The Gathering

by Dan Poblocki

  “I don’t have a clue where anyone is,” he said, ignoring her question, the odd expression dropping from his face. “But it’s probably a good idea if we take a look around. Right, Poppy?”

  Poppy stood there, hugging her rib cage. “I guess so.”

  “Okay then,” said Azumi, picking up her bag. “Good.” She peered once more through the windows out at the sunny meadow. Even though she couldn’t see it anymore, she was sure the shadow was still out there somewhere—hiding, watching, waiting.

  DASH AND DYLAN had insisted that the driver of their limo pull all the way onto the Larkspur property, claiming that they’d pay for any damage that the creeping foliage inflicted on the car.

  As the car drove off and left them alone, the boys found a pair of wide wooden doors. They knocked and knocked, but no one answered. Pressing their ears to the glass, the boys listened for a response. Inside, they could hear the echoes of their pounding.

  They texted Del to see where he was. But the messages failed to send. No service.

  “What are we going to do now?” asked Dash. Dylan answered by stepping forward and pressing the latch on the door handle. The doors swung inward with a resounding groan. “Oh yeah.” Dash forced a chuckle. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Good thing I’m here, little brother.”

  “You know I hate it when you call me that. Being born five minutes after you doesn’t make me ‘littler’ than you.”

  “You’re so right,” said Dylan. “I know you hate it.” He smiled that smile that always made Dash nervous, the one that Dash could never pull off, not even when he practiced in a mirror. The smile that said, Don’t be a wuss. They weren’t perfectly identical after all, Dash knew, especially when it came to their personalities.

  With his stomach churning, Dash followed Dylan into the mansion. Inside, his gaze flitted around the cathedral-size room. He took in the details—the wide oak banisters that bordered the central stairway, the wood pillars that rose to the pointed, arched ceiling, the high stained-glass windows that allowed shocking streaks of red and blue and gold light to filter across the intricate, circular parquet floor.

  The boys placed their bags in its center.

  A harsh tone bounced around the room, ringing in Dash’s ears, making him feel dizzy and disoriented. He blinked and saw Dylan standing a few feet away, struggling with his phone.

  “Stupid thing,” Dylan said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone keeps calling me, but every time I pick up, the phone goes dead.”

  “What’s the number?”

  “It says unknown.”

  “Service here bites.”

  “But what if Del is trying to get in touch with us? To tell us where to go?”

  “Why don’t we try to find him?”

  Dylan smiled. “Do you want to head upstairs or should I?”

  “We should stick together, don’t you think?” Dash asked, trying to sound unafraid.

  He peered at the grand staircase and froze.

  A boy was standing at the bottom, staring at them. He was dressed in dark shorts and a white button-down shirt. But that wasn’t what caught Dash’s attention. The boy was wearing a mask. A white rabbit with shadowy cutout eyes and a big, pink grin for a mouth.

  Dash had a bad feeling—it made him want to turn around and walk away.

  When Dylan saw the boy, he called out, “Hey, yo! What’s up?”

  The boy in the rabbit mask didn’t answer. He only continued to stare. “We’re looking for Del,” Dash added. “Any clue where we can find him?”

  The boy in the mask took off, disappearing up the worn marble stairs.

  “Hey!” Dylan shouted, hurrying after him. “Wait!”

  Dash followed closely, not wanting to be left alone. But when they’d made it halfway to the first landing, Dylan jerked to a stop as if someone had yanked on his spine. Dash reached up to catch his brother before he toppled, but Dylan crashed into him, knocking him off-balance.

  Limbs tangled together, they tumbled down the steps all the way to the bottom.

  Something like a memory flashed through Dylan’s mind. He flinched, cringing at the white-hot blast that burned inside his skull. His entire body prickled with electricity.

  The world around him disappeared. He was back in the dressing room on the set of Dad’s So Clueless. Dash was racing toward him from out of a mass of shadows, his arms outstretched, his face contorted, screaming in anger or pain. A booming sound rattled his eardrums, followed quickly by something that sounded a bit more human—a mewling, crying whisper.

