Return to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Except that every moment we wait, the clock just keeps on ticking.”

  I wouldn’t be surprised if she can hear the ticking inside her head, like a time bomb about to go off. “We have twenty-four hours to respond,” I remind her. “So, what do you say we use at least six or seven of them? I can’t be responsible for any decisions made before ten on a Saturday morning with a stomach devoid of home fries and sausage links.”

  My comment takes her off guard, and the tension in her face releases. Game point: I’ve won this round.

  I WAIT UNTIL TAYLOR NODS off before heading out to the hallway. Sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the wall, I stare at the photo of the dolls, desperate for some clue. The background is dark. The dolls look vintage with their wide, haunted eyes and their dirty, scratched-up faces.

  I check my phone, knowing I have at least a couple of missed messages—two missed calls from Apple and a text from Core telling me to check in. I text both that all is well at the food fest.

  The e-mail from the Nightmare Elf is up on the screen. I hit REPLY, thinking about all the other questions I might ask him: Why my parents? Is it true that my dad went superquick, like the medical examiner said? What were my mom’s final words? And are Parker and the others still alive?

  I run the T-shirt bracelet over my cheek, imagining that Parker can feel it somehow. The reply box still open, I type in my cell phone number. My finger trembles over the SEND tab. Should I? Shouldn’t I?

  Finally, I press SEND, feeling a wave of relief. Only now can I get some rest.

  There’s a vibrating sensation inside my palm; it jolts me awake. I open my eyes and sit up. I’m back in Taylor’s room, on the futon. Taylor’s still asleep in her bed.

  The phone clenched in my hand, the vibrating continues. The screen says PRIVATE CALLER. I click it on, moving out into the hallway. The brightness of the overhead lights shocks my eyes.

  “Hello, Princess.” His deep-throated voice sends shivers all over my skin. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  My head whirs. There’s a swirl of darkness behind my eyes, making everything feel hazy and thick. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, but this isn’t about what I want. This is about what you want, isn’t it, Princess? You gave me your number. You looked Taylor up. You reached out to me. I’m assuming that by going to such great lengths, you must really want to reclaim your role.”

  “My role,” I repeat, at a sudden loss for words.

  “You want to be my star again, don’t you, Princess?”

  I reach for the keys inside my pocket and run my finger over the sharpest one—not as pointed as a knife, but it has a tip, and manages to soothe. I’m in control. I still have choices. “Where are the others?”

  “It’s enchanting to hear your voice.”

  “Where are the others?” I insist.

  “By others, do you mean your costars?”

  “Okay,” I say. There’s a hitch in my throat.

  “You’ll have to see, my honeybee.”

  A door creaks open at the end of the hallway. Three girls emerge wearing matching heart-patterned pajamas. They’re giggling as they move toward the stairwell, seemingly without a care in the world.

  I look at the time; it’s 7:32 a.m. “How do you know that I won’t go to the police?”

  He laughs—a cackling sound that reverberates inside my bones. “Because I know you, April. I’ve been watching you for a long, long time, internalizing your every choice. You were desperate enough a year ago to enter my contest, despite how scared you were by it, just to put old ghosts to rest. You’re even more desperate now.”

  My breath stops. My skin ices over.

  “Cat got your tongue?” There’s amusement in his voice. “Do you miss your fine prince, my princess? Would you like to see him again? I have an inkling he might like that too.”

  “Is Parker still alive?”

  “Not so quick, my sugar stick. I believe you’d asked me a question. Do you remember what it was?”

  “Why did you wait so long?”

  “Because you’re like that fine bottle of wine just waiting to be uncorked. It would’ve been a waste to indulge too soon. One needs to be patient until things have properly aged and ripened. Alas, from the very first time I saw you, I knew you’d be the perfect star. I hope you’ll be my star again.”

  “Will it mean getting to see the others?”

  “So long as you keep things between us. Do I make myself clear?”

  “How do I know they’re still alive?”

  “You don’t. That’s a leap of faith you’ll have to take.”

  “And if I don’t take that leap?”

  “Then you’ll never know if you could’ve done something, saved someone, silenced the screaming inside your head.”

  There’s a jumping sensation in my gut, a rushing sensation through my veins. “What do I need to do? Where do I need to go?”

  “Ivy?” Taylor asks. She’s standing right behind me. The door to her room is open. There’s a confused expression on her face.

  I hold up my finger, asking for a second.

  “Who are you talking to?” she persists.

  “Just give me a minute,” I insist, cupping over the mouthpiece.

  “Holy shit. It’s him, isn’t it? You totally e-mailed him, didn’t you? Even though we agreed to wait.”

  The phone clicks. He hung up.

  Ticktock, ticktock.

  Boom.

  IVY IS TOTALLY GOING TO BLOW. Still, she accepts my invitation for fresh air. We go outside and walk across the footbridge, finally ending up at the rec hall—a favorite spot on campus. There are cushy chairs, snack machines, game tables, and an espresso bar with ten degrees of boldness (for those particularly rough cramming sessions).

  Ivy and I gravitate to the espresso bar. She brews herself a #10, while I go for a #3 with extra cream and two packets of sugar, and we sit on a couch, overlooking the foosball tables.

