No Way Out

by Dan Poblocki

  “Still scared?” Poppy whispered.

  Dash held up his flashlight. A closed door had appeared several steps in front of them. “Yup,” he said, reaching for the knob. “Aren’t you?”

  The floor began to shudder.

  “Wait!” said Poppy, a surge of terror flooding her veins.

  But it was too late.

  The door swung open and everything changed.

  POPPY IS STANDING at her bedroom window at Thursday’s Hope, looking down at the sidewalk. A child is screaming several floors below, its voice echoing up the stairwell. A woman exits the building, wiping at her eyes, as if she’s been crying. She steps into the crosswalk, but then she stops, her spine stiffening, as if she can feel Poppy’s gaze. Turning, she glances up at the window, and Poppy recognizes her mother. The woman’s pursed lips part. Poppy hears her voice in her head: I’ll be back! You’re not safe with me! This is only for now.

  Poppy’s vision blurs as tears fill her eyes. Her mother never hated her. She left her all those years ago to protect Poppy. She knew about Larkspur’s curse, had run from it all her life.

  Poppy remembers now. The screaming child downstairs is herself.

  The woman raises a hand to wave as a black car pulls up beside her. One of the doors swings open, but the woman doesn’t notice.

  Poppy yells, bangs on the window, tries to warn her.

  A long, pale arm reaches out from inside the car. It swings around the woman’s waist, yanking her into the backseat. The door slams shut as the car peels off, leaving long black streaks on the asphalt.

  Poppy’s screams mix with the echoes ringing up from Ms. Tate’s office downstairs.

  * * *

  Azumi steps into something damp. She’s barefoot, dressed in her nightgown. She pulls her foot out of the mud and shakes it off. “Ew,” she whispers. “What now?”

  The air is cool and moist. It reminds her of home.

  Glancing around, Azumi realizes that she is home. Back in the forest behind her house outside of Seattle. There is the old white elm she used to climb with Moriko when they were little. Her parents are calling to her, and she can see the beams of their flashlights cutting through the trees.

  Azumi realizes that she’s been sleepwalking again.

  But Larkspur …

  Was the whole thing a dream?

  Azumi calls back. “Mommy! Daddy! I’m here!” She runs toward them, leaping over fallen branches and moss-slick rocks. She knows the path well—she’s walked it so many times.

  “Azumi!” her father cries. “Not again!”

  “I’m sorry! I was dreaming! It’s okay, I’m safe!”

  Her mother’s warm arms envelop her. Her father’s kisses wet her cheeks. Azumi is crying so hard that she shakes. Her parents rub her back until her sobbing slows, then lead her toward the house, where a spotlight shines from the back deck.

  They climb the steps, and Azumi feels relief.

  But then she notices something strange sitting in the middle of the deck: a small, square cage. The door swings open with a squeal. “What’s this?” Azumi asks, her voice lost in the lengthening shadows. Her parents shove her toward the cage.

  “It’s our solution,” says her mother flatly.

  “We can’t have another situation like your sister’s,” says her father. “Now get in.”

  Azumi shakes her head. “No … I don’t want to.”

  Her mother’s hands are strong. They push her to the ground. Her father’s grip shoves her forward, and her knees burn as she scrapes them against the metal edge of the cage.

  She’s inside now, the walls and ceiling pressing tightly toward her. Before she can turn around, the door slams shut and a padlock closes on the latch. She clutches at the bars, shaking them, but they’re solid. They don’t move.

  “Stop screaming, honey,” her mother whispers, leaning close. “You’ll attract the wolves.”

  In the woods, the growling has already begun.

  * * *

  In a field of the greenest grass, Dash peers down into a deep hole. At the bottom, a silver casket gleams in the sunlight. People all around him are dressed in black, holding handkerchiefs to their faces, sniffling. His parents stand on either side of him, hands on his shoulders, listening silently as the pastor reads a familiar passage.

  The crowd starts to whisper.

  “He was there, you know.”

  “I’ve heard he had something to do with it.”

  “I heard he’s been in the psychiatric hospital.”

  “Poor Dylan. Such a good boy.”

