“You were going to escape, weren’t you? By sneaking out the window? Thinking only of yourself again, leaving Ivy on her own?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I was only going to look—to check the window out, to see how far down it was. I wouldn’t leave without Ivy.”
“Tell that to poor Natalie and the other Dark House Dreamers.”
“Please,” I beg. “I’ll do whatever you want. You’re the director,” I say, as if he needs a reminder. “You can make it look like I died, but then it could be a trick. You could have me come back for the next movie—to round out the trilogy. I could be the perfect plot twist.”
He stares at me—a wrinkled face, a scar down his cheek, the tiniest eyes I’ve ever seen. There’s a curious smile across his lips, as if he might actually be considering the idea.
“I’m a scream queen,” I continue to beg. “I was made for this stuff, trained by the very best. How about if I go back downstairs—back to Ivy? I’ll tell her anything you want. She trusts me. Use that, use me.”
His curious smile grows bigger. “That’s a very generous offer, but no one likes a traitor, especially not in horror movies. They’re often the first to die. Now be a good girl and shut off your flashlight.”
“Please,” I beg.
“Now, Ms. Monroe.”
I do as he says and click it off. At the same moment, I see the glimmer of a blade.
“No!” I shout.
“I’m very sorry, Ms. Monroe, but your role has been cut.”
The lantern goes out. My world turns dark. The last sounds I hear are the crinkling of the tarp and the screaming of a voice.
THE BUZZER STOPS. IT’S MORGUE SILENT. I stand and shine my flashlight around the theater, looking for Taylor.
A thwack sound cuts through the silence: The doors at the back of the auditorium slam shut.
“Ivy?” Parker’s voice.
I turn to look, my pulse racing. There’s a tunneling sensation inside my heart.
Parker’s there, on the screen. At first I assume it’s more footage from the Dark House weekend. But then I see what it really is: Parker sitting in a dark room, mostly hidden in shadows, much like the video of Natalie.
I can tell that it’s him from his silhouette—his wavy hair, his broad chest, his long legs, and the muscles in his forearms. I recognize his sneakers too—black cross-trainers with bright green stripes.
“I’ve been told that you’re coming here,” he says. “I hope that isn’t true. You’ve been through enough.” He leans forward slightly, and I’m able to see his strong jawline and a flash of his blond hair. “There’s a lot I want to tell you, but so much that I can’t say.” He rests his hand on his knee. There’s something wrapped around his wrist. A rope? A chain? He moves his leg and the image becomes clear.
A narrow, cylindrical shape.
The bottle pendant charm. My aromatherapy necklace. It dangles against his kneecap, sending chills all over my skin.
“Please be careful, Ivy. Please know that nothing’s worth your safety. I have a—”
His voice is cut short, cut off.
My hand trembles over my mouth. What was he trying to say? What did he want to tell me?
Is it a coincidence that his words were cut off in the very same spot as my mom’s? Those were her very last words before the killer took her life. “I have a...”
The screen fades to pale gray. There’s the shadow of someone on a swing now: a billowy dress, clunky boots, a mass of hair.
“Natalie?” I shout.
I move closer to the stage, trying to see if the person swinging is behind the screen. But there’s only about a six-inch gap between the floor of the stage and the bottom of the screen. I don’t see feet, nor do I see the shadow of anything moving behind the screen.
The silhouette continues to swing, back and forth. Whoever it is turns her head; a massive bubble blows out her mouth.
A moment later, the bubble pops, and I hear the snapping-sucking of bubble splat as she takes the gum back into her mouth. The noises sound live—like they’re happening in real time and not part of any film.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
“I’m not allowed to tell you,” a voice says from behind the screen.
“Natalie?” I repeat; my heart throbs. It sounds just like her voice—same tone, same crackling quality.
“I can’t talk right now.” She jumps off the swing. The motion of the shadow matches the thump sound.
I rush up the stairs that lead to the stage. There’s no one behind the screen. There’s no swing either.
