by Dan Poblocki
She was going to find her sister. She had to.
Now …
It was during moments like this—when Azumi began to question how she came to be alone in the middle of the forest at all—that she understood she was dreaming again. The shadow world of these woods was all in her mind. Or at least most of it was. There was another part of the dreaming, another part she never remembered until it was too late.
Because whenever Azumi dreamed of the forest, she also walked in her sleep.
Azumi opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by darkness, standing in the middle of the woods behind her family’s house outside of Seattle for the third time that month.
An ocean now separated her from the haunted forest in Japan, but her mind insisted on closing that distance, putting her right back in the place where she’d lost her sister.
The mossy ground of Washington State was cold and wet against the soles of her feet, the summer air cool and humid. She could barely see in the darkness, uncertain whether the ravine had only been part of her dream, or if she was really a few steps from disaster.
Not now, not again, she thought, crouching down to protect herself against the night. Mother and Father will be terrified. How could she put them through this after what had happened to Moriko, after what Azumi herself had done?
She had lost her sister.
She couldn’t lose herself.
The morning after Azumi’s latest nightmare, an idea came to her about how she could protect both her parents and herself. She had to accept that if she were to stay home, her dreaming would bring her deeper into danger, closer to a place from which she too would not return.
On her computer, she searched for boarding schools on the East Coast of the US, as far from the Pacific Ocean as she could get.
Strangely, only a single website popped up.
The Larkspur School.
She tried the search again. And then again. She turned the computer off and then on—but the result was always the same.
Larkspur.
It must be some sort of sign, Azumi thought. Maybe this is supposed to be the one.
She glanced over the school’s mission statement. The Larkspur School has stood for over a century as a symbol of academic, artistic, and social excellence. Our pastoral campus is ideal for scholars who wish to shine …
Azumi didn’t need to read any more. This place sounded perfect.
ONE OF THE producers barged into the sunny room where Dash and Dylan Wright had been waiting for the day to begin. “We’re going to need you downstairs in fifteen,” said the bouncy brunette, whose name neither boy could remember. “Just a heads up. ’Kay?”
They’d been trying to stem the boredom of their final production schedule by flipping through different game apps on their phones.
The Wright twins had been professional actors since the age of five, so they were used to all sorts of people coming and going into their lives, and dressing rooms, on a daily basis.
“Downstairs?” asked Dylan with a smirk. “For what? Are we shooting the next scene?” The producer raised an eyebrow and continued to look at Dash, as if only his reply mattered. Dylan waved at her, trying to get her attention. “Uh, hello? Am I invisible or something?”
“We’re looking forward to it,” said Dash apologetically. “Thanks.” The producer blinked and then stomped off as if she couldn’t wait to be far away from them both. Dash turned toward his brother with a glare. “Am I invisible or something?” he echoed, daggers in his eyes.
Dylan frowned. “What was I supposed to say? She completely ignored me.”
Dash sighed and then shrugged. “I guess everyone’s tired of your tricks.”
“They’re not tricks,” said Dylan. “They’re jokes!”
“Jokes don’t usually end with people losing money. When you steal from people, they tend to dislike you.”
“I made less money off them than you’d think.” Dylan crossed him arms and set his jaw. “But who cares? After today, they won’t have to put up with me any longer. I’m so ready to get out of this place.”
The twins were nearly indistinguishable from each other. Both had the same dark skin, the same crooked, dimpled grin, the same bright black eyes, the same short curly hair.
They had been on the popular sitcom Dad’s So Clueless since the age of five. The show was about a large family whose father was a hapless private investigator. For seven years, they’d shared the character of the youngest brother, a cutie-pie with a lisp whose name was Scooter but who was often called Scoots Ba-Dooter—a sickeningly sweet running gag that the twins eventually grew to despise, especially when people called them the name in real life.
Recently, the sitcom’s head writer had decided to write Scoots off the show, sending the character to a boarding school in France. Today was the boys’ last day of filming.
When they’d first received the news, Dash and Dylan were crushed. Dash had been particularly inconsolable, so much so that his parents had threatened to bring him to the emergency room unless he calmed himself down. He didn’t tell anyone that he felt guilty for not trying harder to stop Dylan from playing his tricks … his “jokes.” Maybe there was something he could have done that would have allowed them to continue working.
Dylan assured him that something better would come along. But the assurance didn’t help.
Dash had recently begun to experience moments of extreme anxiety. For the past few weeks, he’d been having vivid nightmares about Dylan. In the nightmares, Dylan was in some sort of danger, and it was Dash’s responsibility to save him. Dash would wake in the dark, racing down the hallway between their bedrooms to make sure Dylan was all right. Usually, he’d discover Dylan lying in his own bed, snoring softly, completely oblivious to his brother’s worry.
Then, two nights ago, Dash had discovered his brother’s bed empty—the sheets pulled back in a rumpled mess. Dash ran outside, into the night, turning down unfamiliar alleys and deserted back roads, until he found himself at a fenced-in, abandoned construction site about three miles from home. There, Dash had scrambled around the wide, pockmarked lot, screaming for his brother, expecting to find his broken body beneath a pile of rubble or trapped inside a Dumpster. But when his father showed up with the police they insisted that Dylan was at home, safe and sound.
