Return to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Downstairs,” Ivy says, her eyes wide with hope, no doubt imagining finding Shayla and the others. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “That I’m going to need serious therapy after today?”

  “He seems to know a little too much about Ricky’s death…since he was a student here after Ricky, I mean. He wasn’t even around for the suicide.”

  “Are you kidding? Rumors that potent stay alive for years. For instance, there was this one girl who’d attended the same arts camp as me. Rumor had it that after rehearsals for the Wizard of Oz, she skipped down the yellow brick road with both the Tin Man and the Scarecrow…if you know what I mean.”

  “Not really.” Ivy makes a confused face.

  “The point is that even though her attendance at the camp was years before my time, the story was still legendary.”

  “Rumors in such detail, though?”

  “He could just be elaborating.”

  “Or he could be Ricky himself.”

  “Except Ricky’s supposed deadness puts a wrench in that theory, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe it was only an attempted suicide.”

  “And maybe we should get going. Ticktock, ticktock,” I say, reminding her. Our flashlights in hand, we scurry out of the room.

  From the Journal of E.W.

  Grade 7, August Preparatory School

  SPRING 1972

  I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been too busy doing research on Ricky Slater. There are so many rumors about him—about what he did on the night he killed himself, and how he did it, and what he had with him. Kids say that Ricky was really weird and that he said strange stuff—like if they were talking about a cute girl, Ricky would try to fit in by saying how much he loved boobs. And he talked about the characters in books like they were real people, mumbling about their problems, and acting all concerned about the choices they were making.

  Some kid whose mother works in the library said that the teachers didn’t like him either, that his mother used to come to school and flirt with the old headmaster, spending hours in his office—even though they were both married.

  Ricky’s mother killed herself too, less than a year before his own death. Does suicide run in families? Word has it that after her suicide, Ricky got weirder, even giving the teachers the creeps. Kids say he stared too hard, lingered too long, and grinned at inappropriate times.

  I saw a movie about ghosts the other day—about how this one ghost was haunting a girl because he wanted her to find a special coin he’d hidden while he was alive. After she found it, the ghost went away. If I do what Ricky wants, will he go away too?

  Did Johnny leave Mother alone after she burned down the house? Part of me hopes that he didn’t—that he’ll haunt her until she dies. Another part wonders if maybe Mother was never being haunted at all. Maybe the ghost of Johnny was just an excuse to torture me.

  WE MOVE THROUGH AN EXIT door at the end of the hall. There are tiny spotlights positioned in the corners of the ceiling, highlighting the stairwell.

  Music starts playing. A peppy piano tune. A wiry male voice. “Wanna play dress-up, little girl, little girl? It’s time for your makeup, little girl, little girl. Blanched-white skin, like the dead. Lie still in a satin bed. Dark-red lips, be still your breath. Little girl, little girl.”

  “Where’s it coming from?” Taylor asks.

  It sounds as if it’s far away—in another part of the building. Meanwhile, photos of me—from age twelve until just last week—hang on the walls. Dozens of photos that show me walking home from school, getting on a bus, playing tennis off a wall, reading on my front porch.

  “Holy hell!” Taylor shouts out, shining her flashlight on my eighth-grade graduation photo—with my full-on braces, bright orange hair (an attempt to transform my chestnut tresses into blond ones), and wire-rimmed eyeglasses.

  “It’s like he’s in love with you,” Taylor says.

  “Not in love, just…”

  “Starstruck?” she asks, finishing my thought, pointing at a crudely drawn star outlining my MVP soccer photo, done in green crayon.

  I nod, thinking how in some twisted sort of way—despite the obvious creep factor—seeing all of these photos feels somewhat cathartic, because it helps explain the constant sensation I felt of being watched. Dr. Donna believed it was pure paranoia and prescribed pretty little pills to blot out what I was feeling. But here’s proof that I wasn’t being paranoid.

  A locker room sign at the bottom of the stairs points us straight ahead and to the left. We’re right near the tunnel. I peer down the hallway—the same one we passed before going upstairs, the one with the visible pipes. There are no spotlights here, nor one single candle. The music sounds even farther away now. “Shayla!” I shout.

