The Gathering
Page 13
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You Can't Hide!
You can run, but you can't hide from Shadow House.
DYLAN RAN, HIS thoughts and memories as blurred as the shadows that kept pace with him. His twin brother’s voice rang out behind him, but it only made him run faster. He ran, choked with fear, desperate to escape everything he’d just been through.
Although, in a way, he hadn’t been through anything.
Dylan was dead.
He skidded around a corner and slipped on the runner that had suddenly appeared in this stretch of hallway, pinwheeling his arms to try to stop but slamming into a wall anyway. That was Larkspur House for you, changing with no warning, and always trying to trip you up. There was no getting used to this nightmare.
Dylan leaned against the door, panting from his sprint, and put a hand to his chest. His heart pounded against his palm, and his pulse fluttered in his neck. His cheeks were hot, and he wiped sweat from his forehead with the side of his arm. He felt real. He felt alive.
Only now he remembered—the prank his twin brother, Dash, had played on him. Dash’s face lit up with glee, and then a split second later contorted in a scream. The blast of white, the blood in his mouth, pain everywhere. Stillness. He gave himself a shake, as if he could chase it all away.
But he couldn’t. No one can chase away death; death chases you.
Somewhere deep in his mind, a thought wriggled like a worm. Had Dash meant to do it? His brother had always been the good twin, his mother’s little angel, and the pet of every director they’d worked with over the years in LA. Dylan was the bad one, the hassle. The reason the scripts stopped coming. Did some part of Dash want Dylan gone?
Dylan closed his eyes. He missed LA—he’d give anything to go home, to get away from this haunted place.
He laughed, and the sound crackled down the corridor. He was one of the ghosts haunting Larkspur now.
Dylan forced himself to open his eyes and look around. He was in a hallway he hadn’t seen before. The wooden floor and paneled walls were nearly black. A dim glow came from above, and he could see the ceiling was angled like a rib cage. A latch clicked, and somewhere a door opened.
He shrank from the sound of squeaking hinges and hunched his shoulders as if he could make himself disappear. But couldn’t he? He was dead, after all.
Footsteps echoed into the hallway, and a tall silhouette disturbed the glow up ahead. Dylan pressed himself against the nearest wall. But the stranger approached quickly—too quickly for Dylan to hide.
A familiar tingle settled onto his scalp, like a cap made of needles, and Dylan watched as the hallway tilted.
Flash.
The dressing room. The bucket of water above the door, a classic trick.
Flash.
Cold, wet, reaching for the lamp. The shock, the blinding white. Electrocution.
Flash.
The funeral.
Flash.
Dash’s room in the psychiatric hospital.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
A voice called out to him, but he couldn’t stop himself from crumbling to the ground. And then everything went black.
“Dylan?” someone said from the darkness. “Dylan?”
Dylan’s eyelids fluttered open. He was lying down. There was a wooden ceiling above him and a plush carpet beneath him. Sitting beside him was a man he’d never seen before. The silhouette from the hallway? He was broad-shouldered and had a bushy beard, and wore a red-and-black plaid shirt and dark-blue jeans. He looked like he might be a lumberjack, or at least someone who lived in one of the cool neighborhoods in LA. The man’s hand rested on Dylan’s shoulder. Dark hair hung just past his thick eyebrows, slightly obscuring his glistening, golden-hued eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I-I don’t know,” Dylan answered. “What happened?”
“We were running your lines and you fainted. Your eyes rolled back and then, blam! You hit the floor.”
“My lines?”
“Man, you must have really smacked your head hard. My assistant is getting some water for you. She’ll be back shortly. Just rest.” Dylan tried to wiggle out from under the man’s hand, but it was wide and heavy. “Don’t move. You’ll be fine.”
“What lines are you talking about?” Dylan asked, shivering, worried that his voice was rising, revealing his alarm. “Who are you again?”
The man smiled, then seemed to catch himself, furrowing his brow. He unbuttoned his plaid shirt, revealing a white T-shirt underneath. He slipped the plaid shirt off, draping it over Dylan like a blanket. “Del Larkspur? I’m the producer of The Gathering. You’re one of my leads. The big bad villain.” He paused, examining Dylan’s confused expression. “You’re here, with your brother, shooting a horror movie. Do I need to go on?”
“The Gathering?”
Del ran his hand through his hair as if trying to hide growing frustration.
Dylan felt a hole open in his mind, sucking away memories of what must have been a horrible dream. A dream that had felt entirely real.
A neat pile of papers was on the rug to his left. It looked like a script. At the top of the opened page, the name of a character was written in black pen: The Trickster. “The film,” he said. “Of course.” Some details were starting to come back. There were creepy masks. And ghosts. And a great big mansion to play in. But wait, it wasn’t a movie. It was real. He’d just found out he Dylan … was’s brain refused to go on.
“We met you this morning?” Dylan asked. Del nodded. “And Dash is … where?”
“With the director, Cyrus Caldwell,” said Del. “They’re finishing prep with the other kids in the cast for the big shoot tonight.”
“Can I see my brother?”
“Why?”
“I-I just want to ask him some questions.”
Still squatting by Dylan’s side, Del rocked back on his heels. The lines around his mouth tightened. “I thought you two were doing your own things here. Separate roles now. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
Dylan sat up fully. Crowded bookshelves filled the walls. A fire was burning in a fireplace, flicking orange light into the room’s nooks and crevices. “You’re right,” he said quickly, not wanting to annoy the man any further. “I’ll catch up with Dash after the shoot.”
“Good,” said Del, warmth returning to his face. “I really need you with me on this. Put on that shirt. It can get drafty in here.”
Del’s smile made Dylan feel happy. Like he was wanted. Appreciated. The bad dream was fading, and relief heated Dylan’s veins. Dylan inhaled a deep breath. He slipped his arms into the sleeves of Del’s button-down and then grabbed the script from the floor, holding it in his lap, plucking at the brass clips that bound the pages together. “I’m sorry,” said Dylan. “I’m not sure what happened to me before, with the fainting and all that, but you can count on me. I promise.”
“Good,” said Del, standing and heading toward the fireplace. “Because I wouldn’t want to have to replace you.” Dylan felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Del went on, “I’ve got something else that’ll help you get back into character.” He grabbed an object from the mantel. “It came from the props department.” Turning, Del held it out. It was a face.
A mask.
Wide, empty holes stared up at Dylan. Exaggerated eyebrows arched in pointed peaks. A bulbous red nose protruded from the center of the face, and ruby lips were smeared in a sad frown. Painted tears tumbled down the cheeks.
Dylan’s stomach writhed as he took the mask from Del. “This is who I’m supposed to be?” he asked. “A clown?”
Del nodded, his amber eyes gleaming in the fire. “Put on that mask, and you’ll know exactly what I need you to do.”
Dylan’s pulse beat a warning, but he slipped the strap over his head. The mask hugged his face tightly. He’d expected it would be difficult to see through the eyeholes, but to his surprise, for the first time since waking fr
om his faint, he could see everything clearly.
“Our Trickster,” Del whispered, his tone somehow deeper now, raspy. “It’s time to get to work.”
Copyright © 2016 by Scholastic Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number Available
ISBN 978-0-545-92550-1
First edition, September 2016
Cover photo by Larry Rostant © Scholastic Inc.
Wallpaper © Clearviewstock/Shutterstock
Logo by Charice Silverman
Art direction by Keirsten Geise
e-ISBN 978-0-545-92575-4
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