Return to the Dark House

by Laurie Stolarz

  “Why do you have that?”

  “Because sometimes I feel like a nut.”

  She can’t help but smile, despite how deflated she seems. Meanwhile, I continue to dig, finally finding a ho-hum pair of sweats. “These good?”

  “I’m actually fine,” she says, twitching from the cold.

  “You look about as fine as the monster zit on my forehead.” I force the sweats into her arms and point her to the bathroom down the hall.

  She comes back only a few minutes later, all changed, and sits down on the edge of the futon. “He called me again.”

  “He, as in our resident psychotic killer.”

  She nods. “He gave me directions—for what I need to do, for where I need to go—to find the others.

  “And where are the directions?” I ask her.

  “I’m keeping them someplace safe.”

  Translation: I don’t trust you enough to say. “There’s no place safer than with the authorities,” I tell her.

  “He wants you to join me too—the killer, I mean—to find the others, to star in his film.”

  “Did he actually say that?”

  “It was more of what he didn’t say.”

  “Call me crazy, but there’s something about the words killer and join in that gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “This could be your opportunity,” she says, “to right the past, to show everyone you’re not selfish the way they think.”

  “The only opportunity is the one that involves calling the police. It’s nutty that we haven’t already.” I mean, yeah, it sucks that I’ve become a social leper, but I’m hardly willing to risk my life to change that.

  “You promised me three days.”

  “And so I’m obviously a total idiot.”

  “You made that promise because deep down you know I’m right. All the horror movies say so. The police are never the ones who find the killer in the end. They simply show up after the climax—after all the hard work has already been done.”

  The girl does have a point. But still, “I’m going to the police first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She stands up from the futon. Her forehead looks sweaty. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to come here. I just thought…” She lets out a sigh. “I actually don’t know what I was thinking. To anyone else, this must seem crazy.”

  “Ivy—don’t go.” I stand up too. “I mean, truly don’t go. Let’s just drive down to the police and tell them everything we know.”

  “I can’t.” There are tears in her eyes. “I have to see this through—for my parents, for Parker and the others, and for myself. He’ll continue to haunt me otherwise. I’ll always be waiting for him to strike if I don’t.” She starts to go for the door. “I’m really sorry that I bothered you.”

  “Wait, are you kidding?” I move to block her from the door. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re spending the night here—on my pickled futon. Harry wouldn’t have it any other way.” I grab Handyman Harry from a heap of random stuff on my desk. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since your last visit.” I wink. “He’s been dying to get you into bed.”

  Finally, Ivy smiles. I’ve cracked the code, broken through her wall. I grab an extra pillow and some blankets from the closet, and start making up the futon before she can try to weasel her way out.

  Surprisingly, she follows my lead and settles into bed. I’m just about to slip on my eye mask when I notice that she’s rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and that her shoulders are slightly jittering.

  “Ivy?” I gaze over at Handyman Harry, knowing that we’re so far beyond what even he is able to repair. And so I do the only thing I can. I get up and move to snuggle in beside her. I stroke her back, the same way that Darcy Conner did for me, four years ago, after the Starbound Dance Competition, when my ex-boyfriend Max dumped me for Paula Perfect Pirouette with the huge beaver teeth. “Do you want to talk some more?” When she doesn’t answer, I pull a tear-soaked strand of hair from in front of her eyes. “We can just sleep on things for now.” I wait until she falls asleep; only then do I go back to bed.

  SOMETIME AFTER SIX IN THE morning, with Taylor still asleep, I get up and write her a note:

  Dear Taylor,

  I haven’t had a lot of friends in my lifetime, but spending time with you, I can see how much I’ve missed. I’ll call you just as soon as I can. Thanks so much for everything.

  Love,

  Ivy

  I set the note on her night table, and then open the door to leave, accidentally catching my bag strap on the knob. The fabric makes a ripping sound.

  I turn to look.

  Luckily, she remains sleeping, her eye mask still in place.