Later, when Dash discovered Dylan lying in bed, his heart turned over with relief. He couldn’t believe it. He’d been certain that Dylan had been out there, needing rescue.
Afterward, the boys had sat up in Dylan’s room late into the night as Dash explained what he’d experienced. Dylan had teased Dash, telling him he needed to pull it together, or their parents were going to send him away to a boarding school in France, never to be seen again.
Dash had felt better, ready to fall back asleep, and Dylan offered to let him stay in his room. When Dylan had gotten up to turn off the light, Dash had caught a glimpse of his brother’s bare feet.
Seconds later, in the new darkness, Dash had been too scared to say he’d seen a flash of Dylan in a strange bed, his soles black and bloody.
“Hey,” said Dylan from the corner of the sunny room. “Did you read the email we just got?”
Dash shook his head. He’d been lost inside a game on his phone ever since the brown-haired woman had come to call them for the production meeting.
“Well, pull it up! This sounds like it might be really cool.”
Dash saw a text from an unknown number as he unlocked his phone and swiped to the email app. The email’s sender was Larkspur Productions, LLC. The subject read: URGENT—NEW PROJECT FOR YOU. Dash felt his stomach jolt.
Dylan! Dash!
What’s up? Hope you boys are doing well. We’re so glad to hear that the troubles with Dad’s So Clueless haven’t squashed your ambitions. As huge fans of Scooter, we knew we had to reach out to you regarding the amazing project we’re putting together. We have a script that we’d love you to check out, ASAP.
We’ve read that yo
u’re both fans of horror films. Have we got something scary for you: a haunted house, several psychotic villains, and a plot filled with twists you’ll never imagine! We believe that you two will be perfect for the lead roles: twin brothers who are the heroes of the story.
If you’d like to hear more, please let us know and we’ll shoot the script right on over to you.
All the best,
Del Larkspur
President, Larkspur Productions, LLC
“Weird,” Dylan said. “Right?”
Dash flinched. He hadn’t noticed his brother had scrambled across the room to kneel on the floor by his chair. “Weird how?”
“Well, I mean, we’d both have to be our own person this time. We’ve only ever shared a role before.”
“Did you think we’d be doing that for the rest of our lives?”
“No, but … you know, the producers always sort of thought your version of Scooter was better than mine.”
“That’s not even close to being true.” Dash tried to keep his expression even. He knew his brother was right. He also believed it was one of the reasons Dylan had so often lashed out at the production crew. “On this show, we act exactly the same. Always.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “So … you’d consider saying yes?”
Dash was quiet for a moment, thinking about his terrible dreams. “I’m not sure about being in a horror movie.”
Just then, both of their phones dinged. Another email had come through. Once again, the sender was Larkspur Productions, LLC. Wide-eyed, the boys stared at each other before opening the message.
Dash read it aloud. “Don’t worry. The script isn’t too scary.” He glanced up at his brother, and then looked around the room, as if a hidden camera were pointed at them. He scoffed, then said, “Are they listening to us?”
“Oh yeah, totally,” Dylan answered. “They’re just so determined to get us there. Come on, Dash. The guy probably just had an afterthought. Stop being such a wuss.”
“You’re a wuss!” After a moment, Dash grinned. “It does feel good to be wanted again.”
Dylan slapped his brother’s knee. “We’re going to be movie stars!”
“Okay then, who should write back?” asked Dash. “You or me?”
POPPY HAD BEEN hiking up the hill from the Greencliffe train station for nearly fifteen minutes when she realized that someone was following her. Though leafy branches swayed and creaked high over her head and endless birdsong chimed from every direction, Poppy heard the sound of footsteps crunching gravel in the distance. She stopped and turned around. Behind her was a clear view of the path she’d walked minutes earlier—the curving country road, the towering greenery, and way in the distance, the glistening waters that transformed the Hudson River into a wide, jewel-encrusted ribbon.
When Poppy noticed the silhouette of a person at the bottom of the hill, she froze. She couldn’t discern too many details, except that he looked small, maybe even smaller than she was. He was dressed in a black jacket and khaki pants, and he was carrying a large object on his back—Poppy couldn’t make it out.
Though the late August air was warm and the sun shone brightly, she felt a chill come upon her. She hitched her ratty pink messenger bag higher on her shoulder and continued walking up the hill, faster now, even though she wasn’t sure she was even heading in the right direction.
In her bag, she carried her few possessions: a toothbrush, a face towel, a few pairs of socks and underwear, and her hollowed-out paperback copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which was filled with several small trinkets that the Girl had left under her pillow. As heartbreaking as it had been, she’d had to leave her collection of books behind at Thursday’s Hope. In the letter, Great-Aunt Delphinia had promised that once Poppy made it to Larkspur, she’d have everything in the world she’d ever want or need. New home, new school, new family. Before Poppy had managed to scrounge up the train fare to make the journey to Greencliffe, she wondered if this would include some friends too.
