Return to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Well, I hope that things are starting to clear up.”

  “Definitely.” I smile. He’s so irresistibly sweet.

  We end up segueing to his big adjustment, two years ago, when his dad’s job got relocated halfway across the country and he had to move, mid-senior year. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to move against your will?”

  “I may have a slight idea,” I say, thinking about my experience in the dorm.

  “You’re pretty cool, you know that?”

  “Yeah, so are you.”

  We continue to chat about our hometowns and high schools, about regular versus Double Stuf Oreos, and favorite TV shows.

  But then someone yells out “Bombs away!” blowing the moment to bits.

  I look up. Barbie and Emily are standing on the porch above us. There are a couple of boys with them too.

  Before I can think to move, they all start hurling water balloons—a whole laundry basket full of them.

  The balloons splash against a girl’s shoulder, a boy’s head, and another girl’s butt as she bends down to get her drink.

  Jason jumps up and goes to grab a trash can lid for protection. At the same moment, I’m ambushed by water balloons. They drop down on my head and break on my face. Water shoots up my nose, runs down my throat, and I gag.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jason shouts at them. He returns to my side. “Are you alright?”

  I wipe my face—my eyes, my nose, my mouth—suddenly noticing that my palms are splotched with blue. My makeup has washed off.

  “Holy shit,” Barbie shouts, looking down at me from the porch. “That’s the girl I was telling you about,” she says to her boyfriend. “The one who let those people die.”

  “I should go,” I tell Jason.

  “Wait—no. Don’t let those assholes get to you.”

  “Hey, Jason,” the other boy shouts out, “I hear she’s got a fetish for dead bodies. Ever do it in a casket?” Barbie and Emily erupt in a fit of laughter.

  “What?” Jason asks; his face is a giant blue question mark.

  I get up, still wiping my eyes, and move around to the front of the house. I cross the street and return to the dorm.

  No one follows me.

  IN MY ROOM, I CLOSE THE DOOR and melt down to the rug. Blue-stained tears drip onto the shag wool fibers. How in the world did this happen? When did I become this hated person?

  A few breaths later, I sit back up, startled by my reflection in the mirror on the back of the closet. My eyes are red. My lips are blue. My makeup is crusty, covering only patches of my skin. I touch the heap of hair tied up on my head, and suddenly my reflection changes—morphs into the red-haired girl from the Dark House, the girl who prompted me to flee.

  The memory of her drags me back to that moment:

  My hand’s bleeding. I cut it. There’s a nail sticking out from beneath the dresser drawer. I dart out of the room and head down the hallway. In the bathroom, I search the cabinets, unable to find a bandage. I wash the cut in the sink and then wrap it up in a paper towel. A three-inch slit. The blood isn’t clotting. I need something more.

  “Midge?” I call, back out in the hallway. Blood soaks through the paper towel and trickles onto the floor. I head downstairs, but the main floor is empty. Natalie and I are still the only ones here.

  I move through the kitchen and open the door that leads to the basement, figuring that Midge must be down there.

  It’s dark. I run my hand over the wall, able to find a light switch. I flick it on. The door swings shut behind me.

  There’s a ladder-like staircase. Slowly, I begin down it, the light narrowing with each step. “Midge!” I call out.

  Something brushes against my forehead. I swipe the spot, suddenly realizing what the something is; a pull cord hangs down from the ceiling. I give it a tug. My heart instantly tightens.

  A life-size Nightmare Elf doll stands in front of me. The light shines over its porcelain face, exposing its wicked grin and rosy cheeks. I slap over my chest, feeling an instant wave of relief. It’s just a doll. So, why am I feeling so unhinged?

  “Midge,” I call again, noticing a freezer chest in the corner—the kind that opens from the top with a lid.

  A door slams somewhere upstairs. At the same moment, the Nightmare Elf doll flops to the floor, its face angled in my direction.

  Holy. Freaking. Shit. I need to calm the hell down.