  I move down the hallway. The dorm is quiet at this hour. A cleaning woman in the lobby asks if I’m going for an early run, but I’m too uptight to answer.

  It’s still somewhat dark out. The sun is tucked behind a cluster of clouds, making the day feel even more ominous. I hurry to my car, get inside, and turn up the heat. Sitting with my head pressed against the steering wheel, I try to concentrate on just my breath, but it’s balled up inside my chest, pushing against my ribs.

  I check my cell phone. There’s only twenty-five percent of the charge left. My fingers tremble as I reach inside the glove box and pull out my wool scarf. I unravel what’s tucked inside it.

  A knife. The blade is six inches long. The handle has a nice grip—slip-proof, hard plastic. I turn it over in my hand, reminded of its ample weight, assured by its curved tip.

  Ticktock, ticktock.

  I grab my phone and text Core that Candy’s still in a bad way, and so I’ll be spending the day trying to cheer her up. The mere idea that I could cheer up anyone should be a dead giveaway.

  I text Candy next, knowing she has the day off: “Cover for me if Apple calls. I’m at your place today, and btw I stayed there last night too. I’ll explain later. Big thanks. XOXO.” I power my phone down to conserve the battery, pull out my notebook, and flip open to the page with the instructions.

  Route 87 is a two-lane highway that goes on forever. There aren’t many people out this way. Maybe it’s because it’s still early. More likely it’s because there isn’t anything out here. He’s sending me someplace desolate.

  The early morning frost covers the road, making the pavement glisten. I peek in the rearview mirror a couple of times, feeling like I’m being followed, but the only cars on the road with me are so far back. Am I driving too fast? I look around for a speed limit sign. Sixty-five. My speedometer says eighty. I need to slow down.

  More than two hours later and I finally reach exit 4. I take it and go right on Chelsea Avenue, spotting the chocolate factory immediately—a wide abandoned brick building with a crooked sign over the front entrance that reads CHALMERS CHOCOLATE, in what once must’ve been pretty red cursive. There’s tagging along the side, and most of the windows have been boarded up.

  I pull into the back lot and park, as instructed, behind the building. Aside from a tiny food market, a gas station/hotdog stand, and a drugstore that advertises check-cashing and lottery tickets, the area looks vacant.

  The bus stop is across the street, just like he said. I peer down the road, able to see a bus in the distance, getting closer. I squint hard, trying to see what bus it is. As if by fate—my coming here, my doing this—the number 452 comes into view.

  I stuff the knife inside my bag, grab my cell phone, and hurry across the street, knowing that I’m much more vulnerable on foot.

  The bus doors open with a thwack and I step inside. There are only two other riders, neither of whom makes eye contact. I tell the driver that I’ll be getting off at the Lancaster stop, hoping that he remembers my face.

  I take a seat toward the front, reminding myself that it isn’t too late. I can still call the police. Maybe they can hatch a plan; some undercover person who looks like me could go through the motions of getting to this very place. But then what if the clues end up being dead en
ds, once again? Would I get another chance?

  I close my eyes, able to hear Detective Thomas’s words darting across my brain, constricting the air in my lungs: “You’re, what…three weeks out of a mental hospital? How many times have you called and/or come to see me since then? Fourteen times in five weeks.”

  Nearly ninety minutes later, after passing through miles of farm and conservation land, we reach Lancaster Road. I gaze out the window. There’s nothing here.

  “Are you sure this is where you want to go?” the driver asks.

  “I’m sure,” I say, able to feel the words in my chest—a sharp, jabbing pain.

  I exit the bus. The doors fold shut. The air is cold. My breath is visible. The bus drives away, leaving me completely alone. I pull my phone out of my bag and power it back on. I have a bunch of missed calls from Taylor, not to mention twenty-two percent of my charge left—still plenty of juice to make a call. I look all around, feeling as if I’m being watched. The road is narrow. Woods border it on one side. On the other side is a grass field, just like the killer said.