  “Look,” I begin, unable to take her silent treatment for one more sip, “I get that you’re upset, but I thought the deal was that we weren’t going to do anything until morning.”

  “The killer was about to tell me what I needed to do.”

  “What you needed to do to what?”

  “I’m sure he’ll call me back. He has my number. He knows how to reach me.” Her cell phone’s clenched in her hand.

  “We need to go to the police,” I tell her for the umpteenth time.

  “No,” she barks. “You need to promise me that you won’t.”

  “I can’t.” I sigh. “I’ve already surpassed my limit on screwups regarding this case.”

  “Give me at least a week.”

  “A week to do what?”

  “Research.” She pinches the skin on her kneecap. “I just want a chance to go through the clues on my own before turning them over to anyone.”

  “You do realize that pawing over physical clues is, like, number one on the how-to-sabotage-the-evidence list, don’t you?”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, right, because you binge-watch CSI?”

  “The killer knows what he’s doing too,” she continues, ignoring my jab. “He’s way too smart to leave fingerprints or DNA.”

  “Are you really willing to take that risk?”

  “I think you owe me a week.”

  “Why? Because everything’s all my fault? Because you obviously blame me too?”

  “Because I’m asking you—someone who was able to dodge the worst weekend of my life, and arguably the worst weekend of the five other missing contest winners—to wait.”

  Her words are sharp. They form a knife that stabs into my back. “Three days,” I say to compromise. “After that, I’m going to the police. And I’m going to tell them everything.”

  “Three days,” she repeats, extending her hand to shake on it.

  I give her a hug instead. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, but the embrace f
alls short of the one from last night when she first arrived—that palpable sort of connection.

  “It’ll all be fine,” she mutters.

  I know she’s totally trying to bullshit me—that things are about as fine as fuzzy bacon bits—but I take her lie anyway.

  From the Journal of E.W.

  Grade 7, August Preparatory School

  WINTER 1972

  I can see a face inside my head: a blond-haired boy with freckles and a pointed nose. I roll over in bed. My shades are drawn. My heart is racing. There’s still three more hours until people start waking up.

  I reach for my inhaler, flashing back to cold sweats and panic attacks, sitting alone in my bedroom at home, with the door locked and the light out, able to hear noises out in the hallway—footsteps, door knocks, floors creaking, bells jangling.

  My mind told me that it was Mother making the noises. I could hear her evil little-girl giggle, after all. But every other part of me was convinced that it was the ghost of Johnny, outside my bedroom, coming to get me.

  I click on my night table light. Everything appears normal—dresser, desk, chair, bookcase, journal—but it still feels like someone’s here. I lean over the side of the bed to check beneath it. Empty.

  It’s been like this all week. Whenever I close my eyes at night, I can see that boy’s face. I asked the man in charge of the rooms if I could switch mine, but he said no changes—that if he changed one, then everybody would be asking. I wonder if my grandparents are paying him extra for that.

  Last night, when I got up to check the door, I could’ve sworn the temperature in the room had dropped by at least twenty degrees. I tried the knob. A good sign: it was still locked. An even better sign: I was able to unlock it, unlike years before in my bedroom back home.

  I closed the door, turned toward the bed again, and felt my heart come to a sudden stop. There was something sticking up from behind my pillow—some kind of paper. I moved closer to see what it was, thinking that maybe a page had fallen out from my journal or that I’d misplaced a handout from one of my classes.

  I moved to stand just a couple of feet from the headboard, and the answer became clear. It was a page from an August Prep yearbook. I scanned the photos, somehow knowing what I would find. And I was right. There was a photo of the blond-haired boy with the freckles and pointed nose—the same boy that’s been popping up inside my mind.

  Ricky Slater.

  IT’S FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, and I still haven’t heard back from the killer. And so I’ve been searching online, trying to find images of the dolls from the photo. Does he own them? Where are they from? What year were they made? What are the chances that I can find them together as a collection?

  Dr. Tully called about an hour ago, reminding me about our outpatient therapy deal, which I took as a definite threat. And so that’s exactly where I am—in the hospital parking lot, having just exited my car. I step through the doors of the mental health wing just as my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I check the screen: PRIVATE CALLER. My heart instantly clenches.

  “Are you coming?” a girl asks, holding the elevator open for me.

  I shake my head and click on the phone. “Hello?” I cover my ear and move toward the exit door, looking back out over the parking lot. “Hello?”

  “Good evening, Princess.” His voice sends a shockwave through my body.

  “What do you want?” I ask him.

  “This isn’t about what I want, remember? Are you alone?”

  I look back over my shoulder, just as someone emerges from the stairwell and then moves past me through the exit doors. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of isn’t good enough, Princess. Go someplace private.”

  “Okay,” I mutter, heading outside. I cross the road in front of the entrance, and then hurry across the parking lot, fumbling to retrieve my keys from inside my pocket. I go to get back inside my car, but the doors are locked. I jam the wrong key into the lock before finding the right one.