  I look back toward the freezer, figuring there might be an ice pack inside it. There’s a latch at the front. I go to pull up on it, but the lid’s heavy—at least twenty pounds. I strain my forearms. Blood from my cut drips onto the latch and rolls down the front of the freezer. It isn’t until I get the lid halfway open that I’m able to see.

  The crown of a head—thick auburn waves, a part down the middle. Blue jeans, tan sweater, long beaded necklace. Gray skin, dark circles, eyes angled up at the ceiling.

  A girl’s body. She looks to be about fifteen or sixteen years old. My gut tells me it isn’t real. But then I look at the arm—at the golden-blond hair sprouting from the skin, the spray of freckles extending from the elbow to the wrist, and the dirt and blood stuck beneath the fingernails from when she must’ve struggled—and I feel the room tilt.

  Music starts playing. “Crazy Chick” by Robert Jango. The sudden rush of chords is like a freight train through my heart.

  The girl’s arm is bent upward in an awkward position. I go to move it down, but it’s stuck—even when I try with both hands. The skin feels eerily real—smooth, supple. And there appears to be a paper cut on one of the knuckles.

  “She’s a crazy chick. She’s so sick.”

  Eventually the music snaps me back to reality. I’m still in my room. Still looking in the mirror. The image of the red-haired girl is still staring back at me.

  Is it a coincidence that someone is playing “Crazy Chick” just outside my room? Or do my dorm mates have me pegged just right?

  I reach for my phone and search for the number. My pulse races as I wait to hear her voice.

  “Hello?” Ivy answers.

  “It’s Taylor.” I glance at the clock. It’s four in the freaking morning. “Did I wake you?” Duh.

  “I’m actually at work...the graveyard shift.”

  “I was thinking about what you were saying the other day, about how we should meet. I think it might be a good idea after all.”

  “Great. Your brother mentioned that you’re in school on the East Coast.”

  “At Gringle, in New Hampshire, about twenty minutes outside of Nashu—”

  “How about next weekend?” she asks. “I’m just outside Boston. I could drive up.”

  “I’ll call you Thursday to confirm.” I hang up and glance back at the mirror. The red-haired girl is finally gone.

  From the Journal of E.W.

  Grade 7, August Preparatory School

  AUTUMN 1971

  I hate it here. My grandparents think I’m in the way. That’s why they put me here. I try to be good, but sometimes I just can’t help myself, like when Olivia Kellerman was bragging about what a great biker she is because she can go really fast and then stop on a dime. So I rigged her brakes—tore the pads right off.

  The next time she got on her bike, I bit my tongue, trying not to laugh out loud, but I couldn’t help it, especially when she crashed into a tree. She screamed so loud. There was blood running from her leg. Served her right for being such a show-off.

  Later, Nana figured out what happened. She found the pads in the pocket of my pants. She and Grampy say they don’t know what to do with a kid like me who’s always causing problems.

  My mother didn’t know what to do with me either. When my grandparents weren’t home, she’d lock me in the laundry closet and then blast the TV really loud so she didn’t have to hear me screaming.

  Joke’s on her, though, because she’s the one who’s locked up now. I guess living here is better than living with her, but not b
y much.

  “IVY!” GRETCHEN SHOUTS.

  I pocket my cell phone, beyond excited that Taylor changed her mind.

  “I needed that cheese omelet ten minutes ago,” she says. “And where’s my blueberry pancake?”

  I pour egg mixture on one side of the griddle and pancake batter on the other. It’s only four and there’s already a morning rush. Orders line up like soldiers on the turnstile.

  “You forgot the fruit cup on this one,” Miko says, nodding to a bowl of oatmeal.

  Over the past six hours, I’ve also screwed up on a pasta plate, the meatloaf special, and two French toast orders. Miko’s been double-checking my work all week. Gretchen’s been giving me the cold shoulder all night. My mom’s been dropping in unannounced all month, no doubt in response to a pile of complaints about me. If I weren’t the boss’s daughter, I wouldn’t have a job.

