, along the walls, at the ceiling, and even behind me—but I don’t see anything suspect, aside
from the candles and the window itself.

Is it possible that the candles are part of a scene he’s staging for later? And that he left the window open simply to get some fresh air? What are the odds that he’d guess I’d
see the curtains flapping and venture my way up here?

Just a few feet from the window now, the cool, crisp air blows against my cheeks. I breathe it in, able to smell the promise of snow, wondering how far up I am.

I take another step, just as my body falls forward. I drop downward. My chin smacks down against a ledge. My teeth clank together. I tumble onto my side.

A trick floor.

I’m in a hole.

Three feet down.

My flashlight still gripped in my hand, I shine it all around. There’s a blue tarp lining the hole. It makes a crunch sound as I move to sit up, trying to get my bearings.

Footsteps move in my direction. I can hear the sound of the floor creaking. I scoot back against the wall, able to see someone’s shoes; the tips inch out over the hole.

He’s holding a lantern in his bright green glove. It dangles right above me. I shield my eyes from the light.

“Hello, Ms. Monroe. Thanks so much for
dropping by
.” The sound of his voice makes me wince. “Some things never change, do they?”

“Change?” I ask; the word comes out shaky.

He peeks down into the hole. He isn’t wearing a mask. A bad sign—the
worst
sign. I’m going to be sick. The killer only shows his face if he knows the victim will
die.

“You were going to escape, weren’t you? By sneaking out the window? Thinking only of yourself again, leaving Ivy on her own?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I was only going to look—to check the window out, to see how far down it was. I wouldn’t leave without Ivy.”

“Tell that to poor Natalie and the other Dark House Dreamers.”

“Please,” I beg. “I’ll do whatever you want. You’re the director,” I say, as if he needs a reminder. “You can make it look like I died, but then it
could be a trick. You could have me come back for the next movie—to round out the trilogy. I could be the perfect plot twist.”

He stares at me—a wrinkled face, a scar down his cheek, the tiniest eyes I’ve ever seen. There’s a curious smile across his lips, as if he might actually be considering the
idea.

“I’m a scream queen,” I continue to beg. “I was made for this stuff, trained by the very best. How about if I go back downstairs—back to Ivy? I’ll tell her
anything you want. She trusts me. Use that, use
me
.”

His curious smile grows bigger. “That’s a very generous offer, but no one likes a traitor, especially not in horror movies. They’re often the first to die. Now be a good girl
and shut off your flashlight.”

“Please,” I beg.

“Now, Ms. Monroe.”

I do as he says and click it off. At the same moment, I see the glimmer of a blade.

“No!” I shout.

“I’m very sorry, Ms. Monroe, but your role has been cut.”

The lantern goes out. My world turns dark. The last sounds I hear are the crinkling of the tarp and the screaming of a voice.

T
HE BUZZER STOPS
. I
T
’
S MORGUE SILENT
. I stand and shine my flashlight around the theater, looking for Taylor.

A thwack sound cuts through the silence: The doors at the back of the auditorium slam shut.

“Ivy?” Parker’s voice.

I turn to look, my pulse racing. There’s a tunneling sensation inside my heart.

Parker’s there, on the screen. At first I assume it’s more footage from the Dark House weekend. But then I see what it really is: Parker sitting in a dark room, mostly hidden in
shadows, much like the video of Natalie.

I can tell that it’s him from his silhouette—his wavy hair, his broad chest, his long legs, and the muscles in his forearms. I recognize his sneakers too—black cross-trainers
with bright green stripes.

“I’ve been told that you’re coming here,” he says. “I hope that isn’t true. You’ve been through enough.” He leans forward slightly, and I’m
able to see his strong jawline and a flash of his blond hair. “There’s a lot I want to tell you, but so much that I can’t say.” He rests his hand on his knee. There’s
something wrapped around his wrist. A rope? A chain? He moves his leg and the image becomes clear.

A narrow, cylindrical shape.

The bottle pendant charm. My aromatherapy necklace. It dangles against his kneecap, sending chills all over my skin.

“Please be careful, Ivy. Please know that nothing’s worth your safety. I have a—”

His voice is cut short, cut off.

My hand trembles over my mouth. What was he trying to say? What did he want to tell me?

Is it a coincidence that his words were cut off in the very same spot as my mom’s? Those were her very last words before the killer took her life. “
I have a...
”

The screen fades to pale gray. There’s the shadow of someone on a swing now: a billowy dress, clunky boots, a mass of hair.

“Natalie?” I shout.

I move closer to the stage, trying to see if the person swinging is behind the screen. But there’s only about a six-inch gap between the floor of the stage and the bottom of the screen. I
don’t see feet, nor do I see the shadow of anything moving behind the screen.

The silhouette continues to swing, back and forth. Whoever it is turns her head; a massive bubble blows out her mouth.

A moment later, the bubble pops, and I hear the snapping-sucking of bubble splat as she takes the gum back into her mouth. The noises sound live—like they’re happening in real time
and not part of any film.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” a voice says from behind the screen.

“Natalie?” I repeat; my heart throbs. It sounds just like her voice—same tone, same crackling quality.

“I can’t talk right now.” She jumps off the swing. The motion of the shadow matches the thump sound.

I rush up the stairs that lead to the stage. There’s no one behind the screen. There’s no swing either.

Only the noose is there. It dangles under a spotlight. “Natalie?” I call, even though it probably wasn’t her; it was probably just a trick. My voice cracks the silence, causes
my blood to stir.

I grab my knife and move closer to the stage curtain. There’s a tiny hallway that leads backstage. A shuffling noise comes from that direction. I follow the sound, unable to stop shaking.
The knife tremors in my grip.

Just then, a blast of air punches me—blows against the side of my face—and I let out a wail. It came from a wall vent.

“Back here.” Natalie’s voice.

I move in deeper, feeling my body turn to ice.

A body hangs down from the ceiling. Ricky Slater’s. The image of his naked body wavers back and forth. His skin is gray. His eyes are rolled upward. The veins in his feet are swollen.

I stand, frozen, noticing a trickle of blood running from his nose, onto the towel beneath him. More blood trickles from his ear and down his neck.

I start to back away, just as his head tilts forward and his eyes refocus.

He looks right at me. “I’ll haunt you for life,” he whispers.

I take a few more steps back, bumping into something from behind. Six feet tall, freckled face, short blond hair, and dressed in a schoolboy uniform; a mannequin of Ricky stares straight
ahead.

My face only inches from his chest, I second-guess myself that it isn’t real. But I can’t detect a breath. And his eyes have yet to blink. I reach out to touch the face, just as his
arm flies up.

Like a reflex, I jam my knife into his gut. The arm continues to move, bending at the elbow.

I tear open his shirt, where the knife made an incision.

The body’s plastic. There are screws and bolts.

“Ivy!” Natalie’s crying now; I can hear it in her voice.

I pull the knife free and move farther behind the stage. There are more dolls here, against a wall—at least a dozen of them. Mannequins with made-up faces, wearing elaborate costumes. A
king and queen, a pauper, a knight, a man with a horse’s head, a couple of prep school girls, a swamp creature with webbed feet.