Return to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  Parker nearly loses his balance, taking a moment to regain stability. He blinks a few times, confused.

  “You’re in no condition for such heroics,” the killer says to him, pulling something from his pocket. A needle, with a syringe.

  I charge him, wielding the knife above my head. But the killer trips me, winding his leg around mine, grinding his elbow into my spine. I hear a loud crack.

  He shoves me, face-first. I land against my chest. The camera flies from my head. My nose hits the ground. The knife jumps from my grip. I go to retrieve it, blood pouring from my nose.

  Parker jumps at the killer once more, throwing his weight against him, trying to knock him down. The killer staggers back a few steps, but then regains his footing. He thrusts Parker—hard.

  Parker falls headfirst to the floor. He tries to get up, but the Nightmare Elf kicks him in the side—again and again and again—before jabbing the needle deep into Parker’s thigh.

  Parker lets out a sharp, piercing wail that stabs through my heart.

  “No!” I scream.

  Parker looks at me with a pleading expression—his eyes wide, his mouth parted. But, not two seconds later, those same eyes go vacant.

  His legs stop twitching.

  His body lies still.

  “This is turning out better than I anticipated,” the killer says, zeroing in on me again.

  Still on the floor, I look around, searching for Natalie, but she’s nowhere in sight. Where did she go?

  The killer turns to face me, his head cocked to one side. “Your turn?” he asks, taking out another needle.

  I get up and meet his eyes, noticing the motion of his chest as he breathes. He’s slightly winded. His feet—work boots—are pointed toward me, ready to charge.

  I wait for his first move, conjuring up various lessons I’ve learned in self-defense class: eye contact is key; timing is essential; more than half of all defense begins in the mind as we await the opponent’s vulnerability.

  I’m done being the vulnerable one.

  He comes at me, the needle clenched in his fist, angling down toward my neck. I take a step back, watching the needle in my peripheral vision—just six inches from my heart now—anticipating the opportune moment.

  I plunge the knife deep into his gut. The needle drops to the floor.

  He retreats, but then unzips his coat, revealing a layer of protective padding strapped to his body. My knife’s stuck inside the padding.

  “Nice try, my Princess.” He laughs. “But I’m always one step ahead.” He grabs the handle of the knife and twists it left and right, trying to pry it out.

  I run before he can, as fast as my legs will take me—hating myself for each stride I take toward the door, leaving Parker once again.

  I BACK AWAY—SLOWLY AT FIRST—keeping my eye on the fight.

  Parker and the Elf.

  Ivy and the Elf.

  My fight is with Harris.

  “I can’t just leave like this,” I tell him, able to hear tears in my voice.

  “There’s no other choice,” Harris says. “Not unless you want to be killed. A slice to your neck, in front of a mirror, so you can watch.”

  Is he saying that just to scare me? The mirror detail is suspect, but I don’t want to chance it.

  When I get to the doorway, I turn and run down the stairs, headed for the bulkhead exit. I know it’s here somewhere.

  The hallway is dark, lined with candles along the ground, positioned every few feet. I grab a candle for light and then move in the opposite direction of where the prison cells are located, turning left and then going right, trying to stay focused on Harris’s voice.

  “There,” Harris says, referring to a weathered door just a few feet away.

  I remove the wooden brace across it. The door creaks open. A set of stairs faces me, but it’s too dark. I can only make out two of the treads.

  There’s a slamming sound in the distance. It blows right through me, like a gunshot to my heart.

  “What are you stopping for?” Harris asks.

  I move up the stairs, into a black hole. My head hits something hard. Am I trapped? What’s happening? Harris, are you still here?

  I set the candle on a step and reach up. My fingers rake against something cold, hard, metal—like a ceiling above my head. I push upward, feeling a little give. My muscles quiver. My head whirs. I slip down a step. I don’t think I can do this.

  “You can,” Harris tells me.

  Using all my strength, I push harder. The bulkhead doors part open. A funnel of cold air blows against my face.

  But then my muscles give. My arms jitter. I let out a wild animal cry.