On the morning after she’d found the envelope in the filing cabinet, as Poppy brushed the tangles from her hair, the Girl finally appeared in the bathroom mirror again. But she no longer looked like the Girl who Poppy had grown up with. Her face was a strange blur, as if she were rapidly, unconsciously shaking her skull in all directions. Poppy felt as if she could hear the Girl screaming, after all this time finally trying to speak.
It was a message, Poppy understood. But what did it mean?
Before she’d had a chance to think, the mirror had turned black, as if the room on the other side—the reflected one in which the Girl was standing—had filled with thick, churning smoke. Poppy gasped.
A moment later, the mirror had cleared.
The Girl was gone again, taking the darkness with her.
Whenever the Girl had appeared since then, her face remained obscured by that disturbing and violent shaking.
It was such a disconcerting sight that Poppy began to avoid mirrors altogether.
When she heard footsteps coming up quickly on the road behind her, Poppy’s instinct told her to run. But as soon as she took the first step, she stumbled on her shoelace and began to fall. She rolled onto the asphalt, twisting into a tumble, and then spun around to face the person who’d been chasing her, hands raised in protection.
To her surprise, no one was there. The trees swayed above her, light from the sky winking from between wide, green leaves. Far away, around a bend in the road, she thought she could make out the sound of her fellow walker dragging his heels.
So who had she just heard? Had the person dashed away into the woods? Maybe he was watching from somewhere off the road, between the trees.
Crazy Poppy, she heard in her head—the voices of the girls from Thursday’s Hope taunting her still. Crazy Poppy. Craaaazy Poppyyyy.
To gain her bearings, she stood and took in her surroundings. In the dense brush a few feet away, a tall stone wall was camouflaged by twisted red vines and thin saplings, running alongside the road’s shoulder. Was this the boundary of Great-Aunt Delphinia’s estate?
A dozen yards ahead, Poppy saw a wide gravel path branching off the main road into the woods. Where the path intersected the wall, a space in the stonework opened up like a missing tooth in a wide, dead grin. Two pillars climbed up from the forest floor to form an entryway. An ornamental iron railing connected the two pillars, its rusted curlicues broken and twisted as if someone with abnormal strength had wrenched it apart. Below, where one would expect to find a pair of decorative gates, the space was empty, the woods beyond forming a tunnel that darkened as it went deeper.
The sight made her mouth dry. Poppy stepped forward, then stopped at the edge of the driveway. That was when she noticed words engraved on stones in the center of each pillar: Larkspur.
This was the place. Her new home.
With tall grass and weeds growing in sporadic patches at her feet, the driveway looked like it hadn’t been crossed in decades. Confusion rattled her brain.
Crazy Poppy …
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut. Stop it!
Maybe there was another gate farther up the road—one that Great-Aunt Delphinia used more frequently.
These thoughts flew away when Poppy noticed something else carved into the pillars, directly beneath the name of the estate—a familiar symbol, a picture that Poppy could have drawn from memory. The outline of a bird. The image was the same as the twisted wire sculpture that the Girl had removed from the pocket of her pinafore all those years ago, the first present that Poppy had found under her pillow the next morning.
Something crunched the gravel directly behind her.
Wide-eyed, Poppy stiffened. She glanced over her shoulder to find the road deserted. Footsteps moved all around her. “Hello?” she whispered. There was no one there. No one that Poppy could see.
Poppy knew of another way, one that she was terrified to try. But she had to find out …
Trembling, she removed her clamshell c
ompact from her satchel and flipped it open. As she brought up the mirror to eye level, she was certain of who would be there.
But this time when she peered into the glass, she jolted.
In the mirror, the Girl was standing several steps behind her. Now, however, the Girl’s whole body was shaking. She jerked with lightning-quick spasms, flickering like an image in a sped-up film.
Before Poppy could respond, the Girl bolted forward.
Coldness encircled her as the Girl’s arms twisted around Poppy’s torso and squeezed. Poppy felt herself yanked backward into the road, away from Larkspur’s gate. As she collapsed to the ground, she released a scream of such terror it sent all the songbirds careening nervously from the safety of the high branches, screeching like echoes of her own voice up into the air. They dissipated as Poppy lost her breath, and the sky beyond turned dark.
A SHRIEK RANG out from around the bend in the road ahead, and Marcus Geller nearly dropped his cello. Seconds later, the sound came to an abrupt end, and he grew even more nervous. Could the cry have come from the girl he’d seen leaving the train station before him? Was she hurt?
Marcus laid his things on the side of the road, and took off in a sprint.
As he rounded the bend, Marcus saw the girl from the train station lying in the middle of the road, not moving. “Hey!” he yelled as he ran the last couple of dozen yards. “Are you okay?” Kneeling beside her, he realized that he had no idea what to do. She was on her back, her arms splayed out, her knees bent, her head turned away from him. “Please be alive,” he whispered, holding his hand in front of her nose. Warm breath tickled his skin, and he released a sigh.