Only the noose is there. It dangles under a spotlight. “Natalie?” I call, even though it probably wasn’t her; it was probably just a trick. My voice cracks the silence, causes my blood to stir.
I grab my knife and move closer to the stage curtain. There’s a tiny hallway that leads backstage. A shuffling noise comes from that direction. I follow the sound, unable to stop shaking. The knife tremors in my grip.
Just then, a blast of air punches me—blows against the side of my face—and I let out a wail. It came from a wall vent.
“Back here.” Natalie’s voice.
I move in deeper, feeling my body turn to ice.
A body hangs down from the ceiling. Ricky Slater’s. The image of his naked body wavers back and forth. His skin is gray. His eyes are rolled upward. The veins in his feet are swollen.
I stand, frozen, noticing a trickle of blood running from his nose, onto the towel beneath him. More blood trickles from his ear and down his neck.
I start to back away, just as his head tilts forward and his eyes refocus.
He looks right at me. “I’ll haunt you for life,” he whispers.
I take a few more steps back, bumping into something from behind. Six feet tall, freckled face, short blond hair, and dressed in a schoolboy uniform; a mannequin of Ricky stares straight ahead.
My face only inches from his chest, I second-guess myself that it isn’t real. But I can’t detect a breath. And his eyes have yet to blink. I reach out to touch the face, just as his arm flies up.
Like a reflex, I jam my knife into his gut. The arm continues to move, bending at the elbow.
I tear open his shirt, where the knife made an incision.
The body’s plastic. There are screws and bolts.
“Ivy!” Natalie’s crying now; I can hear it in her voice.
I pull the knife free and move farther behind the stage. There are more dolls here, against a wall—at least a dozen of them. Mannequins with made-up faces, wearing elaborate costumes. A king and queen, a pauper, a knight, a man with a horse’s head, a couple of prep school girls, a swamp creature with webbed feet.
“I’ll haunt you for life,” Ricky repeats.
His voice is followed by whispering. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. By the image of Ricky hanging? Behind the mannequins somewhere? I turn round and round, keeping a firm grip on my knife, trying to find the source.
And that’s when I see him.
Out of the corner of my eye.
The Nightmare Elf.
Blood rushes from my head, makes everything feel dizzy, desperate, dark, vacant. Was that a grin? Did he mouth the word “Princess”?
I try to breathe through the stifling sensation, but the air gets caught in my lungs. A gasp escapes from my throat.
I blink hard, wondering if I’m seeing things, unable to even find him now. He was behind the queen, wasn’t he? There was an ax in his hand, wasn’t there? I shine my flashlight over the mannequins’ plastic faces. Their eyes gape open, as if staring out into space. Their mouths are parted as if they have something to say.
I strain my eyes, wondering if he might be tucked behind the queen’s dress. I aim my flashlight at the floor, trying to spot his boots, unable to find anything.
The whispering continues again, as does Natalie’s crying. I stumble forward, beyond the mannequins. There’s a narrow hallway to the right. It’s lined on bot
h sides with racks of costumes. I move slowly, angling my flashlight all around. The whispers get louder. My pulse is racing faster. The wings of a ladybug costume stick out into the aisle. I go to push them in, startled by what I see.
A red-haired boy, crouched on the floor, hiding in the costumes, holding a statue of the Virgin Mary. His body is transparent; he’s almost hard to see. “Is it safe to come out yet?” he asks me.
I move past the boy, where the whispering seems more audible. There’s a heat duct by the floor. I scoot down and press my ear up against it.
“You should read this, not that,” a male voice whispers. “You should look up, not down. You should study harder, not longer. You should speak loudly and clearly. You should think twice before speaking at all. My life is an endless black tunnel of should.”
It’s part of Ricky’s suicide note.
I listen until the end, wondering if I’ll hear anything else. But instead the whispering continues. The note’s read from the beginning: “I’m sorry for what I’ve done, but I couldn’t bear listening to the voices anymore. They creep up on me in the middle of the night and sneak beneath my bedcovers to whisper into my ear....”