  The back of Dylan’s skull felt like it had exploded. Little glittering lights swam around what was left of his blurred vision. Then, as the brunt of the sensation began to fade, Dylan understood that the whine was coming from his own throat.

  “Dylan? Dylan, are you all right?”

  Dylan realized he was lying down, the wooden floor of the foyer cold beneath him. Dash’s face hovered over him, eyes wide, looking paralyzed with worry. For some reason, this annoyed Dylan. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Glancing over his brother’s shoulder, he noticed the staircase rising steeply. “I must have tripped.”

  “You didn’t trip, Dylan. Something happened to you. It was like a seizure. You knocked us both down the stairs.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have seizures.”

  Dash leaned away, sitting back on his heels. “Fine. Whatever. You’re perfectly healthy.” He sighed, frustrated. “But you hit your head pretty hard on the way down. It echoed.”

  Dylan sat up, rubbing the back of his skull. His heart was beating too fast, and he worried that whatever had just happened might happen again. But he couldn’t let his brother know. For the past few weeks, Dash had been super worried about him. “Well, I’m okay now.” This had happened at least twice before, each time accompanied by a horrifying vision of Dash running toward him, reaching out to either claw or catch him. “Jeez, Dash, sometimes you’re worse than Mom and Dad.”

  “Do you think you can stand up? Maybe we should walk back to town and call for help.”

  “No way.”

  Dash rolled his eyes “But, Dylan, you’re not—”

  “If we find that kid, the one in the mask, maybe he’ll help us.”

  Dash shivered. “I didn’t get that sense from him, Dylan. He was full-on creepy.”

  Footsteps echoed through the cavernous chamber. Dylan turned to see who it was.

  Emerging from the shadows was a girl with long black hair that draped far below her shoulder blades. She was dressed in a fitted denim jacket and a long black dress. Another girl with messy dirty-blond hair walked beside the first, wearing a faded purple T-shirt and jeans, clutching a bright-pink messenger bag. Behind them was a boy, who appeared to be carrying a tall backpack of some sort. He wore a black sports jacket and khaki pants. His dark red hair lifted from his scalp in wide curls.

  Is this the rest of the film’s cast?

  Dylan struggled to his feet. He stepped forward, holding out his hand. If he was going to succeed on this set, he knew he had to make the best impression before his brother could beat him to it.

  “Hey,” he said, laying on the California cool-kid charm that his agents had drilled into him long ago. “How’s it going? Dylan Wright.” He glanced over at Dash, who looked at him in surprise. “And this is my brother—”

  “Dylan, sit down!” Dash commanded harshly. “You might have a concussion!”

  A flash of anger jolted down Dylan’s spine and rippled in the pit of his stomach. Keeping his face even, he chuckled nervously as the group stared at the twins. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My brother can be a little dramatic. Have any of you seen Del?”

  POPPY COULDN’T BELIEVE her eyes. Standing before her was one of her favorite television characters: Scooter Underwood from Dad’s So Clueless. And seated beside him was another version. Two Scoots Ba-Dooters were staring at her as if she might p
resent them with a key to the house.

  This must be in my head, she thought. Blood pounded in her ears, and she heard the girls from Thursday’s Hope chanting again. Crazy. Poppy. Crazy. Poppy.

  But now Marcus was making introductions. “Hi, I’m Marcus. This is Poppy and Azumi.” Azumi waved as Poppy remained frozen, unsure of herself. “Are you students here too?”

  The seated boy finally stood and brushed himself off. “I’m Dash. Dylan’s brother. And, um, no, we’re not students here.”

  Marcus frowned and shook his head slightly.

  “You guys are actors,” said Azumi. “I’ve seen you on television.”

  Actors, thought Poppy. Not the real Scoots, but the boys who played him. Twins.

  “Yeah,” said Dylan. “Aren’t you guys actors too?”

  “No,” said Marcus cautiously. “I’m here on a music scholarship. Azumi’s here for academics. And Poppy … Well, Poppy’s story is kind of complicated.”

