Return to the Dark House (7 page)

“Definitely.” I smile. He’s so irresistibly sweet.

We end up segueing to
his
big adjustment, two years ago, when his dad’s job got relocated halfway across the country and he had to move, mid-senior year. “Do you have any idea
what it’s like to have to move against your will?”

“I may have a slight idea,” I say, thinking about my experience in the dorm.

“You’re pretty cool, you know that?”

“Yeah, so are you.”

We continue to chat about our hometowns and high schools, about regular versus Double Stuf Oreos, and favorite TV shows.

But then someone yells out “Bombs away!” blowing the moment to bits.

I look up. Barbie and Emily are standing on the porch above us. There are a couple of boys with them too.

Before I can think to move, they all start hurling water balloons—a whole laundry basket full of them.

The balloons splash against a girl’s shoulder, a boy’s head, and another girl’s butt as she bends down to get her drink.

Jason jumps up and goes to grab a trash can lid for protection. At the same moment, I’m ambushed by water balloons. They drop down on my head and break on my face. Water shoots up my nose,
runs down my throat, and I gag.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jason shouts at them. He returns to my side. “Are you alright?”

I wipe my face—my eyes, my nose, my mouth—suddenly noticing that my palms are splotched with blue. My makeup has washed off.

“Holy shit,” Barbie shouts, looking down at me from the porch. “That’s the girl I was telling you about,” she says to her boyfriend. “The one who let those
people die.”

“I should go,” I tell Jason.

“Wait—no. Don’t let those assholes get to you.”

“Hey, Jason,” the other boy shouts out, “I hear she’s got a fetish for dead bodies. Ever do it in a casket?” Barbie and Emily erupt in a fit of laughter.

“
What?
” Jason asks; his face is a giant blue question mark.

I get up, still wiping my eyes, and move around to the front of the house. I cross the street and return to the dorm.

No one follows me.

I
N MY ROOM
, I
CLOSE THE DOOR
and melt down to the rug. Blue-stained tears drip onto the shag wool fibers. How in the world did
this happen? When did I become this hated person?

A few breaths later, I sit back up, startled by my reflection in the mirror on the back of the closet. My eyes are red. My lips are blue. My makeup is crusty, covering only patches of my skin. I
touch the heap of hair tied up on my head, and suddenly my reflection changes—morphs into the red-haired girl from the Dark House, the girl who prompted me to flee.

The memory of her drags me back to that moment:

My hand’s bleeding. I cut it. There’s a nail sticking out from beneath the dresser drawer. I dart out of the room and head down the hallway. In the bathroom, I search the
cabinets, unable to find a bandage. I wash the cut in the sink and then wrap it up in a paper towel. A three-inch slit. The blood isn’t clotting. I need something more.

“Midge?” I call, back out in the hallway. Blood soaks through the paper towel and trickles onto the floor. I head downstairs, but the main floor is empty. Natalie and I are still
the only ones here.

I move through the kitchen and open the door that leads to the basement, figuring that Midge must be down there.

It’s dark. I run my hand over the wall, able to find a light switch. I flick it on. The door swings shut behind me.

There’s a ladder-like staircase. Slowly, I begin down it, the light narrowing with each step. “Midge!” I call out.

Something brushes against my forehead. I swipe the spot, suddenly realizing what the something is; a pull cord hangs down from the ceiling. I give it a tug. My heart instantly
tightens.

A life-size Nightmare Elf doll stands in front of me. The light shines over its porcelain face, exposing its wicked grin and rosy cheeks. I slap over my chest, feeling an instant wave of
relief. It’s just a doll. So, why am I feeling so unhinged?

“Midge,” I call again, noticing a freezer chest in the corner
—
the kind that opens from the top with a lid.

A door slams somewhere upstairs. At the same moment, the Nightmare Elf doll flops to the floor, its face angled in my direction.

Holy. Freaking. Shit. I need to calm the hell down.

I look back toward the freezer, figuring there might be an ice pack inside it. There’s a latch at the front. I go to pull up on it, but the lid’s heavy
—
at least
twenty pounds. I strain my forearms. Blood from my cut drips onto the latch and rolls down the front of the freezer. It isn’t until I get the lid halfway open that I’m able to
see.

The crown of a head
—
thick auburn waves, a part down the middle. Blue jeans, tan sweater, long beaded necklace. Gray skin, dark circles, eyes angled up at the ceiling.