I get up. My legs wobble.
A scream sounds, erupting in the space, rattling my nerves, causing the stage to vibrate. My mind tells me to hurry, but my body is stuck. Motionless. Color fades from in front of my eyes; my whole world darkens and swirls.
Another scream. Taylor’s voice. I’m screaming too, but no sound comes out. Still, I try to remind myself: I’m stronger than my fears. Bigger than this moment. What I need to accomplish is more important than being scared.
I repeat this mantra inside my head until I’m finally able to move my feet. The static fades from in front of my eyes. I take a few steps, so focused on the stage curtain that I bump into the mannequin of Ricky again. It makes a shifting noise. I make a gagging sound.
Did someone just tug my hair?
“I’ll haunt you for life,” a voice plays again.
Back out on the stage, I don’t see Taylor. I look upward, just as the overhead spotlights turn on.
Whoosh.
Whoosh.
Click.
The lights shine over the stage, the seats, the center and side aisles. The doors at the back of the theater are open again. The balcony, where Taylor was headed, is lit up as well. I can see a video projector and some other technical equipment, but she’s nowhere in sight.
“Taylor,” I shout, tears sliding down my face.
Ricky’s whispering starts up again. It’s louder now, coming from the speakers as well as from my headset. There are other voices too, all of them overlapping, making it hard to decipher whose voice goes with what’s being said:
“There’s a lot I want to tell you, but so much that I can’t say.”
“It looked like I died, didn’t it? Like a giant piece of pointed glass fell on top of my head. But I was able to step back, thanks to Harris’s warning. He has a warning for you too.”
“What no one seems to realize is that I hate myself even more than they do, and that the voices in my head are the loudest ones of all.”
“Are you there?” Shayla’s voice. “I’m downstairs.”
Holding the knife in one hand and the flashlight in the other, my first instinct is to move the headset away and cover my ears. But instead I stand at center stage. The noose is still there. There’s something attached to it. An envelope dangles from the loop of the rope. Was it there before? Is it possible I’m just noticing it?
I take the envelope. The loop is at eye level. I picture it around my neck, imagine it squeezing my throat. I turn the envelope over. Scribbled across the front is #4B. I tear it open. There’s a tiny candle inside, as well as a slip of paper. I turn the paper over to read the words, printed in black block letters: IT’S TIME TO PAY YOUR RESPECTS.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I shout. But my voice goes unheard, drowned out by all the others.
“TAYLOR!” I SHOUT, MOVING OFF the stage. I scurry down the center aisle, shining my flashlight all around, looking for some sign of her.
Back out in the hallway, I call her name a dozen more times. My voice echoes off the ceilings and walls, producing little more than a throat that feels raw and bleeding.
I move toward the lobby area, thinking of it as our meet-up spot. On the way there, I check the numbers on all the doors, searching for #4B, like it said on the envelope, wondering if it might be a room number.
Room number 4 is a tiny space; it was probably once an office. But there’s no adjoining room connected to it.
“Taylor?” I call, peering around the lobby.
She isn’t here.
There’s no sound.
Anxiety bubbles up in my gut. Tears streak down my face. I fold to the floor, feeling like I’m going to be sick.
“I hate you!” I scream at the top of my lungs, wishing he’d take me instead. I gaze upward at the cross on the wall, remembering church on Sundays with my birth parents. They’d had so much faith, put so much stock in God’s word. We used to give thanks before our meals, and pray before bed too. Mom always said that everything happens for a reason—that even when something seems difficult or inexplicable, it’s part of God’s plan.
Was their death part of His plan as well? Was losing the others? Or coming here?
“Take me!” I cry out, over and over again, until my throat burns raw. But nothing happens and still I remain.
Alone.
Empty.
Guilty.
Nauseated.