  Finally, at six, my shift ends. I hang up my greasy apron, take a mug of dandelion tea into the far corner booth, and gaze out the window in search of a dark blue pickup. I’ve told Gretchen, Miko, and the others to be on the lookout, but the boy who called me princess hasn’t been here since.

  A clank sound startles me. I look up.

  Miko’s there, standing at my booth. “Sorry,” he says, in response to my jolt. He places a plateful of waffles down in front of me. “Your favorite. Stuffed with strawberry goodness.”

  “Wow,” I say, taken aback by his kindness. “Thanks. You’re way too good to me.”

  “I know, but I’ll let you make it up to me.” He smiles, sliding into the seat across from mine. “So, is everything okay with you?”

  “Fine, why?” I take a healthy bite.

  “Fine? Why?” He gives me a pointed look.

  I peer over my shoulder at Gretchen, who’s spying on us from the front counter. She’s been crushing on Miko for months now, but he doesn’t have a clue.

  “You just seem really out of it,” he says.

  “You know who seems out of it?” I nod toward Gretchen. “I’ll bet she could use a plateful of waffles too.”

  “I’m serious, Ivy. If we’re going to continue working together—”

  My phone vibrates. “Hold that thought.” I pull my cell phone out of my pocket to check the screen.

  An e-mail.

  From the same Gmail account.

  “This seriously can’t be real,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  “What can’t?” Miko asks.

  The e-mail appears to have come from the same Gmail address as the Nightmare Elf’s original account—even though that account was shut down. The subject line: Nightmare Elf e-Newsletter, Issue #208. The last e-newsletter I received—pre–Dark House weekend—was #206.

  “Ivy?”

  I click it open.

  Dear Dark House Survivor,

  Ready for the sequel?

  Your leading man is too.

  Best not to keep him waiting.

  Click this link, see what to do.

  To Be Continued,

  —The Nightmare Elf

  A curtain drops down inside my head, behind my eyes, making the room spin.

  “What is it?” Miko asks.

  Something touches my hand, and I startle. It’s Miko—his warm fingers against my icy skin. There’s a choking sensation inside my throat.

  “It’s happening,” I tell him.

  “What is? Ivy?”

  I grab the knife from my plate. “I have to go,” I tell him, sliding out from the booth and making a beeline for the door.

  I CLICK THE LINK AGAIN and it brings me to YouTube.

  The video is grainy, and it takes a second to see that there’s a dark room and a metal folding chair. A pop of light highlights someone seated on the chair.

  It’s Natalie. She sits, angled sideways, shrouded in shadows. But still I can tell that it’s her—dark clothes, clunky boots, black sunglasses, long, coarse hair. And the dark gray scarf. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one she let me borrow—the one I used to blanket over Parker, after his nightmare ride.

  “You can’t see a face,” Detective Thomas says.

  I’m at the police station again, sitting in the same smelly interrogation room, only this time Detective Dearborn and Officer Squires are here too, looking on.

  “Let’s get this up on a bigger screen,” Thomas says.

  Dearborn leaves the room, returning just a few seconds later with a laptop. She sets it down, powers it up, and then takes my phone to copy the YouTube address.

  The video begins on the larger screen, proving that size really does matter. There’s so much more detail now. I’m able to see the contrasting squares of a tile floor. There’s also a boarded-up window in the background.

  Officer Dearborn adjusts the lighting and cranks up the volume.

  “Hi, Ivy,” Natalie says. Her voice has been distorted; it’s deep, like a man’s, and there’s an electric current running through it. “As you can see, I’m still alive.” Her legs are crossed. The toe of her Doc Martens boot bops back and forth in a strip of light; it’s the clearest image on the screen. “I’m not the only one. But we can’t get out of here without you.”

  I wish I could see her face—to see if her lips are all cut up from picking at them, like they’d been that weekend. Or if her eyes are as blue as I remember.

  “Who is it even supposed to be?” Squires asks.

  “It’s Natalie,” I say, as if it isn’t completely obvious.

