“Better watch your back,” the voice says.
“Frankie?” I ask. There’s a ringing in my ears.
“Come on,” he says again; his voice seems louder now, as if it’s definitely coming from behind the door. Is he locked up? Or talking to someone else? Or maybe this is a trick. Or probably this is a trick.
I stop a couple feet from the door and grab the sides of my head. “What do I do?” a voice asks. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s mine—my voice, my doubt.
But what if it really is him? What if something good will happen? What if I lose it right here, right now?
“You can’t stop living,” his voice says.
“Frankie?” I ask again, reaching out to touch the door handle, wanting so badly to believe it’s him, and not another trick. And not my imagination.
The knob turns. The door opens. My heart sinks.
No Frankie.
No anyone.
There’s another dark tunnel; it must join the two buildings.
I hold my flashlight high. The walls are blank. The ceiling looks cracked. “Frankie?” I shout; the blare of my voice makes my head ache.
I begin toward the door at the end, but then I feel myself fall. My foot plummets through a hole. The floor collapses beneath my step. My knee lands hard against a jagged edge.
I shine my flashlight over the damage. My pants are ripped. Blood covers my knee. About two feet of flooring has caved in.
On my hands and one knee, I climb out of the hole to get onto a solid surface. At the same moment, the door slams shut behind me. I pull a scarf out of my bag—the wool one I used to hide the knife—along with a tiny bottle of tea tree oil. I douse the scarf, hoping the oil’s antiseptic qualities will be good enough for now. Then I wind the scarf around my knee—tight—to stop the bleeding.
I begin down the tunnel again, cautious of each step. A crackling sound stops me.
A child’s voice begins: “Now I lay me down to rest. I pray my guardians will protect me best. But if I die at Ricky’s will, I pray that I’ll do worse than kill.”
I shine my flashlight behind me, above me, on the floors, at the walls. I’m still alone. There’s no one else here. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s just a scare tactic—an audio track piped through a speaker.
The prayer repeats over and over as I move toward the end of the tunnel. Once there, I open the door. The smell of burning candles and something else—sandalwood incense—hits me in the face, makes me feel nauseated.
I’ve found the chapel. It’s tiny—ten rows of pews, maybe. The altar is piled with flowers. A podium stands in the middle.
I walk down the center aisle and take a seat in the first pew, noticing the arrangement of candles. A tall, thick candle stands in the center of what looks like hundreds of smaller ones.
I bow my head to play along, while thoughts and questions fog my mind. Was I dreaming about my mother in the lobby? Was it her hand I felt on my back? “April showers bring May flowers.” Was that the purpose of that clue—to get me to turn the page in the calendar? To see that Ricky killed himself on May 9?
May 9. I picture the big black X over the date, feeling my body chill.
I get up, still playing by the rules, to approach the altar. I fish the candle from my pocket and light it from the flame of the large center candle.
At the same instant, I see it.
Stuck to the dripping wax, like a bright shining star.
A gold key.
I grab the candle. Hot wax drips onto my trembling fingers, searing the skin, making me wince. I dig my thumb into the wax, trying to pluck the key free. Finally it falls into my grip and I’m able to run for my life.
From the Journal of E.W.
Grade 7, August Preparatory School
SPRING 1972
I found Ricky’s suicide note. He hid it in his favorite book. He wants me to share it, but that would mean letting him win, and I’ll never let him win.
What Ricky doesn’t seem to get is that I’m in control of my life. I decide how the scenes play out. Unlike Mother (if she was really being haunted by Johnny) I will never bow down to the enemy. To be a star means to face the demon and to slay him in the end.
So I’m keeping the note. I’m not going to show anyone. Ricky can rot away in Purgatory for all the misery he’s caused me. I don’t even care if he continues to haunt me. I’ll just use it as inspiration for my movies. The movies I’m going to make one day.
I HURRY BACK THROUGH THE TUNNEL, headed for the other side of the building. In the lobby, I stop a moment to catch my breath, to take out my notebook, to make sure that I have everything.