  “They were so close. I wonder what happened?”

  Dash covers his face, squeezing his eyes shut, wishing he could block out the voices.

  But he doesn’t have to. They stop on their own. Splaying his fingers, he sees that no one is watching him. No one is talking, except for the pastor, continuing his reading.

  You’re slipping away, D-Dash.

  This voice is familiar.

  You’re not even really here. You know that, right? You’re in a h-hospital room. You’re unwell.

  A face flashes into his mind. An old white man. A burn scar covering one eye.

  Cyrus Caldwell.

  It’s all the experiments, says Cyrus. You’re finally broken. This is what it feels like. It’s what the house wanted from you all along. Your fear. So tasty. This last part is followed by a harsh slurping noise, like something licking enormous wet lips.

  Dash thinks at the voice, You don’t scare me!

  Oh, no? There is a chuckle. Just wait …

  Dash is suddenly alone, the grave yawning at his feet. Something is scratching from within the closed casket. A muffled voice calls out.

  “Dylan!” Dash shouts back.

  He leaps into the hole, tugging at the upper part of the coffin. It swings open.

  But lying inside is Dylan’s shriveled corpse. He isn’t alive; he isn’t trapped, or trying to get out. His lips are pulled back, revealing bleached, TV star teeth.

  Dylan has been down here for a very long time.

  “No! Dylan … please!” Dash yells until his throat hurts.

  Laughter rings inside Dash’s head. It’s deeper than Cyrus’s voice ever was.

  The walls of the grave begin to tremble, the dirt shifting, pebbles dropping to the casket and then rolling off toward the bottom of the hole. Dash hugs himself, shaking his head over and over. “Dylan … Dylan … Dylan …” He says the name as if asking his brother for help.

  Bony fingers claw out from the grave’s walls. Dozens of skeletal hands burst forth, swiping at Dash. Instinctively, he ducks down, not realizing until it’s too late how close he is to his brother’s face.

  Dylan’s milky eyes swivel toward him. The dried lips twist into a wild sneer. His folded hands jolt up, clutching at Dash’s face, chipped fingernails digging into Dash’s skin.

  Dash opens his mouth to scream, but Dylan shifts his grip, shoving his fingers deep inside. All Dash can do is choke as he struggles to breathe.

  Think, Dash! Think!

  This isn’t right!

  Dylan’s fingers dance around inside his mouth.

  How did you get here?

  It’s his brother’s voice! It sounds very far away …

  Get where? Dash answers.

  Good question: Where are you?

  In your grave!

  Dylan’s corpse leans its shriveled skull up from the casket pillow, jaw opening wide, teeth ready to bite.

  No. You’re not.

  Then where … ?

  Where …

  The corpse’s teeth snap shut right in front of Dash’s face. Lightning flashes behind his eyes, and Dash realizes: I’m in Larkspur House. I’m still in Larkspur!

  THE CASKET BELOW him disappeared, and shadows encroached at the edge of his vision. He still couldn’t breathe. Something heavy crushed his rib cage, and fingers were pressed against his mouth.

  In the dim light, he made out a pale face hovering just above
his own. Two amber orbs glowed from within dark eye sockets, and an exaggerated red smile grinned down at him.

  “Dylan!” he managed to say. He tried to shift under his brother, but Dylan had him pinned tightly against the floor. The clown mask’s smile only seemed to grow. “Dylan, listen to me! I know you’re in there. I heard your voice … your real voice!”

  The clown only laughed.

  Dash turned his head back and forth. In his peripheral vision, he noticed that Poppy and Azumi were nearby. Poppy was by the window, pounding her fists against the glass. And Azumi was crouched on the floor, tucked into a ball.

  The world around him grew darker.

  Dash realized that the house was done with him. He was too big a risk to keep alive anymore. So it was ending him. How appropriate that the house should use the hands of his twin to do it.

  And when the job was finished, the house would end the others too.

  “D-Dylan … I-I love you … Forgive me.”

  The amber orbs dimmed for a moment. The clown’s weight went slack.

  Dash used all his strength to shove his brother off him. He scrambled backward, rising to his feet and running into the shadows. A wall of books appeared before him and he smacked into it, pain rocketing through his skull.

