by Dan Poblocki
For Maria
Contents
Sigil Page
Dylan Page
Letter Page
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Art Credits
About the Author
Sneak Peek
Shadow House App
Copyright
DYLAN RAN, HIS thoughts and memories as blurred as the shadows that kept pace with him. His twin brother’s voice rang out behind him, but it only made him run faster. He ran, choked with fear, desperate to escape everything he’d just been through.
Although, in a way, he hadn’t been through anything.
Dylan was dead.
He skidded around a corner and slipped on the runner that had suddenly appeared in this stretch of hallway, pinwheeling his arms to try to stop but slamming into a wall anyway. That was Larkspur House for you, changing with no warning, and always trying to trip you up. There was no getting used to this nightmare.
Dylan leaned against the door, panting from his sprint, and put a hand to his chest. His heart pounded against his palm, and his pulse fluttered in his neck. His cheeks were hot, and he wiped sweat from his forehead with the side of his arm. He felt real. He felt alive.
Only now he remembered—the prank his twin brother, Dash, had played on him. Dash’s face lit up with glee, and then a split second later contorted in a scream. The blast of white, the blood in his mouth, pain everywhere. Stillness. He gave himself a shake, as if he could chase it all away.
But he couldn’t. No one can chase away death; death chases you.
Somewhere deep in his mind, a thought wriggled like a worm. Had Dash meant to do it? His brother had always been the good twin, his mother’s little angel, and the pet of every director they’d worked with over the years in LA. Dylan was the bad one, the hassle. The reason the scripts stopped coming. Did some part of Dash want Dylan gone?
Dylan closed his eyes. He missed LA—he’d give anything to go home, to get away from this haunted place.
He laughed, and the sound crackled down the corridor. He was one of the ghosts haunting Larkspur now.
Dylan forced himself to open his eyes and look around. He was in a hallway he hadn’t seen before. The wooden floor and paneled walls were nearly black. A dim glow came from above, and he could see the ceiling was angled like a rib cage. A latch clicked, and somewhere a door opened.
He shrank from the sound of squeaking hinges and hunched his shoulders as if he could make himself disappear. But couldn’t he? He was dead, after all.
Footsteps echoed into the hallway, and a tall silhouette disturbed the glow up ahead. Dylan pressed himself against the nearest wall. But the stranger approached quickly—too quickly for Dylan to hide.
A familiar tingle settled onto his scalp, like a cap made of needles, and Dylan watched as the hallway tilted.
Flash.
The dressing room. The bucket of water above the door, a classic trick.
Flash.
Cold, wet, reaching for the lamp. The shock, the blinding white. Electrocution.
Flash.
The funeral.
Flash.
Dash’s room in the psychiatric hospital.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
A voice called out to him, but he couldn’t stop himself from crumbling to the ground. And then everything went black.
“Dylan?” someone said from the darkness. “Dylan?”
Dylan’s eyelids fluttered open. He was lying down. There was a wooden ceiling above him and a plush carpet beneath him. Sitting beside him was a man he’d never seen before. The silhouette from the hallway? He was broad-shouldered and had a bushy beard, and wore a red-and-black plaid shirt and dark-blue jeans. He looked like he might be a lumberjack, or at least someone who lived in one of the cool neighborhoods in LA. The man’s hand rested on Dylan’s shoulder. Dark hair hung just past his thick eyebrows, slightly obscuring his glistening, golden-hued eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I-I don’t know,” Dylan answered. “What happened?”
“We were running your lines and you fainted. Your eyes rolled back and then, blam! You hit the floor.”
“My lines?”
“Man, you must have really smacked your head hard. My assistant is getting some water for you. She’ll be back shortly. Just rest.” Dylan tried to wiggle out from under the man’s hand, but it was wide and heavy. “Don’t move. You’ll be fine.”
“What lines are you talking about?” Dylan asked, shivering, worried that his voice was rising, revealing his alarm. “Who are you again?”
The man smiled, then seemed to catch himself, furrowing his brow. He unbuttoned his plaid shirt, revealing a white T-shirt underneath. He slipped the plaid shirt off, draping it over Dylan like a blanket. “Del Larkspur? I’m the producer of The Gathering. You’re one of my leads. The big bad villain.” He paused, examining Dylan’s confused expression. “You’re here, with your brother, shooting a horror movie. Do I need to go on?”
“The Gathering?”
Del ran his hand through his hair as if trying to hide growing frustration.
Dylan felt a hole open in his mind, sucking away memories of what must have been a horrible dream. A dream that had felt entirely real.
A neat pile of papers was on the rug to his left. It looked like a script. At the top of the opened page, the name of a character was written in black pen: The Trickster. “The film,” he said. “Of course.” Some details were starting to come back. There were creepy masks. And ghosts. And a great big mansion to play in. But wait, it wasn’t a movie. It was real. He’d just found out he was … Dylan’s brain refused to go on.
“We met you this morning?” Dylan asked. Del nodded. “And Dash is … where?”