I flip open to the page with the clues and read over the list—the padlock combination, the April showers riddle, the 4B number—suddenly realizing that I don’t even know what 4B means.
A wave of panic storms my body. I touch my T-shirt bracelet, thinking about Parker. He’s down there. I know he is. I have the code. I need to try.
Ticktock, ticktock. I recheck my pocket. The key ring (with the two keys) and the gold key are still there. This is still real. The air feels colder somehow.
I strap my bag across my body and move down the hallway. The photographs of Shayla, Garth, and Frankie are no longer here. I should’ve taken them earlier—should’ve stuffed them in my bag.
My heart pummels with each step toward the door at the end of the hall. I push through it and move down the staircase, wondering if the B in 4B might stand for basement.
At the foot of the stairs, I try the knob—just in case. It’s still locked. The red light continues to blink. I type May 9 onto the keypad.
A red X appears.
I try again, picturing the desk calendar in my mind: 05-09-66.
A buzzer sounds. A green light flashes. The hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. I try the knob; it turns.
I open the door. A long corridor faces me. There are spotlights along a ceiling with exposed pipes and overhead ductwork. The lights shine over life-size cardboard cutouts.
The first one is of me, wearing the purple sundress from the Dark House weekend and holding the bottle pendant around my neck. My face is full of uncertainty—my brow furrowed, my lips pressed together.
Behind my cutout are those of Parker, Shayla, Frankie, Garth, and Natalie. Shayla’s wearing the same tracksuit that she arrived to the Dark House in, with the cropped jacket that showed off her navel piercing. She’s smiling—a wide, contagious grin, as if caught in a laugh.
Parker’s cutout is just behind hers. His mouth is open in angst. His eyes are red with tears. He’s standing in front of the exit gate, trapped inside the amusement park.
“Parker?” I shout, trying to be strong. “Taylor? Are you down here?”
I continue past the cutouts, noticing doors on both sides of the corridor; they’re numbered with the letter B.
1 B.
3 B.
5 B.
4 B.
A weathered gray door. A combination lock holds it closed. The lights go out. I’m in the dark. I hear an evil giggle; it steels me in place.
“I’m so glad you decided to return to the Dark House, my Princess.” The killer’s voice, inside my ear.
I press my back against the wall, trying to breathe at a normal rate and feel stable on my feet.
“Well, I, for one, had no doubts,” he says. “I know a shining star when I see one, and you certainly don’t disappoint. We have so much in common, you and I. Though I was initially terrified by Ricky’s hauntings, my own desire to win trumped my fear. You’re terrified of me, and yet you’re here, determined to win as well. Sometimes it’s the things that scare us most that offer the greatest lessons. Don’t ever lose sight of that, my Princess.”
I scoot down to be at eye level with the lock. I angle my flashlight over the numbers. My hand is shaking. My mind is racing. I turn the dial to the right, to #28, but then my flashlight drops and rolls across the floor. I scurry to retrieve it by the foot of Na
talie’s cutout—her clunky black boot.
I pick the flashlight up; the beam catches her cardboard face: her cut-up lips, her eyes focused at the floor.
I try the lock again—28 to the right; 36 to the left; 41 to the right. It doesn’t work, even when I pull, yank, and wrench the lock with all my might. I tumble back on the floor, landing smack on my butt. I get up and try again, slower this time.
My hand continues to tremble, but I’m able to get to 41 Right once more. I hold my breath and pull.
The lock opens and clatters to the floor. I pick it up, stuff it into my bag, and open the door. The hinges whine.
There’s a large, open cellar area with crude cement walls. It’s dark except for a dim light in the far corner. It shines over an antique-looking trunk. The rest of the space appears empty. The stench of mildew lingers in the air. Acid travels to the back of my throat.
I cross the room to open the trunk. The lid lifts up with an unsettling creak.
My bottle pendant lies on top, making me feel sick. Why doesn’t Parker still have it? What does this mean?