  Keeping the phone gripped in my hand, I begin across the field, headed for a rock wall, wondering what this area used to be. There’s a dilapidated farmhouse that borders the field; its windows have all been boarded up. An old, rusted tractor, missing all of its tires, is parked in the driveway. There’s also a windmill in the distance and an old barn.

  Finally I get to the rock wall, but there’s another field on the other side of it. I recheck the instructions; there’s no mention of two fields, but still I begin across it. After about twenty more minutes of walking, I’m finally able to see it.

  A lake.

  A dock.

  A small boat.

  I check my phone again. I have twenty percent of charge left, but no bars. There’s no reception. Should I turn back around? My brain tells me yes, but I move to the boat anyway and sit down inside it.

  Using the tip of my knife, I scratch my initials into the wood as evidence that I was here. I should’ve done the same at the bus stop, should’ve left something behind on the bus…a bracelet, a lip balm.

  The wooded land that surrounds the lake is thick and vast. I undock the boat, grab the oar, and start to paddle out, searching for a tree with a yellow scarf, keeping my focus on a grouping of trees directly across from the dock.

  At last, I spot it. A long yellow scarf tied to a low branch. It flaps in the breeze, as if waving me over.

  My shoulder aches as I paddle through the water at full speed. The front of the boat smacks into the land, propelling me forward.

  I get out, tie the boat to a stump, and move toward the tree, searching for a clue.

  The scarf continues to waver. There doesn’t appear to be anything tied to it or written on the underside. I untie it from the branch, suspecting there might be a note hidden beneath the knot.

  But there isn’t. The scarf is clean.

  I look down, between my feet. The ground’s uneven. The dirt’s been overturned. There must be something buried.

  I crouch down and begin to dig, using a pointed rock. The dirt comes up easily. The muscles in my forearms throb from working furiously.

  At last I find something.

  The rock makes a clank sound.

  There’s a hard metal surface.

  I continue to dig, lifting a box out of the ground. It’s about the size of a carton of eggs, about the weight of one too. I jiggle it back and forth, able to hear the slight shifting of something inside.

  My pulse races as I go to open the box, fumbling with the latch. I lift the lid; the hinges squeak.

  There’s an envelope inside. My name is scribbled across the front. I pick it up, noticing more envelopes beneath it—a whole stack of them—all with my name, all sealed, and all with the same handwriting across the fronts: block letters, slightly slanted.

  I tear the top one open and pull out a sheet of paper. At first I assume that it’s going to be further instructions.

  But it’s not.

  It’s a letter.

  To me.

  Dear Ivy,

  I’m not really sure where to begin, except maybe with the obvious. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t thought about you at least a dozen times.

  I worry that you didn’t make it to safety. I wonder where you are and what you’re doing, and what you imagine about the others and me. I also think about the status of things. Are the police close? Did they find enough clues? Did your nightmares ever stop? Or are they even worse now?

  I replay the same scene inside my head: the one where the police bust in and find the others and me. You’re there too, cutting my ropes, helping me up, leading me outside. I picture a bright blue sky, puffy clouds, fallen autumn leaves, and ambulance trucks in the distance with medics running toward us.

  And I picture you: your lips pressed together with concern; your eyes tearing up with relief; your hands wrapped around mine, almost unwilling to let me go. Again.

  I wish that I could see you, and hold you, just like I did in your room that first night. I miss you, Ivy. A lot. And so I’m writing you this letter, and I’ll write you a bunch more—as many as I have to—to remind myself of hope. It’s easy to forget it exists—at least it is for me right now.

  Love,

  Parker

  I reread the letter, my heart pounding, my body quaking. This seriously can’t be real. It must be part of a setup.

  “Ivy?” a voice calls from behind me.

  I turn to look, startled to find Taylor.

  Still wearing her sweats from last night, she has a confused expression on her face. “What are you…?” Her voice trails off. “You just left. Again.” She stops from speaking to study my face.