I look up at the cross again, picturing Taylor in my mind. “Please,” I whisper, reminding myself how smart and resourceful she is, how she was the one who made it out of the Dark House, after all—the one who figured out, after barely an hour, that it wasn’t a safe place to be. Please, be okay, I repeat inside my head, hoping that someone is listening, feeling entirely responsible.
If it weren’t for the killer’s obsession with me, the others would all be safe.
If it weren’t for my obsession with the case, Taylor would never have come here.
I tuck myself into a ball, barely able to move, unsure if I can breathe. After several moments, I’m finally able to reach into my bag for my bottle of water.
My hand finds my container of pills first. I’m supposed to take the green one every day, as well as three of the peach, and the tiny yellow ones as needed. The white ones are for sleepless nights.
A whole rainbow of barbiturates.
It’s been days since I’ve had even one.
I go to shake a green one onto my palm, but two of them come out instead, along with a peach and two yellows. I pop them into my mouth and chase them down with a swig of water, hoping to get a grip, desperate to numb this ache.
It doesn’t take long before I start to feel the effects. My stomach’s empty. I haven’t slept. I picture the capsules dissolving inside my gut, the contents absorbed inside my veins. The chemicals warm me up like toast, filling all of my cold, dank spaces.
Is the knife still clenched in my hand? Or did I put it back in my bag? I go to check, but something distracts me.
Footsteps?
Music?
What was I checking for?
Am I supposed to blow out all of the candles? Switch off all the spotlights?
I’m so unbelievably tired. My eyelids feel heavy.
“Don’t fall asleep,” a female voice says.
Taylor? My eyes won’t open.
“April, honey.” Mom’s fingers cradle my palm.
I feel sick. I’m going to yack. Did I eat Miko’s stuffed waffles?
“You’ve been through a lot.” Dr. Donna’s voice. “Post-traumatic stress disorder can do that; it can impair your ability to distinguish what’s real from what isn’t.”
“Do you want to be an actress?” Parker asks me.
“Apparently I’m not a very good one if you’re onto me already,” I say. “Can you keep a secret? I ha
te horror. Like, I really hate it. I don’t get what the appeal is...why someone would ever want to be scared.”
“Please, April. Get rid of it. Use your fingers; stick them down your throat.” Mom rubs my back; a warm, comforting sensation.
“You’re one of the chosen, here for the party. Stay for the rolling credits, why don’t you?” Garth?
“Ready, Princess? It’s time to pay your respects.”
I picture my fingers inside my mouth, inching toward my throat. Is it really happening? Am I really doing it?
There’s a rumble in my gut and an acidic taste in my mouth. My mind says sit up and yet I’m still lying on the ground. My head aches. My mouth fills; I spit onto the floor.
My stomach lurches again. More liquid spews out—again and again and again—until nothing is left except the reflex of purging and the sound of my retching.
My eyes are watery. My nose burns. No one else is here. But still I can still feel my mother’s hand on my back, as though I’m suddenly not alone.
I SIT UP AND GAZE AROUND. The lobby appears as it did before—the lit candles, the evil-children-reading statue, the cross on the wall. There’s a sickly sour smell in the air.
I start to get up, but my head feels woozy and my limbs are heavy. How much time remains on the clock?
I make sure that everything’s still in my bag, and then I stumble out of the lobby, hating myself for taking those pills.
It’s time to pay my respects. I remember having spotted the chapel from the courtyard; it was on the right side of the building. It looked as if it’d been added on; the stone didn’t match the rest of the building.
I proceed down the hallway, past the library and auditorium, still looking around for any sign of Taylor and the others. It’s quiet again—there’s only the crunching of my feet as I walk over broken floor tile and the beating of my heart; it reverberates inside my ears.
“Come on,” a male voice says.
I shine my flashlight at the ceilings and walls, unable to tell where the voice came from—not from my headset or from any overhead speaker. Was it just in my head?
There’s a narrow door at the end of the hall. I move toward it, wondering if the voice might’ve come from the other side of it.
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