Return to the Dark House (8 page)

I
CLICK THE LINK AGAIN
and it brings me to YouTube.

The video is grainy, and it takes a second to see that there’s a dark room and a metal folding chair. A pop of light highlights someone seated on the chair.

It’s Natalie. She sits, angled sideways, shrouded in shadows. But still I can tell that it’s her—dark clothes, clunky boots, black sunglasses, long, coarse hair. And the dark
gray scarf. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one she let me borrow—the one I used to blanket over Parker, after his nightmare ride.

“You can’t see a face,” Detective Thomas says.

I’m at the police station again, sitting in the same smelly interrogation room, only this time Detective Dearborn and Officer Squires are here too, looking on.

“Let’s get this up on a bigger screen,” Thomas says.

Dearborn leaves the room, returning just a few seconds later with a laptop. She sets it down, powers it up, and then takes my phone to copy the YouTube address.

The video begins on the larger screen, proving that size really does matter. There’s so much more detail now. I’m able to see the contrasting squares of a tile floor. There’s
also a boarded-up window in the background.

Officer Dearborn adjusts the lighting and cranks up the volume.

“Hi, Ivy,” Natalie says. Her voice has been distorted; it’s deep, like a man’s, and there’s an electric current running through it. “As you can see, I’m
still alive.” Her legs are crossed. The toe of her Doc Martens boot bops back and forth in a strip of light; it’s the clearest image on the screen. “I’m not the only one.
But we can’t get out of here without you.”

I wish I could see her face—to see if her lips are all cut up from picking at them, like they’d been that weekend. Or if her eyes are as blue as I remember.

“Who is it even supposed to be?” Squires asks.

“It’s Natalie,” I say, as if it isn’t completely obvious.

“Natalie Sorrento?” Squires asks, moving closer to the screen.

“It’s her—same boots, same dark clothes, even the tone of her voice is distinct.”

“What tone?” His face crinkles in confusion.

“The intonation of her voice, I mean, the way she pauses between words.”

“Shh.”
Dearborn places her finger up to her lips.

Natalie continues to speak: “Parker’s here and he wanted me to remind you of something. Remember the story he told you? The one about his worst-ever nightmare? You told him that
you’d never leave him, but still you did. Don’t leave him alone again. Come find him, Ivy. Come be part of the sequel.” Natalie leans forward, shifting slightly in her seat. In
doing so, her hand dangles into the strip of light and we’re able to see her bracelet.

Detective Dearborn hits pause, tracks back, and then hits replay, freezing the moment. The image is blurry, but it’s also unmistakable.

“I can’t really tell what it is,” Thomas says.

“It kind of looks like a flower of some sort,” Dearborn says, lightening the screen even more.

“It’s a star,” I blurt, able to see it clearly. “Just like the pendant necklace I received years ago.”

“Could be a star,” Dearborn nods. “Could be a lot of things.”

“Was Natalie wearing a star bracelet during the Dark House weekend?” Thomas asks.

“Not that I can remember,” I tell him. “But it’s obviously a sign—the killer’s way of communicating with me.”

“It could also be a coincidence,” Dearborn says. “Stars aren’t exactly unique or unusual, at least as far as charms and patterns go.”

“Maybe I’m getting old”—Thomas scoots closer to the computer screen—“but it looks like a pretzel twist to me.”

“We’ll have a videographer take a look.” Dearborn pushes play again, but there’s not much else to see. Natalie has fallen silent. There’s just one more foot shuffle
before the lights go out completely.

Dearborn clicks on the YouTube subscriber’s profile. Movie Marvin’s account looks pretty well established, with dozens of movie clips as well as a handful of videos he’s made.
Squires clicks on a video entitled
WELCOME
.

“Hey, I’m Movie Marvin,” the boy on the screen says, “and I like to review indie films and make trailers, particularly in the horror or sci-fi genres. So, if you have
something you’d like me to look at or a project you need a trailer for, feel free to message me.”

“He can’t be more than sixteen,” Dearborn says.

“Could be another prank,” Squires adds.

“No, this one’s different,” I insist. “The e-mail address is the same. Plus, the newsletter’s issue number is 208. The last one I received was 206.”

“Meaning that whoever sent this flubbed up the numbers?” Squires asks.

“No,” I snap. “How did someone get so close to the actual number? I mean, off by just one digit?”

“First of all, after that weekend, the Nightmare Elf e-mail address was shut down,” Thomas says. “But once an account has been deactivated, someone can claim that username
under a new password. And, secondly, didn’t one of the Nightmare Elf’s e-newsletters appear on TV?”

He’s right. It did. Soon after the Dark House amusement park weekend, the authorities went through my computer and e-mail accounts. The next thing I knew, the Nightmare Elf’s
e-newsletter—the one with the contest guidelines—was on the evening news for the world to see.

“Okay, so then how did Natalie know about the story that Parker told me?” I ask. “About his
real
nightmare.” After Parker survived his nightmare ride—a tank
full of hungry eels, based on the fictional essay he wrote to win the Nightmare Elf’s contest—he told me that his real nightmare was based on an experience that happened when he was
little…when he got lost in a department store and thought his mother had left him behind.

“That actually isn’t clear.” Dearborn backtracks to the spot and hits replay, making us listen again. “All this person says is that he had a ‘worst-ever
nightmare,’” she says.

“Didn’t all of the winners have worst-ever nightmares?” Squires asks. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the contest?”