  “Holy darkness, Batgirl,” Taylor says, moving down the hall, several steps in front of me.

  Something squeaks. Taylor lets out a yelp. I shine my flashlight along the floor, suspecting there must be mice.

  But instead I find something else.

  A shoe.

  Someone’s leg.

  I angle my flashlight upward, able to find a pair of eyes. I let out a gasp.

  “This way,” Taylor calls. Her voice is coming from a good distance away, but I have no idea where she is; I can no longer see her flashlight beam.

  A door creaks open at the end of the hall and then slams shut. My pulse races. My legs start to tremble. I angle my flashlight to see who the eyes belong to.

  Danny Decker.

  I recognize him from the amusement park, as well as from Nightmare Elf II. His brother Donnie stands beside him. Dressed in tuxedos, the ten-year-old twins have slick black hair, ghost-white faces, and dark, dilated eyes that stare straight back at me.

  “Taylor!” I shout.

  She doesn’t answer. She must’ve gone into the locker room.

  Danny and Donnie’s noses are bleeding. The blood drools over their lips and down their chins. “I’m so glad you’ve come to join us.” They smile—red teeth, bloody tongues. “We’ve been waiting for you all day.” They move to stand in the center of the hallway, blocking my path.

  Piano music starts to play—the tune to “Three Blind Mice.”

  They sing in unison: “One blind mouse, one blind mouse. See how she runs, see how she runs. She thinks she’s so much smarter than he. But he has a better plan, you see. Keep finding his clues, and you will be, one dead mouse. One dead mouse.”

  I grab my knife and start to move past them, slicing through their image, the blade cutting through the air.

  I hurry down the hallway. There are two doors at the end, one on each side. A locker room sign hangs crooked above one of them; it’s been scribbled in red crayon, just like the WELCOME TO THE DARK HOUSE sign from the Nightmare Elf movies.

  I go inside. Dim spotlights hover over rows of metal lockers, as well as a long wooden bench.

  “Taylor?” I shout.

  A trickle of something rolls toward my feet. I squat down to see what it is. At the same moment, there’s a banging sound—a series of loud, hard clamors that stop my breath.

  I turn toward the sound, covering over my ears. The locker room doors clank open and shut, open and shut. Meanwhile, the trickle on the floor rolls between my feet. It’s red, like blood.

  I go to get up, using the bench for leverage. My legs are shaking. My heart is pounding. I catch myself from toppling over, my hand smacking down on the floor—into the stream of red.

  “Taylor,” I shout again, trying to yell out over the clamoring. I shiver at the sight of my palm—at the deep red color and its slimy consistency.

  Finally, the clamoring stops. The spotlight overhead blinks. There must be a loose connection. I wipe my palm on my pants and look over at the rows of lockers. One of them has a lock. I approach it slowly, suspecting it must be number thirteen. With trembling fingers, I fish the key ring from my pocket.

  The number thirteen is scratched and faded, but still it’s
clear. I push one of the keys into the lock. It turns with a click. I open the door latch.

  A picture frame sits on the top shelf. It looks vaguely familiar, but it takes my brain a beat to process what it is.

  As well as who it’s of.

  And where it’s from.

  It had sat on my real father’s bedside table for years, but I hadn’t thought about it until now. The killer must’ve taken it on the night of the murder. When the police went through their room, taping it off as a crime scene, I hadn’t noticed that the picture was missing.

  I take it from the shelf. A picture of me sits in the middle. I’m six years old, wearing a pink tutu for Halloween. The word “Princess” is printed at the top in pink bubble letters.

  “Anything look familiar, Princess?” His voice crawls over my skin. “Just a little souvenir from your childhood home, but I thought you might like it back.”

  I clasp my hand over my mouth to hold back a cry. I couldn’t hate him more.

  “I’m sure that Ricky’s very pleased with you so far…setting the note where it should’ve been placed to begin with, and now walking in his shoes. Slippers, actually.” He snickers. “Ricky had been wearing slippers on the night of his death.”