  Harris whispers in my ear: “This is your only hope, your only chance.”

  I take a deep breath and push upward again, punching against the metal, popping the doors open. They start to close once more, but I punch them again, feeling a rip in my skin. The doors splay open.

  I climb up the rest of the stairs and take a step outside. The cold air kisses my face, finds the bald patches on my head, reminding me who I am.

  But still, I’m out, I’m free.

  “Not yet,” Harris says.

  I CAN HEAR HIM COMING AFTER ME—the clobber of his boots, the panting of his breath. I hurry down the hallway, my nose still bleeding, my shoulder aching from when he twisted my arm. I scan the walls, still looking for the photos of Frankie, Garth, and Shayla, as if they might possibly reappear.

  In the lobby, there’s a chair positioned dead center. Two dolls sit on it—a mama with a little boy. Both have cracked porcelain faces. The mama only has one cheek and half of a forehead. Their eyes are white, the pupils faded. The boy doll looks sad, its mouth turned downward. There’s a tear inked onto its cheek.

  “Leaving so soon?” the mama’s voice squeaks out. “I was just in the middle of telling a bedtime story.”

  Facing the exit door, I feel a rush of adrenaline inside my veins, but I know that I can’t leave—not now, not yet. I turn away, just as the killer appears. He stands in my flashlight’s beam.

  “Leaving so soon?” he asks. “The story isn’t over yet.”

  “I want to see your face.”

  He’s got the camera strapped to his head now. The shadow of a candle flame flickers across his mouth.

  “Show me,” I tell him, trying to be strong, hearing a quiver in my voice.

  He shakes his head again. His tongue sticks out through the hole in the mask. He waggles it up and down, teasing me, taunting me.

  Keeping my eyes on his, I take a deep breath, noticing the knife gripped in his hand, down by his side.

  “Leaving so soon?” the doll asks again. “I was just in the middle of telling a bedtime story.”

  The killer comes at me with the knife, slicing through the air, releasing a maniacal scream.

  I duck and pivot to the side. The knife punctures the door. I smash him over the head with my flashlight—so hard that the flashlight falls from my grip, crashes to the floor.

  Using both hands, he tries to pry the blade from the wood. At the same moment, I kick him—hard—my heel plunging into the back of his knee. He collapses forward, losing his grip on the knife. But still he rebounds quickly, catching himself on the floor.

  He goes for the knife again.

  Meanwhile, I grab and twist the door handle, tearing the door wide open, smacking it against his head. I shiver at the impact—a deep clunk sound.

  He lets out a howl. I hear him stumble back.

  I snag my flashlight and plow down the front steps—three at time.

  It’s dark out. The chill in the air moves across my skin, waters my eyes. I run through the courtyard area, past the water fountain, headed for the woods, hoping the darkness can swallow me whole.

  It’s quiet behind me. Is he still in the building? Watching me from afar? I wind through the mazelike bushes and get back on the trail, moving forward, feeling as if I’ve gotten a decent lead.

  I stop, cl
ick off my flashlight, and crouch down behind some bushes, desperate to know where he is, tempted to go back.

  My pulse races. My body shivers. I don’t hear him anywhere. I can’t see a thing in the dark. Does he have a flashlight too?

  After several moments, I stand and take a step. There’s a loud snap. It echoes inside my bones, freezes me in place. It takes me a beat to realize that the sound was from me; I stepped on a stick.

  “Leaving so soon?” a voice squeaks out, cutting the dark silence. It’s the doll’s voice, right behind my ear.

  I let out a scream. Hands wrap around my neck. The knife is pressed against my throat. I can feel his chest against my back, can feel his breath against my skin.

  “You’ll always be my princess,” he whispers, running the blade along my neck.

  I swallow hard, my mind reeling, my heart pounding, waiting for the right moment. Wind rustles through the trees, sending shivers all over my skin.

  I press my back closer to his chest. The motion takes him aback; I’m able to feel his sharp inhalation. Before he can blow it out, I pound him—hard—in the groin, with the flashlight.