  Back inside my car, I lock the door behind me. “I’m alone now,” I tell him, all out of breath. The overhead streetlamps shine through my windshield, making me feel exposed. My head aches. I haven’t taken my meds.

  “Good, because our conversations should only be between the two of us. Do you understand that, April? One word to anyone else—any lofty plans to conspire with the police—and your costars will be cut. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very. I get it. It’s just you and me. What do I need to do? Where do I need to go?”

  “I’ve actually come to you. Do you have paper and a pen?”

  I reach into my bag and pull out one of my many notebooks. “Okay.”

  “I trust that you’ll keep these notes between us as well. One wrong move…”

  “If you wanted to keep things so private, why did you contact me while I was at Taylor’s?”

  “You’re a very smart girl, you know that?” His voice is soft and slow.

  “She wants to go to the police.”

  “But I’m sure you’ve convinced her otherwise. I know you, April. I can predict your every move. And if you ever let me down, I’ll find out and simply adjust accordingly. I always have a plan in place—an insurance policy that safeguards myself against disloyalty.”

  “You don’t deserve loyalty.”

  “I may not deserve it, but still you’re extending it to me, aren’t you? By keeping our little secret. You must really want to see your costars.”

  “Where do I need to go?”

  “Drive northeast on Route 87 from Sturbridge, Maine. Get off at exit 4 and take a right on Chelsea Avenue. Park in the lot behind Chalmers Chocolate Factory.”

  I write everything down, almost unable to imagine going through with any of these plans.

  “When you get to Chalmers,” he continues, “cross the street to the bus stop and take the number 452 going south. Get out at the Lancaster Road stop. You’ll see a field; cross it.”

  My pulse races as I scribble down his every word. This is just too surreal. It can’t possibly be happening.

  “When you come to the other side of the field, there will be a small boat attached to a dock,” he says. “Use it to cross the lake. Look for a tall maple tree with a yellow scarf tied to the branches. There you will find further instructions. Goodbye for now, my princess.”

  “Wait,” I stammer. “When am I supposed to go there? When do I need to do this?”

  “The sooner the better to see a fine letter.”

  “A fine letter?”

  “Don’t wait too long. Ticktock. Ticktock.”

  The ticking’s inside me as well, clouding over my mind, making everything feel urgent, broken, dire, desperate.

  “This offer is only available for a limited time,” he chides.

  “How limited?”

  “By the count of one, my honeybun.” The phone clicks. He’s hung up.

  I SPEND THE NEXT COUPLE of hours driving around, trying to sort out my manic thoughts. I pull over a couple of times—to respond to a text from Apple and then to answer a call from Core: “Therapy went fine,” I tell him.

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “I’m spending the night at Candy’s, from the Depot. She broke up with her boyfriend and now she’s a wreck. She asked if I’d stay the night.” Even though I no longer live at home, I know that he and Apple check up on me. They notice when my car isn’t parked in the driveway.

  “Aunt Tillie should be back from her trip on Monday,” he says. “But you know that if you ever get lonely, you can always come home.”

  “I know. And thanks. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  We hang up and I recheck my screen. Miko sent me a text: “You looked out of it this AM. The flu? I made chicken soup. LMK if I can drop it off.”

  Everyone’s looking out for me. I have such a cheering squad on my side. And yet I feel so desperately alone.

  I rest my head against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to bang it.
What did the killer mean when he said “by the count of one”? One day? One week? It couldn’t possibly have been one hour. He would’ve said if there was that much of a ticking clock…right?

  In the same vein, I doubt he’d give me one week. Too much could happen in such a lapse in time—I could devise too much of a plan, become distracted, get others involved, or even change my mind.

  It’s one day. I’m sure of it. Just enough time for me to pack up some stuff and come up with an excuse for being away.

  I drive onto the Gringle College campus and park in the lot by Taylor’s dorm, wondering if coming here wasn’t a big mistake.

  It’s raining again. The droplets pound against the glass, making it hard to see. I pull out my phone and call Taylor’s number.

  “Hey,” she answers.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Are you kidding? I never go to bed before eleven; there’s way too much goodness on TV, and speaking of…have you seen this week’s episode of Relationship 9-1-1?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Wait, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you sound a little lost.”

  I look at my reflection in the window glass—tired eyes, pasty face, hair pulled back in a messy braid. “You’ll never guess where I am right now.”

  “Paris? Sitting beside a hot French guy at some chic café? In which case, why are you calling me?”

  “I’m right outside your building.”

  “Seriously?”

  My breath fogs up the window. In the condensation, I write Parker’s name.

  “Um, hello. Earth to Ivy.”

  “I’m here. I mean, I’m really here. I can see the entrance doors to your dormitory,” through the letters in Parker’s name.

  “Well, then what are you waiting for? Get your spontaneous ass up here.”

  “Okay,” I say, relieved by her cheery disposition. Just hearing it, despite the darkness—in the car, in my heart—my spirits lift.

  I OPEN THE DOOR OF my room. Ivy’s standing there. Her clothes are wet. The mascara has run down her cheeks. “Get in here,” I tell her. “Let me find you some dry clothes.” I fish an acorn-pattered bodysuit from my basket of clean clothes. “Feeling squirrelly?”