  “Natalie Sorrento?” Squires asks, moving closer to the screen.

  “It’s her—same boots, same dark clothes, even the tone of her voice is distinct.”

  “What tone?” His face crinkles in confusion.

  “The intonation of her voice, I mean, the way she pauses between words.”

  “Shh.” Dearborn places her finger up to her lips.

  Natalie continues to speak: “Parker’s here and he wanted me to remind you of something. Remember the story he told you? The one about his worst-ever nightmare? You told him that you’d never leave him, but still you did. Don’t leave him alone again. Come find him, Ivy. Come be part of the sequel.” Natalie leans forward, shifting slightly in her seat. In doing so, her hand dangles into the strip of light and we’re able to see her bracelet.

  Detective Dearborn hits pause, tracks back, and then hits replay, freezing the moment. The image is blurry, but it’s also unmistakable.

  “I can’t really tell what it is,” Thomas says.

  “It kind of looks like a flower of some sort,” Dearborn says, lightening the screen even more.

  “It’s a star,” I blurt, able to see it clearly. “Just like the pendant necklace I received years ago.”

  “Could be a star,” Dearborn nods. “Could be a lot of things.”

  “Was Natalie wearing a star bracelet during the Dark House weekend?” Thomas asks.

  “Not that I can remember,” I tell him. “But it’s obviously a sign—the killer’s way of communicating with me.”

  “It could also be a coincidence,” Dearborn says. “Stars aren’t exactly unique or unusual, at least as far as charms and patterns go.”

  “Maybe I’m getting old”—Thomas scoots closer to the computer screen—“but it looks like a pretzel twist to me.”

  “We’ll have a videographer take a look.” Dearborn pushes play again, but there’s not much else to see. Natalie has fallen silent. There’s just one more foot shuffle before the lights go out completely.

  Dearborn clicks on the YouTube subscriber’s profile. Movie Marvin’s account looks pretty well established, with dozens of movie clips as well as a handful of videos he’s made. Squires clicks on a video entitled WELCOME.

  “Hey, I’m Movie Marvin,” the boy on the screen says, “and I like to review indie films and make trailers, particularly in the horror or sci-fi genres. So, if you have something you’d like me to look at or a project you need a trailer for, feel free to message me.”

  �
�He can’t be more than sixteen,” Dearborn says.

  “Could be another prank,” Squires adds.

  “No, this one’s different,” I insist. “The e-mail address is the same. Plus, the newsletter’s issue number is 208. The last one I received was 206.”

  “Meaning that whoever sent this flubbed up the numbers?” Squires asks.

  “No,” I snap. “How did someone get so close to the actual number? I mean, off by just one digit?”

  “First of all, after that weekend, the Nightmare Elf e-mail address was shut down,” Thomas says. “But once an account has been deactivated, someone can claim that username under a new password. And, secondly, didn’t one of the Nightmare Elf’s e-newsletters appear on TV?”

  He’s right. It did. Soon after the Dark House amusement park weekend, the authorities went through my computer and e-mail accounts. The next thing I knew, the Nightmare Elf’s e-newsletter—the one with the contest guidelines—was on the evening news for the world to see.

  “Okay, so then how did Natalie know about the story that Parker told me?” I ask. “About his real nightmare.” After Parker survived his nightmare ride—a tank full of hungry eels, based on the fictional essay he wrote to win the Nightmare Elf’s contest—he told me that his real nightmare was based on an experience that happened when he was little…when he got lost in a department store and thought his mother had left him behind.

  “That actually isn’t clear.” Dearborn backtracks to the spot and hits replay, making us listen again. “All this person says is that he had a ‘worst-ever nightmare,’” she says.

  “Didn’t all of the winners have worst-ever nightmares?” Squires asks. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the contest?”

  “Okay, but I did tell Parker I’d never leave him,” I argue. “How else would the person on the video have known that? Plus, she’s wearing the same scarf,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Natalie gave me that scarf at the amusement park. It got left behind.”