“There’s a movie like that,” I say. “Name that film: a group of seemingly random kids gets invited to spend the night in a mansion that’s rumored to be haunted, only, in the end, there’s nothing random about how the kids were chosen. They were all handpicked according to their personality profiles—sort of like the personality profile that we all had to submit for this contest—and the entire evening of horrors was orchestrated by the hosts.”
Despite the accurate description, their faces remain blank.
“It came out in 1997,” I continue, giving them a hint. “It bombed at the box office during its debut weekend, but then hit a grand slam in video. Jeffrey Salter was the executive producer, two no-name actors played the leads, and the director was…” I hum out the theme song to Jeopardy, waiting for someone to reply.
“Errrh,” I say, sounding the buzzer.
“Are you talking about House of Red?” Parker asks. “Because that actually came out in ninety-six, not ninety-seven. And it was directed by Henri Maltide and co-produced by Salter. Maltide was also listed as a producer.”
“Okay, but Salter did all the work,” I say, correcting him. “Including writing the screenplay, so let’s give credit where credit is due, shall we? Oh, and PS, Taylor is real, or at least according to Midge she is. She was supposed to be on my connecting flight, along with Natalie, but I got bumped thanks to my pet, Squirrely.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” Parker says, grabbing his cell phone. He takes a few pictures of the writing.
“Peek-a-boo,” Midge sings, poking her head inside the room. “Was someone looking for me a few minutes ago? I was down in the basement and thought I heard someone call out my name.”
Parker points to the bogus message. “We wanted to show you something.”
A twinge of surprise forms on Midge’s face, but then her expression morphs into a sheepish grin. “Beats me,” she says, reaching into the pocket of her apron. She pulls out a handful of bloody fingers. They look eerily realistic, complete with dirty fingernails and hairy knuckles. She holds them out for show and then pops them into her mouth.
This woman is my new idol.
Ivy lets out a gasp, covering her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Midge says. “How rude of me. Would anyone like a juicy thumb?”
“I would,” I tell her.
Midge fishes a hairless thumb from her pocket and hands it to me. I pop it into my mouth. It’s bubble gum.
“Are you all hungry?” Midge asks. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Taylor to get back from her walk?” Ivy asks.
“Taylor phoned just a little while ago, while I was on another call,” Midge explains. “She stopped at a diner on Highway 9.”
“Is Highway 9 far from here?” Ivy asks.
“Everything is far from here.” Frankie laughs.
“We already have a car out looking for her,” Midge says. “So don’t worry. Just come down to the dining room in fifteen minutes. I’ll have everything ready.”
“Sounds great.” I blow out a bubble and pop it with my ax, more than eager to get this party started.
Once Midge and the others file out of the room, only Ivy and I remain. Ivy paces back and forth, completely lost in her own little world, not even noticing the fact that I’m lounging on her bed right now. Part of me almost feels sorry for her—I used to get scared like that too.
I take a deep breath, thinking back to the day my dad pulled me aside and taught me all about Leatherface. “Do you want me to teach you what I know?”
She looks at me, alarm on her face, as if surprised to find me still here.
“About the blood,” I explain.
Still no answer.
“Blink once for yes, twice for no,” I continue.
She blinks once—on purpose or by accident, I’m not quite sure—and so I get up and stand in front of the closet. “See the glossy sheen?” I say, pointing to the individual letters.
Ivy finally shows a pulse and comes over to join me.
“Now, get real close,” I tell her. “Do you smell the beeswax? I think there might also be a hint of petroleum jelly.”
“Are you a bloodhound?”
“It’s my superpower,” I say, only half kidding. I may not be able to detect blood type for real, but ever since I was little, I’ve had a keen sense of smell—sometimes so keen that it became somewhat of a handicap, forever distracting my attention. I failed freshman Bio because Mr. Bing reeked of mothballs. “Do you smell the artificial ingredients?” I ask her.
She shakes her head.
I lean in to sniff the letters again, and that’s when I notice it.
“What?” Ivy asks, able to spot the confusion on my face.
I look around the closet, searching for the source, spotting a palm-size smear of blood in the corner, by the floor. I kneel down to check it out. It’s had time to oxidize, but I can tell it’s still fresh.
“What?” Ivy repeats.
“Just more of the lip gloss,” I lie, sparing her the truth. It’s probably just a fluke thing anyway.
THE DINING ROOM OF THE Dark House is straight from a magazine: plum-purple walls, velvet drapes, gold-framed paintings, and a mosaic-tiled floor. Parker’s filming the space, doing a close-up of a portrait of a half woman/half feline dressed in a fur coat.
I sit with the others around a marble table lined with thick red candles. Parker takes a seat beside me and bumps his shoulder against mine.
“Everything cool?” he asks, probably noticing that I’ve been mute for the past several minutes.
Little does he know that there’s a ball of tension wedged beneath my ribs, making it hard to breathe. “It’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile, wanting to prove to myself that I can do this. Getting scared is part of the process, I repeat inside my head, hoping the repetition will make it okay.