Sitting beside the necklace is Frankie’s infinity bracelet—the one that his mother gave him. There’s a handful of sterling-silver jewelry too: a skull necklace, a clunky bracelet that connects to a snake ring. Garth’s jewelry.
And Natalie’s scarf—the one that she lent to me, the one I used for Parker’s wounds. The bloodstains are still visible. Taylor’s cell phone is here too. I’d left it behind at the amusement park; it’s still in its leopard-print case.
I continue to pull things out: sheet music from Frankie, Shayla’s square black glasses, Natalie’s feather-capped pen—the one she used with her stationery. I reach in a little deeper, spotting something dark at the bottom of the trunk. I grab a piece of it, almost unable to digest what it truly is.
In my hand.
Between my fingers.
The jet-black color.
The coarse texture.
Natalie’s wig.
It’s like when someone dies at war—when they send home the remains in a box.
Tears run down my face. I slip the pendant necklace around my neck, hoping that, somehow, it was indeed my mother’s touch I felt earlier, that she’s watching over me somewhere, that she can give me the strength I need.
I STUFF SOME OF THE items from the trunk into my bag. And then I get up and shine my flashlight along the walls, spotting an open doorway. It appears to lead downward, deeper into the ground. There’s a dripping sound somewhere—leaking pipes? Creepy sound effects? I grab my knife again. My hand wrapped tightly around it, I move down a stairwell—rock slabs—feeling my pulse race.
The walls and ceiling are dirt, held in place with wood strapping; it’s as if a tunnel’s been carved out of the earth. Candles light up the ground, guiding the way, affirming the obvious: I’m supposed to be here.
There’s a door at the end of the tunnel. I try the handle; it’s locked. With trembling fingers, I pull both the key ring and the gold key out of my pocket. I try the gold key first and go to unlock the door, but I drop the key in the process. It falls to the ground. I scramble to pick it up, my fingers raking over the dirt. The key gripped between my fingers, I try again.
A second later, I hear it: a piercing scream that stabs right through my heart, nearly bringing me to my knees.
Taylor’s scream.
The key’s in the lock.
I get the lock to turn.
Where did her scream come from? Behind me? Beyond the door?
“Taylor?” I shout.
The door cracks open. There’s a light on inside—another spotlight, maybe—but I’m unable to see much. Walls on both sides of the doorway block my view. I take a few steps to the end of the wall, finally able to look beyond it.
My heart hammers. My entire body tingles. The breath stops in my lungs.
Parker’s here. In a cell. Lying on the ground.
His face is pale and gaunt. It doesn’t look like he’s breathing. He’s wearing someone else’s clothes: baggy sweats, a red T-shirt.
“Parker,” I cry, but no sound comes out.
The room starts to spin. I hear a shifting noise behind me. I turn to look.
Natalie’s face is pressed between two cell bars. She’s staring straight at me. Her eyes are red. Her cheeks look hollow. Her wig is gone, leaving coarse, uneven hair: half a bang, lopsided length.
My mind reels with questions. Is it possible that the joke’s on me? That her image will fade in a matter of moments? I blink hard, but still she remains.
She’s real.
I’m here.
“You were warned,” she mumbles; her voice is shallow and weak. “Harris warned you. He told me. I told you.” She stumbles over her feet, seemingly unfazed by my presence. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Is it true what Harris has been telling me, that Taylor came here too, that she’s missing now as well? That she’s not going to make it?”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “She’s fine. Taylor will be fine.”
Natalie covers her ears with her hands, as if Harris is speaking to her at this very moment.
“No,” I repeat, studying her eyes. Beneath the redness, her pupils are dilated; there’s only a slim ring of blue. “Were you given something?” I ask her, assuming she must’ve been sedated or tranquilized.
“Not as much as him.” She nods to Parker. “But Harris warns me about that too—about which foods to eat and how much to drink.”
