Return to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Is someone there?” I ask, just as the light goes out altogether. I squat back down, searching the floor for my flashlight. I put it down when I was checking out the index cards.

  There’s a bulb flashing sound. And a big burst of light. Someone’s here, taking pictures.

  “Who’s there?” I shout, shielding my eyes from the blow of light.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  I creep forward, on my hands and knees, toward the door. I reach upward, searching for the knob, pounding my fists against the door panel. “Ivy!” I shout.

  Footsteps move in my direction. There’s a deep-throated giggle.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  My back up against the door, I face the room, trying to mentally prepare myself for what comes next.

  “Who’s there?” I call again, my heart racing. There’s a spray of colors in front of my eyes.

  A moment later, I fall backward. The door’s whipped open, and I tumble onto my back, into the hallway.

  Ivy’s there. She must’ve heard me.

  “Someone’s in there,” I tell her, able to hear the fear in my voice.

  Ivy points her flashlight inside. I move to stand behind her, making sure the door doesn’t close. Her flashlight shines over the skeleton, the brain, the religious stuff.

  The chalkboard is clear now—no writing. The candle’s been extinguished. And I don’t see a single soul.

  “Your flashlight,” she says, nodding to it, on the floor by the brain tank.

  I hurry to snatch it up and then I shut the door behind us.

  “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU doing in there?” I ask.

  “Let’s go,” Taylor says, speeding past me down the hallway.

  I hurry to keep pace beside her. “What happened?” I insist.

  She doesn’t answer. She just keeps on moving—past where I saw the Decker twins and back through the tunnel. Eventually, we’re spit out into the hallway we first entered—the one with the snapshots of Frankie and Shayla.

  “Taylor!” I shout, talking to her back.

  Finally, she turns to face me.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” I ask her. “And what you were even doing in that room?”

  “Clearly not my nails.” She angles her flashlight over her chipped green polish. “Look, I’d really rather forget the last twenty or so mortifying minutes of my life, but suffice it to say that I want to go—like now. Are you with me? This is an old building. There’s got to be a way—a crack, a hole, a balcony window that I can jump out.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  She grinds her teeth. Her eyes roll up toward the ceiling. And she balls up her fists.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, but only for disappointing her, not for wanting to stay. “But I need to see this through.”

  “This is insane. You know that, right?”

  I shrug. My heart sinks. “My whole life has been insane. But yours hasn’t. That’s the difference. I understand if you want to go.”

  “Okay, fine,” she says, after a five-second pause. She takes a deep breath and looks directly at me again. Her eyes are watery. Her upper lip trembles. “I’ll stay. But when this is all done, you owe me big time. I see a major spa day in my future, and not just a measly mani-pedi either. I’m talking facial, brow wax, salt scrub, the works.” There’s a smile on her face, and yet tears streak down her cheeks.

  “Are you sure?” I ask her.

  “About the spa day? Yes. About enduring another minute of this funked-up-crazy shit? Hell no. But I can’t jump ship—not without you, that is.”

  I give her a hug. She quivers in my embrace. It feels weird being the brave one—empowering and unsettling at once.

  Instead of going back to the lobby, we move through the door at the end of the hall.

  “Where are we going?” Taylor asks.

  I lead her down the stairwell, headed for the basement.

  There’s a steel door at the bottom of the stairs. I shine my flashlight over it, noticing a metal box above the knob with a blinking red light.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  There’s a keypad on the box. I try the knob; unsurprisingly, it doesn’t turn. “We need to enter a code.”

  “One that we’re bound to get on one of these crazy-ass challenges. I really think we need to get all of our ducks in a row first.”

  “Excuse me?” She sounds like a grandma. “You hardly strike me as a planner.”

  “You’re right.” Taylor sighs. “I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl, but still that doesn’t change my mind.”

  Except we’re running out of time. I focus back down at the keypad and type in the words Nightmare Elf. A red X appears.

  Too easy. The code word needs to be something more clever. I try Dark House, Parker Bradley, Ivy Jensen, my old name (April Leiken), my parents’ names (Sarah and Matthew Leiken). I go to type in Ricky Slater, but the keypad doesn’t work. The buttons no longer push.

  I’m cut off.

  My chest tightens.

  I slam my fist against the door, hoping to get another shot—that I’m only allowed a certain number of tries, within a certain amount of time, before the keypad locks up.

  “I hate to say I told you so, but…” Taylor chides.

  I rest my forehead against the door. “They’re in there,” I whisper. “Shayla’s in there. I heard her. Natalie called me.”

  “On the phone? I thought your cell was dead.”

  “Before, I mean. In the parking lot at the police station.” I don’t have time to explain. I need to crack this code. I take out my notebook and scribble down the new clue. “Forty-one R,” I say aloud.

  “It obviously supports the locker combination theory.”

  “How are we doing for time?”

  “An hour and a half left.”

  “We need to get to the theater,” I tell her.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because after Ricky took his shower, that’s where he went. Center stage.”

  “Upstairs,” Taylor says. “I saw a sign for the auditorium.”

  We race back upstairs, down the hall, and through the lobby. As we pass by the library, I’m able to hear the familiar music—the piano playing and Denise Kilborn’s voice.

  “That way.” Taylor shines her flashlight over a double set of doors. A sign for the theater/auditorium hangs over them.

  We step inside. It’s dark, but a light clicks on, illuminating the center stage. A noose hangs from the ceiling, wavering back and forth, as if someone just touched it.

  “It’s show time, Princess,” his voice whispers into my ear. “Go have yourself a seat. I’ve reserved the front row just for you.”

  Taylor takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Slowly, we walk down the aisle, toward the stage. I keep my eyes focused on the noose, imagining a body hanging from it: feet dangling, eyes open, limbs pooled with blood.