  The knife drops. He lets out a grunt and doubles over. I kick him again, plunging the heel of my shoe into his hip. He topples over, leaving me a window to run.

  I grapple through the brush. Branches scrape my face, pull at my hair, slow me down. But I continue through them as best I can in the dark, keeping my bag in front of my eyes as a shield.

  A good seven or eight strides away, I bump into something hard—a tree trunk. There’s brush all around it. I maneuver past and take a few more steps.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the killer sings.

  I stop in place, able to hear him moving toward me—the crunch of his boots over dirt, the sound of twigs snapping beneath his feet. But he isn’t using a flashlight either, so I can’t see him anywhere.

  I crouch down, and wait, and listen. After several moments, his footsteps seem to veer off in another direction; I hear the sound of twigs snapping at least several yards away.

  I click the flashlight on, keeping the beam angled low, searching for the path. I don’t see it anywhere. I turn the flashlight off and venture to stand. It’s quiet again; he must be standing still too.

  There’s a rustle in the brush; it sounds as if it’s coming from a distance. I click the flashlight on again—for just a second—hoping to finally find the path.

  Instead I find him—his eyes.

  No mask.

  My parents’ killer.

  He holds a flashlight at his chin, highlighting his face. “You got your wish. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen this face, hasn’t it, Princess? Did you miss it?” He’s standing only a few feet away; we’re separated by a sprawling bush.

  I recognize his silver hair—thick and wiry. I picture him standing over my bed seven years ago—his dark gray eyes, his crooked teeth, the stubble on his chin, and the scar down his face.

  “I would’ve stayed to tell you a bedtime story that night in your room, but our time was cut short, wasn’t it, Princess?” He begins toward me again, the camera still strapped around his head, recording our every move. Part of me wants to charge right into him, but I try to bolt instead.

  I barely get two steps before I feel myself pulled back. He yanks me by the hair, giving me a sharp tug, dragging me into some brush. There’s a knife—a new one, with a jagged edge—pressed against my neck.

  He’s crouched behind me. I’m on my back. Razor-like branches poke beneath my clothes, cutting into my skin.

  “I’d have told you the story about little Johnny and the burning house.” He points the tip of the blade below my ear and makes a tiny incision. He draws the knife downward, toward my chin. I can feel a trickle of blood, can see a star-filled sky.

  “Once upon a time,” he begins, “a little b—”

  There’s a loud, hard thwack. Something metal. He lets out a wail and releases his hold on me. The knife falls from my neck.

  I scramble to turn over, hearing the thwacking sound again.

  Natalie’s there, with a shovel in her hand. The killer is down on the ground. I shine my flashlight over a trickle of blood running from his forehead.

  Natalie takes the killer’s flashlight and points it beyond the brush, zeroing in on the path. “Come on,” she says.

  Together we run, swiping branches and brush from in front of our eyes. Eventually, after what has to be a couple miles, we get to the lake. The boat’s there. We untie it from the stump and climb in. I grab the oar. My arms ache as I paddle.

  Natalie keeps the flashlight pointed toward the dock on the other side of the lake. With her other arm, she paddles, as we steer in that direction. It feels like we’re going nowhere. I can’t paddle fast enough.

  There’s a giant splash sound. Natalie sits up straight, pulls her arm out of the water. Did he jump in? Is it another trick? I paddle harder; my arms move faster.

  Finally on the other side, I scramble to climb out, nearly losing my balance. Already on the dock, I hold Natalie’s forearm, and we struggle our way across the field.

  I can tell she’s weak, can see it in her gait. It’s labored and clumsy; she’s staggering from side to side. Her adrenaline’s running out.

  Her knee buckles slightly and she lets out a yelp. I secure her arm to catch her from falling. With each step, our pacing gets slower, heavier. We still haven’t reached the rock wall. There’s so much more distance to run. My wounded knee is aching.

  “I can’t,” Natalie whines. She stops short, all out of breath, placing her hands down on her knees.