  Poppy couldn’t keep herself from blushing. Complicated was an understatement. She hunched her shoulders, though she knew she was only making herself look more foolish, like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand.

  “Dylan,” said Dash, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder, “I really wish you’d sit down.” He turned to the trio. “He just fell down the stairs.”

  “Do you always let your brother talk to you like he’s your dad?” Azumi asked Dylan, hands on her hips.

  Dash flinched. “I was only trying to—”

  “We both fell down the stairs,” Dylan growled before looking at the group again with a forced smile. “But we’re both perfect now. Promise. So … if you’re not in the cast, you must be on the crew.”

  “The crew?” asked Azumi.

  “Why are you here?” A hint of frustration slipped into Dylan’s otherwise smooth voice.

  “Marcus already told you,” said Azumi. “This is our school.”

  “Why are you here?” Marcus retorted.

  Dash spoke up. “Del Larkspur is filming a new horror movie. We’re playing the leads.”

  “Del Larkspur?” Poppy squeaked. “Did you say Del Larkspur?”

  Dylan sighed. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere. You know Del?”

  Poppy’s voice was so soft Dylan had to strain to hear it. “Well … no. My great-aunt invited me to live with her. But her name is Delphinia Larkspur.”

  “Could they be the same person?” asked Dash. “We thought Del was a guy, but maybe Del is actually Delphinia.”

  Poppy’s spine tingled and her fingers felt numb. None of this seemed right. “In her letter, my great-aunt didn’t say anything about making a movie.” She thought back to watching Dad’s So Clueless in the common room at Thursday’s Hope with the other girls, remembering the warm feeling it gave her to see a funny family portrayed on the small screen. To see parents get mad at their nutty kids but then forgive them at the end of every episode because they just loved them so much.

  “Hold up,” said Dylan, shaking his head, squinting. “What letter?”

  Azumi exhaled sharply as she shuffled through her shoulder bag and removed the printout she’d already showed Poppy and Marcus. Marcus followed suit, taking out the email his mother had received from the music school. They handed the pages to the twins. Poppy scrambled to show them her own handwritten letter. The boys scanned everything quickly, and then Dylan pulled his phone from his pocket, opening the message from Larkspur Productions, LLC. After a few seconds, the group looked up at one another, and then glanced around the chamber as if someone were watching them.

  “This is weird,” said Dash. “Look at the names: L. Delphinium wrote to Marcus’s mom. Del Larkspur and Delphinia Larkspur wrote to us and to … ” He glanced at Poppy, self-conscious. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Poppy,” she said, her voice cracking. She crossed her arms, feeling suddenly cold.

  “Right.” Dash handed back the invitations, emails, and brochures. “The details don’t really add up. I mean, it feels like someone is messing with us.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Marcus, looking around the room. “This house seems big enough for all of it. A school, a filming location, a home.”

  Azumi spoke up. “Still, it’s strange. Earlier, Marcus found Poppy lying in the road in front of the main gate.”

  “What were you doing in the road?” asked Dylan.

  Poppy’s eyes went wide. “I’m not really sure. I guess I fainted or something.” The twins were looking at her like she was a total freak. Her group-home defenses immediately kicked in. “Speaking of strange, Azumi saw some sort of creature out in the meadow by the woods. She thought it was chasing me and Marcus. But when we all reached the house, the meadow was empty.”

  “I never said it was a creature.” Azumi’s face lit up, red. “I said it was an animal. A big animal. And I have a picture.” She dug in her pocket for her phone and swiped it open. But after a few seconds, she furrowed her eyebrows. “It was right here. A black smudge. It had golden, glowing eyes. It looked like … I don’t know what.” She handed her phone around. When Poppy got it, the image on the screen was of the sunny meadow, clear of any blotches or unusual shadows.

  “We saw a boy at the top of the stairs,” said Dash. “He was wearing a rabbit mask.”

  “Weird,” said Marcus. “It would be really nice if we could find an adult.”

  “Like my great-aunt,” said Poppy.

  “Like a teacher,” said Azumi.

  “Like someone on the crew,” said Dylan.