  “There,” Taylor says, bringing me back to earth, pointing to the front row. A bouquet of dead roses rests on one of the seats.

  I move closer, noticing two cardboard buckets tucked beneath the seats, filled with movie snacks—popcorn, soda, Sno-Caps, Jujyfruits.

  “I wonder if he can hear the growling of my gut.” Taylor plops down in a seat and starts digging into her bucket o’ crap, like it’s a Saturday afternoon and we’re here to see a movie.

  “Do you like your view of the stage, Princess?” the voice asks. “Ricky hung himself during his sophomore year. I’d see his body throughout my school day—in the shower, out the window, in the corner of every classroom. Dangling, swaying, eyes open, mouth arched wide. You know a thing or two about being haunted, don’t you, Princess?” There’s amusement in his voice.

  A screen drops down in front of the noose. The lights go out. My skin starts to itch.

  Parker and I appear on the screen. We’re lying in bed, facing one another—me, beneath the covers; him, on top
of them.

  “Holy shit,” Taylor mutters.

  A lump forms in my throat.

  “I’m assuming that’s at the Dark House,” Taylor says.

  “It is.” I nod.

  She doesn’t say anything. Meanwhile, I can’t help feeling everything: angst, frustration, sadness, regret.

  On the screen, Parker swipes a lock of hair from in front of my eyes. The camera angles on his face, highlighting the upturn of his lips. “You’re pretty cool, you know that?”

  The sound of his voice sends a shockwave through my body.

  “You’re only saying that because you feel sorry for me,” I tell him.

  He makes a confused face. “What’s to feel sorry for?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I smile and roll my eyes. My hair’s draped over the pillow, and there’s an unfamiliar glow on my face. I look so happy, despite where I am.

  “I’m not kidding,” he says. “So take a compliment, okay?”

  “You’re just being nice to me because I’m the biggest scaredy cat ever…not to mention because I made a mistake by coming here.”

  “Ivy…”

  “Parker…” I say to mock him.

  “You’re braver than you think. I mean, you made it here, didn’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “And as for this being a big mistake…I’d like to think that it wasn’t a mistake at all.” He ventures to touch my forearm.

  I remember the moment distinctly—the swelling sensation inside my heart, the warming sensation swimming through my veins.

  “Now, on to more important topics,” he says.

  “Like what we’ll be doing tomorrow?”

  “Like best movie kisses.” He smiles, sneaking a glimpse of my lips.

  I sit up straighter in my seat, anticipating what comes next. But the scene fades to black.

  The room goes dark again.

  “What happened?” Taylor asks. “Things were just getting good.”

  I want so badly to replay the scene—to see his crooked smile when he says the word kisses, to hear him say my name, to watch his mouth as he tells me about Spider-Man and Mary Jane.

  “No wonder,” Taylor says, snagging me from my thoughts. Her flashlight’s on. How long has she been watching me?

  “No wonder?”

  “Why you’re here, I mean. You guys really had something special, didn’t you?”

  Before I can answer, numbers flash across the screen—from ten down to one. “It’s starting again,” I say, reminded of our first night at the Dark House, in the theater room, when Midge disappeared.

  A loud, blaring buzzer sounds. The number one flashes on the screen.

  Taylor swivels in her seat, pointing her flashlight toward the back of the auditorium. “Wait here,” she says.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  Without a word, she stands and moves out into the aisle, aiming her flashlight upward, where there’s a balcony with a projector.

  “Did you see something?” I ask her.

  She doesn’t answer. She just keeps on moving farther away, closer to the exit doors.

  “Taylor!” I shout, remembering Harris’s unfinished warning: Don’t let her out…

  “I’m going to find some answers,” she says.

  …of my sight?

  “Taylor, no!”

  “I’ll be right back,” she says, disappearing up the aisle.

  From the Journal of E.W.

  Grade 7, August Preparatory School

  SPRING 1972

  The headmaster pulled me into his office yesterday and said that teachers have told him I’m not doing well in classes and that everybody’s worried. He called my grandparents, but they told him I was just fine if not a little homesick. I know this because Gramps called me right after and said that if I don’t start shaping up, he’d lock me up in the funny house with my mother.

  Kids have stopped sitting with me at lunch. They don’t want me to be on their teams at recess or to sit with me in the library. But I don’t really care. I don’t need any of them. I have movies to keep me company. They show one every Saturday night in the rec room. Even if I don’t like the movie pick, I’m happy just sitting there in the dark, where nobody else can see me, guessing at the director’s choices for casting and camera angles. I analyze the story, asking myself questions about motivation and plot. Sometimes I even take notes.

  Jarrod told me that everyone’s comparing me to Ricky, saying I’m weird, different, spooky, strange. Jarrod asked why my eyes are always so red, why I don’t dress neatly, and why I’ve been mumbling to myself.

  “Who are you always talking to?” he asked.

  “Nobody,” I told him.

  “Well, tell Nobody to shut up.” He laughed.

  I had to hold myself back from smashing him in the face. And I did, because I wanted to know: “Hey, do you still hear that knocking on the walls of your room?”

  It took him a second to remember what he’d told me, and when he did, a grin appeared on his face. “I was just playing with you, man. Nothing like that ever happened for real.”

  “Then why did you lie?”

  “Why not?” He laughed again. “To keep the legend going. It makes this place a lot less boring.”

  I hated him for that. I hate everyone here now. And I hate Ricky the most. I’m not like him at all. I’m smarter and more in control—maybe even a little like Mother. Once I do what Ricky says and find his suicide note, he’s in for a big surprise.

  “GET UP,” THE ELF 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.