“Okay, but I
did
tell Parker I’d never leave him,” I argue. “How else would the person on the video have known that? Plus, she’s wearing the same
scarf,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Natalie gave me that scarf at the amusement park. It got left behind.”

“How can you tell it’s the same?” Thomas asks.

“The color’s the same. The fringe is too.” The individual fringe strands appear to be an inch thick. “It’s also big, like the one she gave me. I used it as a
blanket.”

“The Dark House weekend happened in July, didn’t it?” Dearborn asks. “Was it unseasonably cold that night?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Natalie gave me the scarf so that I could use it to hide from the cameras—so I could wear it to cover my face and head, that is. She knew that I
didn’t want to be videotaped; she could sense it.”

“Sense it?” Squires asks.

“I’m not sure if Natalie was some kind of psychic medium,” I attempt to explain, “or if she just had a special gift…but she could talk to her twin brother, Harris,
even though he died at birth. He would tell her things, like that I didn’t want to be recognized on film just in case my parents’ killer might see me.”

I swallow hard, knowing I sound crazy, able to feel the heat on my face. I venture to look at Thomas; he’s studying my every blink, breath, falter, and flinch. Is he trying to decide if
this is all a pile of BS? Or if I actually believe the BS? The thing is, I know he knows about Natalie’s psychic claims. After the Dark House weekend, rumors spread that she was crazy, that
she was never able to get over the death of her twin brother.

“Bottom line: virtually nothing on this film is clear,” Dearborn says. “My guess is that it’s a work in progress.”

“Because it doesn’t really say anything,” Squires agrees. “Come be a part of the sequel, but where? When?”

“We’ll look into it,” Thomas says. “We’ll do a full check on Movie Marvin. Natalie’s parents will need to see the video too. Let’s also get the e-mail
and link over to the feds.”

“I’m on it,” Dearborn says, exiting the room with Squires.

“And then what?” I ask, stopping Thomas from ditching me too. “Will you let me know what happens? What checks out? What remains suspicious? What Natalie’s parents say? I
want to be involved in this investigation. I
demand
to be involved.”

“You already are involved—by bringing us clues, by keeping us informed. We, in turn, do our jobs by following up on potential—”

“What if
I
contact Movie Marvin?” I ask, cutting him off. “I could say I want him to create a video for me. We could arrange to meet. I could wear a bug. You could be
staked out there too.”

“Ivy—no. We’re handling this. We’re getting closer.”

“You’re only as close as my clues can bring you.”

“We’re grateful for your clues, but—”

“But you need me as well,” I insist. “
I’m
the one he wants. Use me as a lure.”

“Ivy…”

“Use me,” I repeat.

He stares at me again, biting his lip, as if he’s actually considering the option. “I can’t,” he says, finally. “We can’t.”

“Then I can’t either. You’re on your own, as far as I’m concerned.”

And obviously so am I.

A
FEW DAYS HAVE PASSED
since I got the video link of Natalie. It’s early morning, after work, and I’m in my apartment, sitting in the dark,
having purposely left the lights off. I used to hate the dark—used to dread the idea of not being able to see all that was around me. But ever since the Dark House weekend, I’ve forced
myself to become acclimated to the things that used to make me uncomfortable—like horror movies, or at least Justin Blake’s horror movies. I’ve seen every one now, have spent
hours studying the plotlines and characters, asking myself questions. What is the appeal of Justin Blake’s work? How did the
Nightmare Elf
movie series become the inspiration for the
amusement park rides? Do the answers lie in the dialogue? The setting? The themes? Or something else?

A knock on the door startles me. It’s barely past six in the morning. I grab the baseball bat from beneath the sofa, just as I hear Apple’s voice.

“Ivy? Are you still awake?”

I switch on a few lights and return the bat beneath the couch. “Hey,” I say, opening the door.

Apple’s holding something that looks like a pie. “Quiche me,” she says, kissing my cheeks, European style. “Cooking makes me feel all
je ne sais…comment
allez-vous
.”

“
I don’t know…How are you
?” I ask, responding to her flumped-up French.

“Okay, so I know you’re on your own now,” she continues, “not to mention a much better cook than me, but I can still attempt to be an overbearing mother.”

“You’re hardly overbearing.”

She takes two steps inside the apartment and comes to a sudden halt. She looks around, her mouth gaping open. Most of my things are still in boxes. “I guess you’ve been keeping
pretty busy,” she says.

To her this place must look even more vacant than it did before I moved in. I suppose that’s understandable, because I’m feeling vacant too.

Apple makes herself at home by going into the kitchen. She opens the fridge and makes a face at how little there is inside it: a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of ketchup, and a few cans of
orange soda. “Do you need me to take you shopping?” she asks, letting the door to the fridge fall closed. “Or you’re more than welcome to come home for your meals, anytime
you like.” She fills the teakettle with water from the sink and grabs a knife to cut into the quiche.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “
Really
. I’ve mostly been eating at the Depot.”

“Here, come, eat,” she says, setting me up at the kitchen table with a napkin and fork. “The quiche is still warm. Do you want some tea?”

I nod to the tea and do as she says, sitting down at the table. The first bite of quiche is like a shock to my mouth, especially since it came from her, queen of the microwavable dinner out of a
box. It’s salty with feta, crunchy with zucchini, and semi-sweet with caramelized onion. “You didn’t make this,” I smirk.