  Dash stepped away from the group and peered up the staircase. “Hello?” he called out, the echo of his voice fluttering around the upper rafters like bats trapped inside the house. “Is anybody here?” The group waited in silence, but no one answered.

  AZUMI AND MARCUS placed their luggage in the center of the grand room, beside the twins’ stuff. Poppy held on to her bag.

  “The boy in the mask ran up the stairs,” said Dylan. “Maybe we should go check up there.”

  Not listening, Azumi disappeared with Marcus through one of the doorways off the foyer. A moment later, she called out, “Whoa. You guys have to see this!”

  Poppy paused in the doorway, looking back at the twins. “Coming?” she asked, her voice quavering and small. The boys reluctantly followed.

  Marcus stood just inside the entry of a long room.

  The space looked like it had been set up for an extravagant party. Red and white paper streamers hung from high places, drooping down from the corners of bookshelves that were stocked with old board games and puzzles, running up toward the tall windows that lined one long wall, and continuing in daisy chains all the way to the entry. Loose balloons meandered across a thick Persian rug, pushed by what must have been a draft that Marcus couldn’t feel. They looked like scurrying animals sniffing around for scraps of birthday cake. The couches and chairs arranged to face the center of the chamber were worn, as if they had been sitting there for a century, getting good use from the children who must have played here.

  It’s a music school, Marcus thought, eyeing the four other kids. It has to be. He drummed his fingers on his stomach and closed his eyes for a moment, itching to get his hands on an instrument. How strange would he look if he grabbed his cello and got down to it right here? The familiar tune continued to play in Marcus’s head, the melody still as sweet as blueberry pie. But it was getting louder and louder, and Marcus had to bite at his lip to keep from shouting out to the Musician that he’d heard enough.

  Someone squeezed his waist and shouted, “Boo!”

  Marcus nearly screamed as Dylan jumped out from behind him.

  Dylan burst out laughing, as Dash came up and punched his arm. “Starting early?” Dash asked, his eyes slivered. He tossed an apologetic look at Marcus, but Marcus couldn’t bring himself to smile. Everyone else was staring at him like he was some sort of nutjob. It made him think about how his brothers and sister had looked at him when they learned th
at the doctors had suggested medication to correct his “hallucinations.”

  “Dude, I’m sorry,” said Dylan, wiping away the last of his laughter. “You looked so intense. Like you were arguing with yourself. I just had to do something about it. You okay?”

  “I-I’m fine.” Marcus nodded. “Thanks for your concern though.”

  The others strolled before the shelves, examining the trove of games. “Do you guys think the decorations are for us?” he asked. It’s a nice gesture, Marcus thought. Though it would have been nicer if someone had been here to greet them … and if someone had answered him.

  A strange-looking sphere made out of gray wire sat on a table in front of the windows. On one side of the contraption, there was a handle, bent like an S, as if it were meant to be turned like a crank. Inside the sphere were dozens of little red balls. Curious, Marcus made his way to the table. His grandmother had once taken him to bingo night in the basement of St. Luke’s back in Ohio. The person calling the game had used a globe like this to call the numbers. Marcus touched the handle and then gave the sphere a spin. The balls inside rattled and one slid out into a small chute, hitting the table with a satisfying plink.

  Marcus picked up the ball and turned it over. There was no number on it, only the letter L marked in white. Weird, he thought. Bingo doesn’t work like that. He gave the sphere another turn. Out popped the letter E, then T. Marcus stopped cranking the handle, but little balls continued to roll out, each one stopping with the letter facing toward him. L, E, and T were followed by S, P, L.

  LETSPL

  Two more balls rolled free.

  LETSPLAY

  LETS PLAY.

  Something cold shivered inside Marcus. “Um, guys?” he called, suddenly wishing he were fifteen feet closer to the rest of the group.

  Azumi was standing on her toes, reaching for a large paper parcel that was high up on one of the shelves. “What’s that?” Poppy asked. As Azumi grabbed for the sack, it tumbled off the shelf, and its contents spilled onto the floor. The girls yelped and leapt back.