I take a deep and mindful breath, as would Shine, my current yoga master, who believes in practicing compassion and kindness rather than succumbing to frustration, judgment, and blame (a practice that proves particularly helpful while riding the New York subway). “Is it always this quiet here?” I ask, attempting to switch gears.
“Quiet?” Her eyes are still fixed on my forehead. Maybe she’s blind or has an aversion to making eye contact.
I glance over my shoulder. Aside from the two of us, the airport looks pretty desolate. “Are things more bustling earlier in the day?”
She laughs and snorts at the same time. A spittle of blue drool rolls down her chin. “Have you forgotten where you are? Do you need me to show you a map? US maps also come free with your car rental.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, utterly confused.
She continues to laugh at me; her eyes roll up farther—I can barely even see them now. There’s just a bulging mass of glossy whiteness that reminds me of hard-boiled eggs.
My cell phone rings in my pocket. I fumble for it, but it falls from my grip and clanks to the floor. I pick it up, hoping it didn’t break. “Hello?” I answer.
“Hey,” Mom says. “You landed.”
I move away from the woman, accidentally bumping into a post from behind. There’s a phone attached, with a piece of mangled wire dangling out from the bottom, reminding me once again of Dara.
I try to push the wire back inside a hole in the post, but there’s too much of it—at least four feet—and it won’t all go in.
“Shayla?” Mom asks.
I gaze upward at a support beam. There’s a hook sticking out, where one could attach the wire. I picture Dara hanging there, her feet dangling, those heart-patterned socks. Her eyes snap open and stare down at me. Her dark blue finger points in my direction.
“Shayla…” Mom calls again.
“Hey,” I say, my heart pumping hard. I look away and blink a couple of times. “I’m not so sure about this place.”
“Not so sure about Minnesota?” Mom laughs. “You’ve been to India and Ethiopia, for goodness’ sake.”
“I know. It’s just…” I move toward the exit sign at the opposite end of the room. What once appeared like a teensy airport now feels like a major shopping mall. “It’s different here.”
“Well, of course it’s different. You just left the city, girl.”
I hate it when my mom goes all homegirl on me. “That’s not what I mean.” I peer back at the support beam. Thankfully, Dara’s no longer there.
“Then what?” Mom asks, finally sensing my unease. “Do you want to come home? Just say the word and I’ll have something arranged in a matter of minutes.”
“Hold on.” I move through the exit doors. A shiny black hearse is parked right outside. The driver’s-side door opens and a hot-looking guy steps out: midtwenties, airbrushed tan, and dressed in Armani.
“Shayla Belmont?” he asks, holding up my picture—the one I e-mailed with my contest forms. His smile is totally killer.
“Yes,” I say. “Are you…?”
“Stefan. And your chariot for the evening, compliments of Justin Blake and Townsend Studios.” He opens the door to the backseat. “I hope you’ll find things comfortable.”
“In a hearse? Are you kidding?”
“I never joke about transporting dead people.”
“Except last I checked I was still alive.”
“For now, anyway.” He winks. “We’re waiting for one more person who was on your flight.”
I peek inside the hearse, spotting an ice bucket with an array of beverages inside it. There’s also a basket of cinema snacks (movie popcorn, Jujyfruits, Sno-Caps, and sourdough pretzels). “Thanks,” I say, suddenly remembering my mother on the phone. “I think I’m all set,” I tell her as soon as Stefan steps away to load my bags into the back.
“Are you sure? Where are you anyway?”
“I’m just getting picked up from the airport.”
“Okay, well call me as soon as you get to the B and B.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you too, Shay-Shay.”
After we hang up, I take a seat inside the car, noticing a movie ticket stub with my name on it. I pick it up to take a closer look. It’s actually a welcome note, congratulating me once again on winning, and signed by Justin Blake.
Stefan closes the door behind me and already any reluctance has melted away, replaced with an overwhelming sense of excitement for what’s soon to come.
“HOLY FREAKING SHIT!” I shout, able to see the house in the distance.
The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Is everything okay, Mr. Vader?”
Okay? I’m practically drooling. “This seriously can’t be real.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
The house looks just like the one from the movie: the dark shingled exterior, the shutter-covered windows, the plaque over the door affirming what I already know.
“Welcome to the Dark House,” the driver says.
Goose bumps rip up my arms. It’s all I can do not to bust out of the car while it’s still in motion. A dilapidated shed—no doubt Tommy Tucker’s nightmare chamber—stands in the distance. “Was this place built just for us?” I know for a fact that the movie was originally shot in Hampstead, New Hampshire.
“The house was already here, from what I understand, but it was recently remodeled for your arrival. You’ll find that everything about this weekend has been created specifically for this occasion…specifically for you winners.”
“Wow,” I say. “It’s definitely the perfect spot.” In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forest. On the annoyingly long ride over from the airport, I think we might’ve passed three gas stations and two convenience stores, tops.
I grab my bags from the back of the hearse and walk around to the front of the house. The plaque is in direct view now. It’s an exact replica of the one from the movie, written in red crayon by Carson, the Nightmare Elf.
“Pretty remarkable, isn’t it, Mr. Vader?”