A crystal chandelier hangs down from a vaulted ceiling, illuminating our meal, which is kept hidden beneath silver dome covers. Midge lifts the covers, unveiling some of America’s most popular comfort foods: mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, green bean casserole, fried chicken, and barbecue spareribs.
“Holy yum-ness,” Shayla says. “This is totally the meal from Nightmare Elf III: Lights Out. Remember when that couple ran out of gas en route home from their road trip? They went to the Dark House for help, and the family that was staying there at the time—”
“The Kramer family,” Garth says to clarify.
“—served this very same meal.” Shayla spoons a mound of mashed potatoes onto her plate and then tops it off with a drizzle of gravy.
“Can I pass you something?” Parker asks me.
“I’m good,” I say, taking a glob of mac and cheese, even though the thought of ingesting anything right now makes me feel sick.
“So, when do we get to meet Justin Blake?” Frankie asks, as Midge fills our water glasses.
“Tomorrow,” she says. “Didn’t you find the itinerary in your room?”
“I think I might’ve been too distracted by the Clapton Fender Stratocaster.”
“Nothing but the best for our Dark House Dreamers.” She sets a dinner bell in the center of the table. “If anyone needs anything, just give this here a jingle, okay?”
We thank her and she leaves the room, dimming the overhead lights as she goes.
“I have an idea.” Shayla perks up in her seat. “How about after dinner we play an icebreaker game. Something to help us get to know one another.”
I look over at Natalie, feeling bad that we haven’t officially met. “I’m Ivy,” I say, somewhat encouraged by her presence—that there might actually be someone here who’s more freaked out than me.
The others introduce themselves as well. Natalie flashes a polite smi
le and then resumes eating her food in silence.
“How about we play spin the bottle?” Garth says, between bites of barbecue spareribs. He flashes us a grotesque smile, his teeth and lips thoroughly saturated with dark red goo.
Shayla laughs in response, making me wonder if there isn’t anything she doesn’t find hilarious. “How about a Justin Blake trivia game?”
“Except I’d beat all of you in the first round,” Garth says.
“Don’t be so sure about that one. What year did Blake graduate from college?” Parker asks.
“He didn’t graduate,” Frankie says. “He never made it through sophomore year.”
“No, but he did graduate from Wentley Vocational-Technical School,” Garth says. “His father wanted him to become an electrician.”
“That actually isn’t right,” Natalie says, peeking up from her chicken leg. “His father wanted him to become a doctor, but they ended up compromising on electrical work, and that was only because Blake’s uncle was a master electrician, so Blake was pretty much guaranteed a job.”
Garth pauses from licking his goo-covered fingers. His mouth hangs open, exposing a hunk of chewed up pork. “Holy crap. She speaks.”
“She just doesn’t speak to you,” Frankie jokes.
I angle myself in Natalie’s direction. “Were you and Taylor on the same flight here? Did you ride in the same car?”
“Yes,” she says, poking a hole in the nonexistence theory. “Why?”
“Because Taylor is missing,” I tell her.
“Not missing, just not here.” Garth rolls his eyes.
“I know what we should play,” Shayla says, snagging the conversation back. “How about a game of two truths and a lie?”
“I vote that we don’t play any games,” Frankie says. “Let’s just talk like normal people.”
“If only we were normal people,” Garth says, baring his sauce-smothered teeth once again.
“What did everyone write about for the contest?” Parker asks.
The table goes quiet for several seconds until Frankie ventures to speak. “I wrote about the nightmares I had after my uncle died—about digging his body up and getting trapped underground, right along with him.”
“There’s a movie like that,” Garth says. “About a guy who gets buried alive.”
“There are at least ten movies like that,” Parker says, correcting him. “The idea is actually sort of cliché.”
“Were you and your uncle super close?” Shayla asks, turning to Frankie.
“Close enough, I guess,” he says. “But it was seeing the burial that really messed me up…seeing his body lowered into the ground and planted inside the earth, like it could one day grow back to life. What made it worse was that my mom had left a few months before.”
“Left?” Shayla asks.
“Yep.” He nods, drawing a train track across his mound of mashed potatoes. “She packed her bags and never looked back. This was her bracelet, by the way.” He flashes us a gold link chain around his wrist. “It was passed down to her by her father—my grandfather. And, one day, she took it off, fastened it around my wrist, and told me that I could keep it and that we’d always be together.”
“The symbol for infinity,” I say, spotting the elongated figure eight.
“Which is actually pretty ironic, considering that she took off that following week. Anyway, my dad hates that I wear it—says it’s a complete slap in his face—which is why I got this.” He lifts the sleeve of his T-shirt. Rice & Sons is tattooed on his bicep. “It’s the name of my dad’s auto repair shop. My brothers have the same one—proof of our loyalty. Needless to say, allegiance is pretty big in my family.”
