Return to the Dark House (29 page)

I kick off my shoes, not knowing what to do with my flashlight. I search inside my bag, pulling out the Ziploc I use to store my mix of tea leaves. I dump the tea onto the ground and then slip
the flashlight inside the bag. It doesn’t fit. The handle’s about two inches too long. I zip the bag up as best I can and fasten a rubber band around it. Then, I toss my shoulder bag to
the side.

Keeping hold of the flashlight, I dive in. The water chills me to the bone, shocks my entire body. I begin my way across, trying to swim as fast as I can without making too much of a splash, but
the other side of the lake looks so far away. My stomach aches. There’s a gnawing sensation in my shoulder.

Treading water, I pause a moment to catch my breath, angling my flashlight at the other side of the lake. I’m only about halfway there.

I continue to paddle for several more minutes. My body feels like lead. My fingers are numb. I struggle through the water—flailing, kicking, swiping—trying to move as fast as I can
while keeping the flashlight up. But for all the work, I can’t get there quickly enough. I’m making too much of a splash. And my flashlight’s getting wet.

A few strokes later, something stops me in my path. A thick, slimy substance. I try to get through it, but it’s all around me, weighing me down, twisting around my ankles—ribbons of
something slippery—pulling at my feet.

I struggle forward, flashing back to Parker’s nightmare—the eels that swarmed him. But whatever this is, it doesn’t seem like it’s alive. Could it be algae? Do lakes have
their own form of seaweed? Did the killer dump something into the water?

I fall beneath the surface, still struggling to hold the flashlight upward. Water fills my nose, my ears; it leaks between my teeth. Something gritty slides down the back of my tongue. I make my
way upward, able to see something floating all around me; it catches in the light. Thick bands of something dark.

I splash forward, concentrating on the muscles in my legs, channeling more mantras from self-defense:
I’m stronger than what weighs me down. I can get past that which tries to anchor
me.
I thwart the slime to the side. It catches on my arm. I shine my flashlight over it. A dark olive goop. It doesn’t look real.

The other side of the lake is still several yards away. I continue to paddle toward it, finally free of the muck. At last I reach the bankside. Breathing hard, I climb out, collapsing to the
ground. My wounded knee stings.

My flashlight blinks. The inside must’ve gotten wet. Angling it outward, I get up and run down the path that cuts through the woods, my bare feet trampling over dirt and rocks. Branches
and brush cut into my face, pull at my hair. I’m shivering. My teeth chatter. The flashlight continues to blink.

I trip and fall forward again. My cheek lands against something sharp. I touch the spot. The wound is open. I can feel a gash in my skin. Blood comes away on my hand.

I go to rip a piece of fabric from the scarf on my knee, noticing the blood that’s seeped through the fabric. It’s sopping wet.

Meanwhile, blood runs down my neck. My fingers quiver over the spot. A whimper escapes out my mouth.

I bring the collar of my sweatshirt upward to catch the blood. Then I continue to move forward again. The school must be close.

I wind through the maze of bushes, panting the whole way. Is the killer still in these woods? Is he watching me? Did he go back inside? Am I already too late?

I stumble forward, over a rock, but catch myself before I fall. Still, I step down on something pointed. A ripping, burning pain sears my skin and radiates up my calf.

Wind whirs through the trees, rustles the branches. Sticks break somewhere behind me. I turn the flashlight off, squat down, and wait, and listen.

“Ivy?” a male voice whispers.

I grab a sharp stick and try my best to stand. My foot aches. My knee stings. My head feels dizzy as I struggle to my feet. I grip the stick hard, confident that his voice is coming from an area
to my left.

I click on my flashlight, ready to strike out. The beam blinks a couple times before I’m able to see.

His eyes stare back at me in the light, taking my breath.

He’s lying on the ground. Blood runs from his forehead.

Parker.

I race to him. His face looks pale. He’s shivering uncontrollably. “Just hold on,” I tell him, using the hem of my shirt to blot his wound. “Do you think you can
walk?”

“My leg,” he croaks out. “I can’t move it.”

I touch right above his knee. His leg twitches in response. I do the same to the other one, but nothing happens. “Is that the one he injected?” I ask, putting the pieces
together.

I blanket myself over him, placing my hand over his heart. I can’t feel a beat, but his breath is at my neck. “We’re going to get through this.” I kiss his cheek. His
skin is cold. I look in the direction of the school. It must be so close now. “I should go back for the others too.”

“There aren’t any others.” His eyes close.

The flashlight goes out completely.

“Just hold on,” I tell him, my mind scrambling, trying to decide what to do. Go back to look for Taylor? Run to get help?

I take his hand to feel his pulse. At the same moment, sirens sound in the distance, giving me breath. I collapse onto his chest, praying that by some miracle Taylor will be okay.

ONE DAY LATER

M
Y PARENTS SHAKE THEIR HEADS
at the sight of me, lying in my hospital bed, in my hospital gown and bandages. I feel like I’ve been away for years,
traveled over a million miles, and yet they still look at me as they always did—like I’m their biggest disappointment.

“I told you that contest was a bad idea,” my father says, standing at the foot of the bed. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

My mother props an extra pillow behind my head. Her eyes linger on my patchwork scalp. I want to pull out more hair, but I hold in the impulse by taking a deep breath and focusing on a blotch on
the ceiling.

“It must’ve been so scary for you,” she says.

“It was, but I had Harris to keep me company. I would never have survived without him.”

“Harris is dead,” my father barks. “His body was buried inside the ground.”

“No, he’s alive.” I shake my head. “His soul is cradled inside my heart.”

Dad turns his back, unable to look at me now. Meanwhile, Mom remains on the sidelines—mute, pretty, obedient—in her pale blue dress, with the matching bag. But still her eyes look
swollen, like she hasn’t slept. And I’ll bet those are unspoken words on her parted lips.

“You haven’t learned anything, have you?” Dad asks me.

“I’ve learned that I don’t need others to believe me—to validate what I know in my heart to be true.” I take another big breath, focusing again on the blotch,
breathing through the impulse to pull.

“I wish you really believed that,”
Harris says.
“Hopefully, in time you will.”

Mom opens a bag she’s brought along. Butternut squash soup, my sister Margie’s favorite, which means that I must like it too.

“Where’s Margie?” I ask.

“She couldn’t get away,” Mom says. “Too busy with her studies. She made highest honors this term.”

Dad sighs. Because I never made honors? Because my being here means he had to take time off from work, and pay for airfare and a hotel? “How long do they want you in here?” he
asks.

His question makes my eyes fill. He doesn’t seem happy to see me. And I can’t live in this hospital forever, where the nurses call me a hero. I’ll be released in only a couple
of days.