I think the look on my face is agreement enough. I mean, where do I even begin?
All dressed up in his little suit and his little tie, the driver ushers me inside. Here’s where things differ from the movie. It’s like walking onto the set of The Real World, the Dark House edition. The walls are paneled with wood, giving the place the illusion of a cabin, but the furnishings are anything but camplike. There’s a huge room with high ceilings. A wide-screen TV hangs on the wall, as does a life-size photo of the mastermind himself. “This is incredible,” I say, thinking aloud, noticing how the carpet looks to be at least five inches thick.
There’s a plateful of Nightmare Elf cookies on a table in the center of the room. I palm five of them and then look around for a check-in desk, stoked when I don’t see one, psyched that this doesn’t appear to be a B and B, after all. “Are we alone?” I ask.
“Two others have also arrived—Taylor and Natalie, according to my notes, but we can double-check with Midge.”
“Midge?”
“Midge Sarko from Hotel 9.” He looks around, as if trying to find her, peeking down a hallway, and looking into another room. “She’ll be looking after all of you this weekend.”
I feel the smile on my face widen. Midge is the psycho chambermaid who collects her victims’ fingers in the pockets of her apron.
“I’m not sure where she is, so why don’t I show you to your room.” He pulls a notepad from his pocket. “You’re in room nine.”
“Sweet deal,” I say, grabbing a couple more cookies.
He leads us through the living room, past a screwed-up ceramic rooster sitting by the fireplace. Its bright yellow eyes must be connected to a motion detector because it crows as I walk by,
almost making me jump. We head upstairs to room number nine. I step inside, completely jazzed by what I see. There’s a drafting table in the corner with an art caddy stocked with pencils, charcoals, and painting stuff. Lining the walls are illustrations from some of my favorite artists, like Haig Demarjian and Virgil Finlay, as well as a few pieces I don’t recognize. A poster of Captain Death Row, my favorite band, hangs over the bed. It’s an illustration of Captain Death—his smiling skull with a gap between his two front teeth—sporting a bandanna and sunglasses.
There are two beds in the room. I’m tempted to push them together so I can be like Bloody Bathrow, the lead guitarist of the Masochistic Underbellies. I saw Bloody’s place on a show called Crash Pads. He’s got a custom twenty-foot wide bed that he calls his kitty ride.
Beyond the beds, on the far wall, are a bunch of high-end guitars—a couple of them with metallic red and gold paint jobs. I’ve never tried to play, but maybe Blake thinks that I should. “There’s no way you’re getting rid of me after just two nights,” I say, thinking how jealous my dad would be.
“Shall I leave you to arrange your things?” the driver asks.
I’ve yet to catch his name and at this point it feels weird to ask. “Solid.” I flash him the peace sign and stick out my tongue, Gene Simmons–style. If only it were covered in faux blood.
Once he leaves, I set my sketchbook down on the table and flop back onto my new bed. It’s bigger than my naked mattress at home. Our whole apartment could probably fit into the living room and entryway of this place alone.
I stuff a couple of cookies into my mouth and look up at the ceiling. Another of Haig’s illustrations stares back down at me. It’s done in dark pastels: cherublike children sleeping peacefully in bed while a sharp-toothed demon with bleeding eyes hovers inches away. It’s way cool. And these cookies are way delicious. I think I’ve died and gone to Dark House heaven.
“JUST AROUND THIS BEND,” the driver says. “You must be anxious to stretch your legs.”
I’m anxious, period.
We turn off the main road onto a long dirt path, and finally I’m able to see a house in the distance. As we get closer, I spot a sign over the front door: WELCOME TO THE DARK HOUSE.
“Is this really the B and B?” I ask, feeling my stomach twist. There’s no parking lot, not one other car. “Is anyone else staying here?”
He gives me a curious look. “Don’t you recognize this place from the Nightmare Elf movies? This house was made to look like the real thing. Aren’t you a fan of Justin Blake’s work?”
“Of course,” I lie, the light finally dawning. The accommodations are movie themed.
I retrieve my bags from the back of the hearse, picturing my parents’ caskets—the cherry wood, the engraved crosses, the satin interior lining.
“Welcome to the Dark House!” a voice bellows, pulling me back to earth.
I turn to find a boy standing behind me. He’s probably my age, dressed in layers of gray and black. His wavy dark hair is held back with a bandanna, and there are silver hoops pierced through his eyebrow, nostril, and lip.
“Are you one of the winners?” I ask him.
“That depends…was Justin Blake born in Knoxville, Tennessee?”
“Maybe?”
“Errrh,” the boy lets out a game-show buzzer sound, denoting my wrong answer. “The correct response would’ve been yes. And if you were truly a Justin Blake fan you’d have known where he was born, as well as which schools he attended, and where he now lives. I’m Garth, by the way.” He extends his hand for a shake. His fingers are loaded with more sterling silver jewelry than I’ve ever seen in one place.
“I’m Ivy.” I shake his hand, fully aware that my palms are cold and clammy. “I guess you could say that I’m a fairly new fan of Blake’s.”
Garth closes the rear door of the hearse before moving around to the driver’s side window. “I can take things from here,” he tells the driver.