  Looking back to the center of the room, he saw his brother stand up and glare at him. Dash’s phone was lying on the floor nearby, the pale glow of its flashlight providing the room with its only source of light.

  And even though it was faint, Dash recognized the space. The shelves behind him. The fireplace in the far wall. The broken musical instruments scattered across the floor. This was the room where they’d barricaded themselves against the Specials earlier that day—really, just that day?—where Marcus had given the boy in the dog mask his harmonica.

  Dylan turned toward the girls. They appeared to be in their own little worlds, just as he’d been stuck in the grave, right before he’d snapped himself back into his body.

  “Leave them alone!” Dash called out. “It’s me you want.”

  “Oh, we want all of you,” the deep voice rumbled from inside the clown mask. “We have to replace the ones you stole from us.”

  “But you stole them first! You stole all of us!”

  The clown tilted its head as if confused. “Does a wolf cry over the deer in its claws? Does a fox weep for the rabbit in its teeth?” Its eyes glowed brighter. “Animals must eat. And so must we.”

  “You’re evil!” Dash screamed.

  The clown shook its head. “There is no such thing. Only nature.” It moved closer to Azumi, who was still huddled on the floor, moaning in terror.

  “Azumi!” Dash cried. “Whatever you’re seeing … it’s not real! Wake up! Wake up!”

  Azumi shuddered and then raised her head. Dylan lurched toward her. “Watch out!” Dash shouted. He was too far away to stop him. But Azumi heard the warning. She rolled away as Dylan hit the floor beside her, then jumped to her feet. “Get to Poppy!” he called out.

  Wide-eyed, Azumi bolted toward the window, grabbing Poppy’s shoulder and spinning her away from the glass.

  Poppy blinked and then looked around the room. She barely glanced at Dylan before her gaze swung toward the fireplace. She pointed, calling out, “There! That’s the one!”

  Dash was confused for only a moment. But when he looked where she was pointing, he noticed it too: the painting hanging over the mantel. The portrait of Consolida Caldwell stared back at them with golden eyes.

  “THERE!” POPPY CALLED out. “That’s the one!”

  It all made sense. Connie’s signal in the mirror, running her fingers across her face. She’d been trying to tell Poppy that the painting she needed to find was the one of herself! It made so much sense. The necklace Connie wore in the painting was the same shape as the sigil she’d drawn onto the fogged-up mirror, a five-petaled flower. And Connie’s eyes, usually hazel, were practically glowing. Just like the creature’s.

  “Help me,” Poppy whispered to Azumi. They ran toward the mantel. Reaching up, the girls unhooked the frame and lowered it to the floor.

  “Watch out!” Dash yelled, racing toward them from across the room.

  Poppy turned to see Dylan crawling on his stomach like some sort of salamander, slithering directly at them. The girls yelped as Dash jumped forward, catching his brother’s heel, holding him in place. They hoisted up the portrait and ran away from the twins, hunkering down near the wall of books.

  A deafening yowl erupted from behind Dylan’s mask. He tried to kick Dash away, but Dash held tight, pinning him to the floor.

  “Quick,” said Poppy. “The turpentine.”

  Azumi reached into her pocket and pulled out the tin. “What do we do?”

  Poppy took it from Azumi and tipped the tin upside down, letting the harsh liquid spill out onto the canvas. Layers of paint began to bubble up, colors melting and swirling together. The Girl’s golden eyes streaked across her pale cheeks, crying shimmery tears.

  Dylan shrieked as if someone had splattered him with acid. He battered at Dash, trying desperately to get up, to rescue the painting from the girls.

  Paint continued to melt from the frame, puddling onto the floor below. Poppy cringed as layers of the Girl dissolved off the canvas. Another face seemed to appear—the woman from Poppy’s dream, outside of Thursday’s Hope.

  Her mother.

  Wide, tormented eyes stared up at her, as if begging Poppy to stop what was happening. Poppy started to reach for the canvas—to do what? Save her?—but Azumi caught her hands and made her look away from her mother’s pleading expression.