“I have tattoos,” Natalie says.
“Plural?” Garth asks, his eyebrow raised. He gives her body a once over, but only her face and fingers are bare. “How many, where, and of what?”
“Seven. All over. And all for Justin Blake,” she says. “I guess I have my allegiances too.”
“To a man you’ve never met?” I ask, genuinely curious about her motivation.
“Is that somehow less acceptable than getting permanently inked to show a supposed loyalty to something that you don’t even care about?” Frankie asks, obviously referring to his father’s business. “Something that you kind of even resent?”
“You don’t really have tattoos, do you?” Garth says, zeroed in on Natalie.
“Why would I lie?” she asks.
“I guess there’s only one way to prove it.” The menacing grin on Garth’s face reminds me of the Grinch’s after having just stolen Christmas.
“She doesn’t need to prove anything to you,” Frankie tells him.
Natalie looks at Frankie and a tiny smile crosses her lips. A second later, the lights flicker and go out, tightening the knot in my gut.
“It’s just a scare tactic,” Parker says. He nods toward the hallway, where the lights are still on. “I’m sure this weekend is going to be full of them.”
As if on cue, his words are followed by the roar of thunder—a hard, heavy rumble that reverberates in my bones. Even Shayla jumps at the sound.
I focus on one of the candles, trying to exhale my mounting anxiety, but my breath gets caught in my chest, and I let out a wheeze.
“Are you okay?” Parker asks, placing his hand on my shoulder.
My heart beats fast. My hands start to sweat. I can’t seem to get enough air. “I need to go lie down for a bit,” I try to say, but the words come out choppy.
“Seriously?” Garth asks. “You’re one of the chosen, here for the party. Stay for the rolling credits, why don’t you?”
I really wish I could, but right now I need to get away.
I WAIT ALL OF FIVE MINUTES before going upstairs to check on Ivy. “Hello,” I call, rapping lightly on the door.
She opens it. Her hair’s pulled back. There’s a thin veil of sweat over her forehead and neck. Somehow it makes her skin glisten. The bottle pendant that hangs around her neck dangles toward her cleavage.
I nod at the travel mug she’s holding. “You got something strong in there?”
“It’s chamomile.” She smiles. “Want some?” She points to a tin full of tea packets.
“I’ve got all sorts of flavors and colors: red, green, black, gray, kombucha, oolong, dandelion…”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping inside her room. “But I’m not much of a tea drinker.”
“Really?” She gives me a surprised look, as if not drinking tea is as peculiar as bringing a stash of it along on vacation. She sits down on Taylor’s bed and the vee of her dress opens ever so slightly, exposing three solid inches of plump ivory skin. “I’m sorry I freaked out down there.”
“Don’t apologize. I get it. Being here is making you a wee bit anxious.”
“More like a huge bit.”
“I mean, I know the message in the closet upset you, and that Taylor’s absence really bothers you.”
She angles toward the closet and her dress opens up even more. “The message is probably like Garth said—a scare tactic.” She looks back at me, straight into my face. “Are you okay? Because if you want to talk about something else, I totally get it.”
“Right,” I say, but I have no idea what I’m agreeing to, and the confused look in Ivy’s eyes tells me that she doesn’t know either.
I mentally splash some water onto my face, noticing that she smells intoxicating—like lavender and chamomile. I take a deep breath, trying to picture this whole scene like a movie—anything to help keep myself focused.
INT. BEDROOM—NIGHT
One half of the room is decorated for a dancer, with ballet slippers and costumes; the other half is full of cookbooks. There are two full beds.
IVY, 18-ish and unbelievably cute,
sits on one of the beds, wearing a dress that’s driving me crazy.
I move to sit beside her.
IVY
Taylor already started unpacking her stuff.
She motions to Taylor’s leopard-print suitcase at the foot of the bed. It’s unzipped. And the top drawer to Taylor’s dresser is only half-closed.
ME
And?
IVY
And why would she start unpacking if she were just going to bolt? I mean, I suppose I get it. Maybe she needed some fresh air and wanted to regroup, which is totally understandable. I mean, I keep having to remind myself what I’m still doing here, and why I even came to begin with.
ME
Why did you come?
IVY
Why did you?
ME
For the networking possibilities. I want to be a filmmaker one day.
IVY
Which explains the video camera.
ME
(nodding)
I only end up using about five percent of the footage. But still, getting in the habit of filming stuff—trying to get those perfect angles—and then editing clips together to tell a story…all of that helps make me a better filmmaker.
IVY
Sounds like you really love it.
ME
I do. And getting to meet Justin Blake is a major step in the right direction. Now, your turn.
IVY
I don’t know.
(a shrug)
I guess I entered this contest because I really love horror.
ME
Right.
(a smirk)
I should’ve known that from your expression during The Old Dark House movie. I think it looked something like this.
I flash her my most frightful face, my eyes wide and my mouth arched open in terror.
IVY
Welcome to the Dark House Page 6