“With the director, Cyrus Caldwell,” said Del. “They’re finishing prep with the other kids in the cast for the big shoot tonight.”
“Can I see my brother?”
“Why?”
“I-I just want to ask him some questions.”
Still squatting by Dylan’s side, Del rocked back on his heels. The lines around his mouth tightened. “I thought you two were doing your own things here. Separate roles now. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
Dylan sat up fully. Crowded bookshelves filled the walls. A fire was burning in a fireplace, flicking orange light into the room’s nooks and crevices. “You’re right,” he said quickly, not wanting to annoy the man any further. “I’ll catch up with Dash after the shoot.”
“Good,” said Del, warmth returning to his face. “I really need you with me on this. Put on that shirt. It can get drafty in here.”
Del’s smile made Dylan feel happy. Like he was wanted. Appreciated. The bad dream was fading, and relief heated Dylan’s veins. Dylan inhaled a
deep breath. He slipped his arms into the sleeves of Del’s button-down and then grabbed the script from the floor, holding it in his lap, plucking at the brass clips that bound the pages together. “I’m sorry,” said Dylan. “I’m not sure what happened to me before, with the fainting and all that, but you can count on me. I promise.”
“Good,” said Del, standing and heading toward the fireplace. “Because I wouldn’t want to have to replace you.” Dylan felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Del went on, “I’ve got something else that’ll help you get back into character.” He grabbed an object from the mantel. “It came from the props department.” Turning, Del held it out. It was a face.
A mask.
Wide, empty holes stared up at Dylan. Exaggerated eyebrows arched in pointed peaks. A bulbous red nose protruded from the center of the face, and ruby lips were smeared in a sad frown. Painted tears tumbled down the cheeks.
Dylan’s stomach writhed as he took the mask from Del. “This is who I’m supposed to be?” he asked. “A clown?”
Del nodded, his amber eyes gleaming in the fire. “Put on that mask, and you’ll know exactly what I need you to do.”
Dylan’s pulse beat a warning, but he slipped the strap over his head. The mask hugged his face tightly. He’d expected it would be difficult to see through the eyeholes, but to his surprise, for the first time since waking from his faint, he could see everything clearly.
“Our Trickster,” Del whispered, his tone somehow deeper now, raspy. “It’s time to get to work.”
“DYLAN! WAIT FOR us!” Dash called out to his brother. He swung his phone light back and forth frantically, illuminating the hallway.
“Dash, slow down,” said Poppy, reaching for his shoulder. “We could be missing clues.”
He shoved her hand away. “Clues? What do you think this is, a detective movie?”
His sneer made Poppy cringe. “M-maybe his sneakers scuffed the rug. Or … or … ”
Dash turned back to the tunnel of shadow that was the hallway. “DYLAN!” he yelled as he plunged ahead.
“Good job,” said Marcus, “since the louder you are, the more invisible we become to every creepy thing in this house.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Dash. “I have to find my brother!”
Azumi ran up ahead of the others and grabbed Dash. “You and Dylan aren’t the only ones who need help. We’re all trapped in this freaky house. We’ve got to work together if we want to get out.”
“Fine!” Dash shouted. “Let’s work together, then. Help me find Dylan!”
“I wish you wouldn’t speak like that.” Azumi kept her voice even. “None of us deserves it.” She touched Poppy’s arm. “Besides, you know that Poppy can be a little … ” She raised an eyebrow.
Poppy pulled away from her. “A little what?”
“A little sensitive,” said Azumi.
Poppy flushed. As if to prove how wrong Azumi was, she grabbed Dash’s hand. He cringed but she held tight. “You want help? Here.” Directing his phone’s flashlight at the floor, she said, “Check the rug for scuff marks. Slow down and listen for doors or footsteps or other sounds. Observe. That’s how we’ll find Dylan. But mostly, remember to breathe.”
Dash glared at her. “Can I have my hand back, please?”
Poppy let go abruptly and stepped away from him.
The kids came to a T-shaped intersection and Dash paused to examine the Persian rug. “It looks like there might be footprints heading this way,” he said quietly, not looking at Poppy.
“But we don’t know who left them,” said Marcus. “What if it’s the ghosts in masks again? The Specials? What if they’re hiding somewhere, watching us?”
Poppy forced a smile. “Then we pull off their masks and we handle them. We know what to do now. It’s best to stay positive so we can find Dash’s brother and get out of this place.”
“I can hear you, you know,” said Dash, his voice flat.
“That’s okay,” said Poppy, her cheeks flashing red again. “We’re not hiding anything from anyone anymore,” she added.
Marcus glanced at her. “Was that a jab?”
Feeling suddenly brave, Poppy met his gaze. “If it was a jab,” Poppy went on, “I think I’d have a right to make it.” Back at Thursday’s Hope—the group home where she’d spent most of her life—she would never have stood up to the girls like this.
“We’re all on the same side now,” said Azumi, stepping between them. “Aren’t we?”
Marcus sniffed and turned away. He felt naked without the music that usually ran through his head. The house had twisted the music, broken it. But it wasn’t gone for good. Was it?