  “You can,” I insist, still holding onto her forearm, giving her a tug forward. “It’s just a little bit farther,” I lie.

  But Natalie won’t budge. She shakes her head and sinks to the ground. Tears run down her cheeks. I pull my water bottle out of my bag and kneel down beside her. I place the spout at her lips.

  She takes a few sips, but then ends up hacking up. “Go without me.”

  “No. We’ve come too far.”

  She curls up on the grass. “Just leave me here to die. I don’t really care. I miss Harris too much anyway.”

  “Harris won’t be waiting for you,” I tell her. “Not if you quit.”

  She looks at me, her eyes enlivened. “Has he been talking to you too?”

  “He has,” I lie. “Now, come on.” I help her up, and we begin forward again, my knee throbbing with each step.

  At last, we reach the rock wall. We climb over it and continue across the second field, not stopping until we get to the road where the bus let me out. My breath is visible—a long-winded puff of air. A mix of emotions stirs inside my heart: sorrow, failure, loss, relief.

  I look down both sides of the road, spotting a car moving toward me in the distance. I flag it down. Natalie’s sitting on the ground.

  There’s a young couple inside. A tiny black dog.

  “Could you give us a ride to the police?” I ask, keeping a firm grip on my bottle pendant.

  I think they say yes. Maybe I respond with a thank-you.

  The couple asks us questions: if we’re okay, what happened. Too much to answer. Way too much to think about.

  Natalie opens the car door. There’s a sweet tobacco scent inside the car. She scoots in to make room for me.

  But I don’t move. And I can barely breathe.

  “Ivy?”

  I look at the driver. She reminds me a little of Shayla—dark skin, pretty smile.

  “Come on,” Natalie says, patting the seat beside her.

  “I can’t,” I tell her, shaking my head.

  “Ivy—”

  I close the car door and head back toward the field.

  INT. BASEMENT, ABANDONED GOTHIC BUILDING–NIGHT

  A large open space with cracked cement floors and overhead ductwork. It’s dark, except for a spotlight that hangs in the far corner, several yards away.

  ANGLE ON ME

 
I lie on the ground in a pool of my own blood. My head is bleeding. No one else is here. I’ve got to leave too.

  I manage to sit up, but I can’t move my leg. I can’t even feel it.

  Using all my strength, I prop myself up on my elbows and slither across the floor, toward the doorway that’ll lead out.

  I let out a GRUNT. My bones ache. My muscles twitch. Drool drips down my chin.

  En route to the doorway, there’s a puddle of blood on the floor, seeping out from a door to the left.

  CLOSE ON DOOR

  A hand sticks out from beneath it, palm facing up. The nails have chipped green polish.

  I go to reach up for the knob, but my elbow buckles and I nearly fall on my face. I try again, sitting up. The door is locked, as before. The wood is thick and heavy. I’d need to be able to stand to bust it open.

  I POUND on the door.

  ME

  Hello? Can you hear me?

  I touch the fingers. The skin is cold. I apply pressure to the thumb, looking for a response. There isn’t one; no movement—even when I pinch the skin.

  I continue to POUND on the door, shoving my weight against it as best I can in a seated position, continuing to SHOUT for whoever’s inside to hear me.

  A door SLAMS somewhere. I stop pounding and drop down to the ground. On my elbows again, I slither along the floor, working my way to the doorway. The skin on my forearms burns.

  There are FOOTSTEPS in the distance. I’m just a few feet from the doorway now. A trickle of sweat runs from my forehead.

  I wrestle my way down the slab steps, landing face-first. My chin hits a rock. My teeth clank together. Blood runs from my nose. I drag myself onto the dirt floor; it’s lit up with candles that lead the way back to the prison cells.

  I move to the left, through an open doorway. My shirt rolls upward. The skin on my stomach scrapes against something sharp—a tearing, singeing pain—and I wince.

  It’s completely dark here. No lights, no candles. I continue to crawl forward, my fingers raking over the dirt. My fingers are raw and bleeding.