  Next to the framed photo, there’s a pair of slippers inside the locker, as well as an orange, a set of pajamas, and a thick roll of roping. I touch the pajamas; the flannel is stiff. The pant legs are faded and frayed. The initials on the shirt tag read R.S. Is it possible that these were really his?

  “Who knows what Ricky had been thinking that night,” the voice says. “Why did he have an orange? What possessed him to take a shower? Was it some sort of symbolic gesture of rebirth? A washing away of his sins? Did he simply want his body to be clean when found? Or perhaps the warm rush of water made him feel safe? I must admit, the answer has plagued me for years. But perhaps you can figure things out. Go find his shower stall now—the one in the far corner, against the wall.”

  The sound of glass breaking gives me a jolt. It came from the other side of the locker room.

  Someone laughs—a high-pitched cackle that ripples down my spine.

  I slip the picture frame into my bag and move around the corner. Ricky’s stall is unmistakable. A spotlight shines over a series of dark red words dripping down the ceramic tile: WHY?; I CAN’T; I HATE IT.

  “Of course, I’ve taken the liberty of re-creating the way the shower had looked that night,” the voice continues. “But if you get real close, you can still see the marker he used. There’s a trace of it on the tile, despite how hard the cleaners scrubbed. Go ahead and have yourself a peek.”

  I step inside the shower and bring the flashlight close to the tiles. He’s right. Some of the original letters are still visible. I run my fingers over them; they’re faded cries for help.

  “I used to shower in the corner too, whenever the stall was available,” he continues. “I’d imagine Ricky standing there, the water rushing against his face, and wonder what he’d been thinking—why he’d chosen those particular words.”

  I can’t help wondering the same. What couldn’t Ricky do? What was the answer to why?

  “Stand beneath the faucet, Princess. And turn on the water. Let the warmth pour over your skin.”

  The inside of my mouth tastes like lead. The sound of glass breaking again cuts into my core.

  “Remember, failure to follow my instructions will result in never seeing your co-stars again. Is that clear?”

  It’s as if he can read my mind.

  I turn the faucet on, bracing myself for a gush of water. But it doesn’t come—not even when I twist the valve all the way.

  I look up at the spout. It’s bone dry, not a drop of water. He’s playing with me. I should’ve known better. Why would an abandoned building have running water to begin with?

  “You’ll find a marker on the soap dish,” he continues. “Use it to add your own thoughts. What would your last words be?”

  I take the marker and press the tip against the shower tile. A series of words and questions flood my brain, but the one phrase that screams the loudest is the one that I write down: GO TO HELL.

  The high-pitched giggle repeats. It sounds as if it’s coming from around another corner. I head in that direction—into the bathroom area. The mirrors are broken. Glass lies in the sinks and on the floor.

  All of the bathroom stalls are open, except for the fourth one; the door is partway closed. I take a step toward it, noticing blood dripping onto the floor.

  “Hello?” I call.

  A pair of feet appear—clunky boots, dark tights. The person steps down from the toilet seat.

  A whining sound comes from the door hinge, and yet the door doesn’t move; it remains half-closed.

  Natalie comes out. There’s a wide smile on her cut-up face and a piece of glass in her blood-soiled hand. Her image wavers slightly as she brings the glass up to her face and makes a sideways slit. Blood drips down her neck, over her clothes, and onto the floor. “You know that I don’t like mirrors, right?” Her voice sounds exactly as I remember it.

  She moves over to the mirror and pounds her fists against the glass, producing the familiar shattering sound. “Seven years of bad luck,” she says, grabbing another piece of glass. She turns in my direction, staring out into space. “You’ve had seven years of bad luck too, haven’t you?” There are two pieces of glass in her hands now. She rubs them together, as though sharpening knives; there’s a slashing sound. Then she moves back into the bathroom stall and climbs up on the toilet seat.

  I wait for the scene to repeat—for her to come back out, so that I can go in. Once she does, I open the stall door wide. There are words above the toilet, written in bloodred lettering with someone’s finger; I can see the fingerprint marks: RICKY WAS HERE BUT NOW HE’S DEAD, NOBODY EVER LISTENED TO A WORD HE SAID.