It takes me a second to notice the lock at the front of the cell. I fish a key out of my pocket—the gold one again—and jam it into the lock, suspecting that it won’t turn.
But it does. The lock clicks. The cell door swings open.
I hurry over to Parker’s cell, fearing the key won’t work, dropping it once again. It lands inside the cell. I scoot down and reach in, between the bars, but I can’t quite get it. I need a few more inches. I struggle to reach in farther, my shoulder jammed against the bars, my cheek pressed against the dirt.
Finally, I’m able to grasp it. I get up and stick the key into the lock. It turns.
I’m in.
I rush over to Parker’s side.
“Hurry,” Natalie shouts.
I shake his shoulder and call out his name over and over. At last, I can tell he’s breathing—can feel the air exhale out of his nostrils.
“He’s been like that for a while,” she says, joining me inside the cell.
I reach into my bag, retrieving a small tin box filled with lemongrass and peppermint tea leaves, along with a bottle of eucalyptus oil. I unscrew the cap off the oil, pour a few droplets over the leaves, and mix it all up with my finger, releasing the scent notes.
“What are you doing?” Natalie asks.
I place the tin in front of Parker’s nose and wait for him to breathe it in. After a few moments, his eyes open.
He sees me.
His lips part.
He blinks a couple of times, perhaps thinking that this is a dream.
I pinch his forearm. “It’s real,” I tell him, leaning in to kiss his forehead.
Parker labors to sit up, lifting himself with his elbow and then his hand. His eyes are dilated too. “Ivy,” he whispers; his voice is frail.
“Don’t try to talk.”
He reaches out to touch my face. His fingers are cold; they tremble against my skin. “You came back.”
I nod, desperate to hold him, to touch him, to never let him go again.
He squeezes my hand. I recognize the fit of my palm inside his grip.
“We need to go,” Natalie insists, looking toward the doorway.
Parker tries to get up, stumbling back, uneven on his feet.
“Stay close to me.” I stand and take his hand. “We’re going to get through this, but I need you to be strong for me.”
We move down the tunnel and up the slab steps. Parker’s gait is slow and clumsy. Back in the open basement area, something catches my eye—over to the
side. There’s something reaching out from the bottom of a closed door.
I move closer, my mind almost unable to grasp what I see.
Fingers.
Chipped green nail polish.
Taylor’s hand.
There’s a puddle of blood seeping through the crack at the bottom of the door, gushing beneath my shoes.
I try the knob. It’s locked. The gold key doesn’t work, neither do the keys on the ring. “Taylor!” I shout.
“She won’t answer you,” a voice says.
I look back at Parker and Natalie, standing a few feet behind me. But the voice didn’t come from either of them. It came from someplace else—across the cellar, hidden in the shadows. I hear the scuffing of his boots.
“Hello, Princess,” he says, stepping into the path of my flashlight beam.
The sight of him evokes a visceral reaction in my gut. I grab the knife from my bag.
“Taylor isn’t the only one who didn’t make it. Those who aren’t currently present were properly disposed of long ago.”
“No.” I clench my teeth and shake my head.
“I couldn’t let her get away twice, after all. You, Parker, Natalie—you three are my survivors. For now, anyway.” He giggles.
He looks exactly as he did at the amusement park, wearing an elf mask (rosy cheeks, darted brows, and a perma-smile) and dressed in a bright red suit, floppy hat, and green gloves.
He cocks his head. His tongue peeks out through the mouth-hole in the mask. “It’s very nice to see you.”
I lunge for him, knife first, picturing the tip of the blade puncturing his neck. I go to stab him, aiming for the area just above his collarbone.
He grabs my arm and twists it behind my back—a stinging, wrenching pain.
I bend forward, trying to break free and unwind from his grip.
“Feel nice?” he asks; I can hear the smile in his voice.
Parker comes at him, swinging at his face, hitting him square in the jaw. I topple to the floor, landing on my side.
The killer is quick to rebound, securing his mask, and then pushing against Parker’s chest.
Return to the Dark House Page 18