  I open my mouth, wanting to answer, desperate to ask my own questions too: What is she doing here? How did she find me? Did she get instructions from the killer as well? But instead of saying anything, I remain silent, the words stuck in my throat.

  Taylor’s eyes move to the metal box, and then to the hole I dug, and finally to the letter in my hand. And that’s when something in her brain clicks. Her eyes soften. The muscles in her mouth loosen.

  She gets it—maybe not the “it.” But she gets that something big has happened. And that’s obviously “it” enough.

  She comes and wraps her arms around me without another word. Meanwhile, I’m crying so hard now—and not just because of the letter, but also because of her kindness—that I have virtually no words left.

  From the Journal of E.W.

  Grade 7, August Preparatory School

  WINTER 1972

  I shouldn’t be awake. It’s the middle of the night, but something startled me and I sat up in bed and looked all around.

  There are numbers on the wall, in front of my bed. Big, small, tall, fat. Numbers. Scribbled. Glowing in the dark. Making my muscles twitch.

  I click on my night table lamp. The numbers disappear right away. Relief. I can breathe.

  Should I turn the light back off? No. I don’t want to know if the numbers are still there.

  I’ve been waking up every night. Each time it’s something new: whispering, laughing, knocking, the creaking sound of hinges. Sometimes I’m not fully awake and think that it’s Mother trying to scare me. But then I remind myself that she’s locked up for good, punished for setting the house on fire with me inside, trying to blame it all on the ghost of Johnny.

  Sometimes I wish that I’d burned to death that day. Other times I feel like I am on fire—like every inch of me is singeing, and that no amount of water will make me feel normal. Whatever normal feels like.

  I don’t want to go to sleep anymore. I lie awake in bed, feeling like a little kid again, back home, shaking beneath the bedcovers, reaching for my inhaler, hating and wanting Mother both at once.

  I told the man in charge of the rooms about all the weird stuff that’s been happening, but he said it was probably just my imagination, that a lot of the kids complain
about the same kinds of stuff.

  I asked Tray across the hall if weird stuff happened to him too. He said that one time he heard knocking on all the walls of his room, and that he now sleeps with the light on. I will too. I also have a statue of Mother Mary, a prayer candle, and some rosary beads. I stole it all from the chapel when Father Pranas wasn’t looking. I hold Mary tight as I close my eyes for bed, praying that Ricky won’t come, but he always does, just like Mother. She always came too, bringing stories of Johnny along with her.

  IVY’S FACE IS FLUSHED. Her body’s shaking. There’s a tear-soaked letter clenched in her hand. I pry it free, more than curious to know what prompted such a reaction.

  The letter’s from Parker—major reactor. “Do you think it’s real?” I ask, ever the pessimist.

  “How did you find me?” she asks, in lieu of an answer.

  “Easy. You woke me up. I followed you here.”

  “What?” She looks confused, like I’m speaking in special code.

  “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that easy, now that I think about it. By the time I got out to the parking lot, you were already pulling away. Normally I’d have just turned around and gone back inside, but let’s face it: you were acting like an escaped mental patient last night—and not in a cute come-eat-Checkers-with-me sort of way; more like in an I’ve-got-a-fresh-pack-of-razor-blades-at-the-ready kind of way. Bottom line: I couldn’t not follow you. You’re just lucky that I happened to have a full tank of gas.”

  “You followed the bus too?”

  “I followed the bus, I followed your car.”

  “But you didn’t try to stop me?”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t for lack of trying. First of all, I called you, like, a bagillion times, but it kept going straight to voicemail. And then you were driving so fast that I nearly lost you twice. And PS, you ignored my honking. By the time I pulled into Chalmers, you were already boarding the bus, and I was sixty minutes over trying to snag your attention. My curiosity was way too piqued at that point to interrupt you on your mysterious mission. I was determined to see just where you were headed and why. I totally thought I was bagged once you got off the bus, but I was able to pull in behind an old boarded-up barn. It was kind of exciting, actually. I felt like Veronica Mars.”