  I search the stall: under the seat and in the toilet paper dispenser. I even remove the lid of the tank, knowing there must be a clue somewhere.

  The sound of glass shattering startles me.

  “Seven years of bad luck,” Natalie repeats. “You’ve had seven years of bad luck too, haven’t you?” Her voice is followed by the slish-slash sound as she rubs the blades of glass together.

  She comes back into the stall. And climbs onto the seat. Frantic, I reach through her image—right into her gut—to pull up on the seat. She blinks her eyes; they’re exactly as I remember them: light blue, dark makeup, a mole on her lower lid.

  When she gets up again, I can see something sitting at the bottom of the toilet bowl. I reach in to grab it, but it jumps from my hands, moves further into the hole.

  I pull up on my sleeve and reach in farther, my fingers grazing a box—plastic, the size of a cell phone. I pull it out and open it up. There’s a slip of paper inside. I turn it over, my fingers trembling. It says 41R.

  Forty-one Right?

  The giggling starts up again. It’s louder now. A piercing shrill. It sounds so familiar.

  Music starts to blare—a guitar, drums, cymbals. I recognize the tune: “Wipe Out” by the Surfaris.

  My heart quickens to the beat. I move out of the stall, passing right through Natalie, racing to get away.

  THIS CLEARLY ISN’T THE LOCKER ROOM. A lightbulb fixture with an extension cord attached hangs down from a ceiling with exposed beams. It’s like I’ve just walked onto the set of Night Terrors III—in the scene where high school junior Reva Foster plays hide-and-seek in an old, abandoned paper factory and ends up getting sliced and diced by a supersize paper shredder.

  There are boxes of books everywhere, and random school supplies: a chalkboard, a photocopy machine, one of those rolling skeletons from bio class, and a human brain encapsulated in some jellylike substance and kept in a glass tank.

  The room is long and narrow. I walk a little farther, spotting a lit candle on the floor. It highlights the word RICKY, written in big black capitals on the cracked cement, and crossed out with a giant X.


  The candle sits in the center of a bunch of other items—a ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary, a string of rosary beads, a chalice, and a big chunky crystal.

  I squat down in front of the candle, and a tendril of smoke floats up my nose. It smells like beeswax.

  There’s also a deck of index cards held together with a rubber band. The cards have yellowed with age. The corners are torn. The ink is smudged. I remove the band to take a closer look. It’s hard to tell what they are. Poems? Chants? Prayers? I start to read one of them, but then the lightbulb blinks. There must be a loose connection. I stand, just as there’s a knock on the door.

  “Ivy?”

  The knocking shifts to the back of the storage room. I look in that direction. There’s writing on the chalkboard. The letters Y and O. It wasn’t there before. The letter U is forming now, like phantom writing.

  I scan the room, trying to find an explanation, in lieu of pissing my pants. Meanwhile, the phantom writing continues. I watch the words form, imagining myself on the set of a movie. This is only for entertainment’s sake, I tell myself. My role is to act scared.

  I blink hard, and then look back up at the board. It now reads YOU WILL…

  …be sorry you ever came here? (Too late, I already am.)

  …wake up and discover this was just a nightmare? (Could my subconscious be that cruel?)

  …piss your pants? (Totally possible, though I’m dehydrated and starving to death.)

  The light flickers again. I look up. The bulb seems brighter than before, blinding me, making me feel off balance. I glance away and try to refocus on the board. The message becomes clear: YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT.

  My stomach sinks. My skin starts to sweat. The writing continues. The letters L and O.

  I take a deep breath, spotting something move out of the corner of my eye. A shadow. A flash of light.

  The bulb flickers again.

  I look back at the chalkboard. Beneath the message are the words LOVE, RICKY.

  I close my eyes a moment, channeling Neve Campbell’s Sidney Prescott from Scream, in the scene where Sidney’s on the phone with the killer, acting all ballsy, only to discover that he’s actually inside the house, hiding in the closet, ready to pounce.