As if I couldn’t feel more uneasy.
Still, bags in hand, I follow him inside, relieved that it’s not creepy like the exterior. A wide open space is furnished with an L-shaped sofa, velvety chairs, and eclectic antiques—an artful blending of color, texture, and style. There’s a workstation by the far wall. Beyond it is a set of stairs, and rooms to the right and left. A large granite island separates the living room space from a state-of-the art kitchen so similar to the Spicy Italian Chef’s that I almost have to pinch myself. “Is that a real Pompeii oven?” I ask, pointing at it.
Garth sniffs in my direction, evidentally too distracted by my smell—the scent of my essential oils maybe—to answer.
“Has anyone else arrived yet?” I ask, my anxiety mounting by the moment.
“Two chicks I’ve yet to see—one went for a walk, so says Midge, resident watchdog; the other won’t open her door…at least not for me.” He grins, as if the idea of that makes him proud. He leans forward to sniff the side of my face. “Is that A-positive I smell on you?”
“A-positive?” I ask, wondering if that’s the name of a new perfume.
“Your blood,” he attempts to explain. “It’s type A, right?”
I don’t know how to respond—or if he’s even being serious.
“I’ll bet you clot really well, don’t you?” He winks. “No coagulation problems for you.”
“Welcome!” a woman says, coming down the stairs. She’s wearing a maid’s uniform—a black dress with a frilly bib apron over it—and there are little-girl ribbons in her hair. “You must be Ivy,” she says with a smile. “I was just turning down your bed. I know it’s a little early, but I figured you all might be tired. I see that you’ve met Garth.”
Garth appears distracted again. He moves away, down the hall, into another room, slamming the door behind him. The noise makes my insides jump.
“Everything okay?” the woman asks me. Her shimmery white hair matches her pearly teeth and the shadow on her lids. She reminds me of Southern Sally Cooks from the Food Channel.
I manage to nod, trying to get a grip.
“I’m Midge.” She smiles wider, exposing a shiny gold tooth. “You need anything, you just call on me. So what do you say…Are you ready to check out your room?”
We go upstairs and down a long hallway. The floorboards creak beneath my step. “Here we are,” she says, opening the door to room number two.
It’s larger than I expected, with two full beds. A giant, life-size cardboard cutout of Julia Child is positioned at the foot of one of them. “Wow,” I say, startled by the sight of Julia holding a raw chicken up by its legs.
“I take it that someone’s a cooking fan,” Midge says.
It’s true. I’ve been cooking pretty intensely since my parents were murdered. Not only is it a distraction, but it also makes me feel in control—wielding knives; the excuse to cut, slice, grate, chop.
“Ivy?” she asks.
I go to take a breath, but the air gets stuck in my chest, deep in my lungs. I sit down on the edge of the bed and silently count to ten, wondering what the hell I’m doing here and what I was even thinking. I touch the aromatherapy pendant around my neck, telling myself to relax. I unplug the cork and close my eyes, breathing in the cedarwood oil, reminding myself of its ability to induce tranquility.
“Do you need some water? Are you not feeling well?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, finally able to catch my breath.
“Well, as you can probably guess, the winners’ rooms are tailored to each of your individual tastes and interests, based on the personality profiles that you filled out.”
I gaze over at the other side of the room. It’s Barbie pink and suited for a dancer, with a ballet bar and a rack of dance shoes. A cursive sign over the mirror reads Dance with Me. “Is someone else sharing this room?” I ask, spotting a leopard
-print suitcase at the foot of the other bed.
“Yes. Taylor. You’ll be meeting her soon. She just went out for a walk. It’s such a glorious day, isn’t it?” Midge opens the drapes wide, letting in the light. It’s late afternoon, and the sun’s orange glow sinks down through the tree limbs, casting a strip of light over my bed, illuminating a copy of Deena Diddem’s latest book, Dare to Diddem. (Note: in Deena-speak, diddem means to throw together random ingredients from your fridge and pantry and end up with a tasty new dish.)
“Just a little gift from Mr. Blake,” Midge says. “I assume you’re familiar with Deena’s work?”
Deena Diddem, thirty-three years old, born in Toronto, the only child of Chuck and Nancy, climbed the culinary ladder, starting her career in the prepared foods section of her local supermarket. She’s now the Food Channel’s number one–rated chef.
I take the book and open to a flagged page. Not only has Deena signed the copy, but she’s also written me a note.
Dear Ivy,
A little bird told me that you’re a big fan of my show. I’m so flattered. Thank you so much!
I also heard that you love to cook. Who knows, maybe one day our paths will cross. In the meantime, keep on diddeming! Best of luck!
Love,
Deena
I run my fingers over her words.
“You like?” Midge asks.
“More like love.”
“Great.” She smiles. “Now if you don’t need anything else, I’ll leave you to settle in. You’ll notice the itinerary for the weekend on the night table.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching to take it, more excited about this weekend than I ever thought possible and more hopeful than ever before.
WEEKEND ITINERARY
FRIDAY
2–7 p.m.
Dark House Dreamers arrive
Welcome to the Dark House Page 3