  The whole room shook. Books tumbled from the shelves, smacking against the floor like heavy hail during a summer storm.

  Seconds later, raw fabric began to appear in the center of the frame. Blank canvas. A shape was singed into the taut cloth. That same five-pointed flower. Frederick’s sigil. Larkspur.

  He’d hidden the sigil here in plain sight, underneath a portrait of his daughter, whom he’d sacrificed to the creature for fame and glory.

  If it was up to Poppy, no one would ever know the artist’s name. Not ever again.

  “The lighter,” she whispered. Azumi handed it to her, and Poppy flipped open the lid, running her thumb over the flint until it sparked. A bud of flame began to blossom.

  FROM THE CORNER of his vision, Dash watched Poppy and Azumi spark the lighter. He held his brother, kicking and writhing, to keep Dylan from reaching them.

  Dylan’s cries were deafening. They rang in Dash’s ears, threatening to burst his eardrums, as the room began rattling wildly.

  It was working!

  Soon, Dylan would be free too! Just like the Specials. All Dash had to do was hold on a little bit longer …

  But then Dylan started to convulse, his whole body racked with spasms. Dash reached out for Dylan’s mask, hoping he might finally be able to knock it away, but as his fingers made contact, white plastic shot across his skin like liquid, enveloping Dash’s hands, binding them to his brother’s face.

  He tried to pull away, but pain flared up his arms. It felt as if his hands were being digested, melted from the inside.

  “Help me!” he yelled.

  Seconds later, Azumi was at his side, her face aghast. The white plastic was creeping up Dash’s arms, stretching toward his elbows.

  The clown mask’s eyes burned bright with fury, as if to say If I’m going, I’m taking you with me!

  Azumi grabbed Dash’s shoulders and yanked him back. But Dylan came with him, flopping forward off the floor. “Poppy, hurry!” Azumi called out. “Burn the sigil!”

  Poppy reached underneath the canvas and held the lighter steady. She watched as the canvas caught and then blackened, the flower symbol disappearing as a hole opened in the center, ringed by fire. The flame spread quickly to the edges of the frame, devouring the chemicals that had soaked into the fabric, and the heat bit at her fingers. Poppy dropped the frame. It smashed against the flo
or. The fire rose up from it like a spirit from a grave.

  A heart-stopping sound, like nothing Poppy had ever heard, shook the room, buckling her knees. She hit the ground. The light and heat from the fire climbed through the air, up and up, until it licked at the ceiling, high above. And then it was suddenly sucked downward, as if into the canvas itself.

  Cracks spread out from the plaster overhead, where the flame had touched. The floor shuddered again. Dash yelped in shock. Poppy crawled to him and Azumi and then gasped at what she saw.

  Dash watched as the glow in Dylan’s eyes winked out. His brother’s body went limp, and the pain in Dash’s hands and arms subsided. But the plastic still bound them.

  “What happened?” Poppy asked, kneeling at his side. Her face was smudged with soot, but her eyes shone brightly, almost excited.

  “He’s stuck,” said Azumi. “But we’re going to get him out. Come on. Pull!” She continued to clutch at Dash’s shoulders as Poppy held Dylan down.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Dash yelled, his eyes stinging with anger.

  Overhead, the crackling plaster spread, dropping pieces of ceiling all around them. A black mark was growing from where Connie’s portrait had fallen to the floor. Soon, it had crept underneath the spot where the four were sitting. The floor began to sag.

  “We need to separate you two,” said Azumi.

  Azumi yanked him back, and Dash felt the plastic that coated him break away, crumbling from his hands and arms. He nearly burst into tears when he saw that his fingers still had skin on them.

  More important, though, was the clown mask clinging to his brother’s face. This time, when Dash grabbed at it, the mask dropped to the floor, rocking back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock.

  DYLAN’S EYES WERE closed, but his eyelids fluttered as if he was dreaming.

  Dash brushed at his brother’s cheek, worried about what might happen when Dylan woke up. Would he flip out? Or had the Caldwell curse ended for good?

  The wooden floor groaned beneath them. Dash could feel their weight pulling everyone down.