“Shh,” said Dash, stopping suddenly several yards ahead of them. “Listen.”
“What is it?” asked Marcus.
Dash held up a hand. The others gathered around him. A soft thrumming filled the air.
“Maybe it’s a clock?” Azumi suggested.
Dash shook his head. “Sounds more like a heartbeat.”
“That’s one loud heartbeat,” said Marcus. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Look,” Azumi whispered, pointing at the wallpaper. It was a deep, iridescent blue layered with a Gothic design in black velvet that looked like poisonous vines crawling up an iron fence. The vines were pulsing slightly, as if blood were rushing through them.
“So sick,” said Poppy.
“Is this real?” asked Marcus.
“It’s another trick,” Dash said, pulling his flashlight away. “To keep us from looking for my brother.”
“Don’t touch it,” said Marcus, grabbing Azumi’s hand away just as she made contact. Azumi yelped and put the tip of her finger into her mouth.
“Are you hurt?” Marcus asked her, reaching for her hand again.
Azumi shook her head. “Static electricity,” she said.
“Dylan!” Dash called out again, moving farther into the darkness.
Following Poppy and Dash down the blue hallway, Marcus noticed Azumi was rubbing her finger. “You sure you’re not hurt?” he asked.
Azumi half glanced at him. “It’s nothing.”
“Maybe Poppy has another Band-Aid in her magic pink messenger bag,” said Marcus.
Before he could ask, Poppy called back to them, “Dash found more scuff marks on the rug. They lead to a door!”
POPPY AND DASH stepped cautiously into a long room.
Six iron beds were lined up against each wall, their feet facing the center of the room, where a long aisle divided the two rows. Each mattress was made up with a dusty white sheet, the corners tucked in military style. At the far end of the room, three wide windows allowed daylight inside, although shadows lurked between the beds. A pane in the left window was cracked and held together with masking tape. Beside the windows, two closed doors on opposite walls faced the center aisle.
“Whoa,” said Marcus, coming up behind them. “What is this place?”
“A dormitory,” said Poppy, tight-lipped. She used to sleep in one just like it. “It’s where the orphans must have lived.”
“Windows,” said Dash with relief, racing toward the other side of the room. He grabbed for the sash panels, but they were wedged shut.
“Pull the tape off,” said Poppy. “Maybe that crack weakened the glass. Maybe this one will finally break and we can get out of here.”
Dash worked the tape under his short fingernails. But when he yanked the brittle tape away—zip!—the crack oozed together and sealed itself. “What the … ?”
Azumi approached, peering at the drop outside the window. “We’re too high up anyway.”
“We could tie all the sheets together,” said Poppy. “Make a rope. We could—”
“None of it matters if we still can’t smash through the glass,” said Dash. “Besides, we’ve got to keep looking for my brother.” He waved the group back toward the main door. “I guess those marks on the rug didn’t mean as much as we thought they did. Let’s go.”
&nbs
p; “Dash, can we rest for a bit?” asked Azumi.
“Rest?”
“I can’t be the only one who’s totally wiped out.”
“I wouldn’t be able to rest if you paid me a billion dollars,” said Poppy.
“What about a trillion?” asked Marcus with a tired grin. When no one laughed, he cleared his throat and went on. “Maybe Azumi’s right. We’ve been moving full throttle since early this morning. Dylan’s not going anywhere.”
“How do you know where he’s going?” asked Dash. “Those orphans—those ghosts—might have found him already. They might be looking for us again at this point. We can’t just lie down in their old bedroom and wait for them to come shambling along.”
Azumi slumped and gripped the closest bed frame.
“You two go do what you want,” said Marcus to Dash and Poppy. “I’ll stay here with Azumi. Meet us when you’re ready.”
“When we’re ready?” Dash echoed, his voice low. “You mean, like, when we find my brother’s ghost? After that, everything will be just peachy keen?”
Marcus blushed. “You guys keep twisting my words.”
Poppy looked pleadingly toward Azumi, who sat on one of the mattresses and hung her head. “We shouldn’t split up—”
“She’s not feeling well!” Marcus interrupted. Azumi let go of her finger and shot him a glance. “And neither am I. I’m dizzy and shaky. I bet you guys are too, but you’re just too stubborn to admit—”
The light dimmed as the sun was devoured by a passing cloud, and a soft knocking came from across the room. Two dark figures stood in the doorway: a man and a woman, their features hidden by shadow.
Everyone froze. Azumi instinctively slid against the bed’s headboard and pulled her knees up to her chin.
The man’s fist was raised, his knuckles resting on the wood frame.
“Excuse us,” said the woman. Her voice had a silky southern twang.
“Are you actual adults?” Marcus asked, still stunned.
“Marcus!” Azumi said through a clenched jaw, her eyebrows pitched.
The woman laughed as if surprised by Marcus’s boldness. “You probably don’t see too many adults around here.”
“Can you help us?” said Marcus, stepping toward them tentatively.