A girl’s body. She looks to be about fifteen or sixteen years old. My gut tells me it isn’t real. But then I look at the arm
—
at the golden-blond hair sprouting from
the skin, the spray of freckles extending from the elbow to the wrist, and the dirt and blood stuck beneath the fingernails from when she must’ve struggled
—
and I feel the room
tilt.

Music starts playing. “Crazy Chick” by Robert Jango. The sudden rush of chords is like a freight train through my heart.

The girl’s arm is bent upward in an awkward position. I go to move it down, but it’s stuck
—
even when I try with both hands. The skin feels eerily
real
—
smooth, supple. And there appears to be a paper cut on one of the knuckles.

“She’s a crazy chick. She’s so sick
.
”

Eventually the music snaps me back to reality. I’m still in my room. Still looking in the mirror. The image of the red-haired girl is still staring back at me.

Is it a coincidence that someone is playing “Crazy Chick” just outside my room? Or do my dorm mates have me pegged just right?

I reach for my phone and search for the number. My pulse races as I wait to hear her voice.

“Hello?” Ivy answers.

“It’s Taylor.” I glance at the clock. It’s four in the freaking morning. “Did I wake you?”
Duh.

“I’m actually at work...the graveyard shift.”

“I was thinking about what you were saying the other day, about how we should meet. I think it might be a good idea after all.”

“Great. Your brother mentioned that you’re in school on the East Coast.”

“At Gringle, in New Hampshire, about twenty minutes outside of Nashu—”

“How about next weekend?” she asks. “I’m just outside Boston. I could drive up.”

“I’ll call you Thursday to confirm.” I hang up and glance back at the mirror. The red-haired girl is finally gone.

From the Journal of E.W.

Grade 7, August Preparatory School

“I
VY
!” G
RETCHEN SHOUTS.

I pocket my cell phone, beyond excited that Taylor changed her mind.

“I needed that cheese omelet ten minutes ago,” she says. “And where’s my blueberry pancake?”

I pour egg mixture on one side of the griddle and pancake batter on the other. It’s only four and there’s already a morning rush. Orders line up like soldiers on the turnstile.

“You forgot the fruit cup on this one,” Miko says, nodding to a bowl of oatmeal.

Over the past six hours, I’ve also screwed up on a pasta plate, the meatloaf special, and two French toast orders. Miko’s been double-checking my work all week. Gretchen’s been
giving me the cold shoulder all night. My mom’s been dropping in unannounced all month, no doubt in response to a pile of complaints about me. If I weren’t the boss’s daughter, I
wouldn’t have a job.

Finally, at six, my shift ends. I hang up my greasy apron, take a mug of dandelion tea into the far corner booth, and gaze out the window in search of a dark blue pickup. I’ve told
Gretchen, Miko, and the others to be on the lookout, but the boy who called me princess hasn’t been here since.

A clank sound startles me. I look up.

Miko’s there, standing at my booth. “Sorry,” he says, in response to my jolt. He places a plateful of waffles down in front of me. “Your favorite. Stuffed with strawberry
goodness.”

“Wow,” I say, taken aback by his kindness. “Thanks. You’re way too good to me.”

“I know, but I’ll let you make it up to me.” He smiles, sliding into the seat across from mine. “So, is everything okay with you?”

“Fine, why?” I take a healthy bite.

“
Fine? Why
?” He gives me a pointed look.

I peer over my shoulder at Gretchen, who’s spying on us from the front counter. She’s been crushing on Miko for months now, but he doesn’t have a clue.

“You just seem really out of it,” he says.

“You know who seems out of it?” I nod toward Gretchen. “I’ll bet she could use a plateful of waffles too.”

“I’m serious, Ivy. If we’re going to continue working together—”

My phone vibrates. “Hold that thought.” I pull my cell phone out of my pocket to check the screen.

An e-mail.

From the same Gmail account.

“This seriously can’t be real,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“What can’t?” Miko asks.

The e-mail appears to have come from the same Gmail address as the Nightmare Elf’s original account—even though that account was shut down. The subject line: Nightmare Elf
e-Newsletter, Issue #208. The last e-newsletter I received—
pre
–Dark House weekend—was #206.

“Ivy?”

I click it open.

A curtain drops down inside my head, behind my eyes, making the room spin.

“What is it?” Miko asks.

Something touches my hand, and I startle. It’s Miko—his warm fingers against my icy skin. There’s a choking sensation inside my throat.

“It’s happening,” I tell him.

“What is?
Ivy?
”

I grab the knife from my plate. “I have to go,” I tell him, sliding out from the booth and making a beeline for the door.