Welcome to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  8 p.m.

  Creepy comforts dinner—dining room

  9 p.m.

  Final Cut—theater

  9:30 p.m.

  Ghoulish desserts—dining room

  SATURDAY

  10 a.m.–2 p.m.

  A brunch to die for—dining room

  4 p.m.

  Hearse leaves for the set—lobby

  SUNDAY

  9 a.m.–noon

  Dead End Brunch for any remaining survivors—dining room

  2 p.m.

  Hearse returns Dark House survivors to the airport—lobby

  INT. ENTRYWAY, DARK HOUSE—DAY

  ANGLE ON

  WOMAN, 50-something, dressed up as Midge Sarko, one of Justin Blake’s most villainous characters; a chambermaid from Hotel 9, who kills her guests with household items (a turkey timer, a toilet bowl plunger, soap scum remover).

  MIDGE SARKO

  Welcome, you must be Parker.

  ME

  And you’re obviously Midge. Anyone ever tell you that you look just like Tina Maitland, the actor who played Midge in the movie?

  I move CLOSER on the POCKETS OF HER APRON. The curly handle of Midge’s signature paring knife sticks out—always ready to slice off a souvenir finger for her collection.

  MIDGE SARKO

  (winking)

  Tina’s just an actor. I’m the real McCoy.

  I lower my camera to shake her hand.

  MIDGE SARKO

  Sorry about your flight delay.

  ME

  What’s an extra two and a half hours on the tarmac, right?

  MIDGE SARKO

  Well, if it’s any consolation, it was an extra two and a half hours for your driver too. He was already on his way to get you by the time he learned of the delay.

  ME

  Bummer for him.

  MIDGE SARKO

  But lucky for us, because you’re here now. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.

  I follow Midge through the house, filming the whole way, as the infamous swish-swish sound of her ass fills the loud silence.

  “Excited?” she asks.

  “Are you kidding? I can hardly believe this is real.” I found out about this contest totally by chance doing research for my film class; it was posted on a fan site for Justin Blake, notable horror director/producer/screenwriter. The site was littered with photos of Blake, favorite movie clips, and tons of Nightmare Elf–inspired fan fiction. I’d forgotten what a cult following Blake has. I used to be a fan too, back when I first discovered horror and didn’t know much about the genre.

  Someone had posted an entry that read: “Want to meet Justin Blake and get a behind-the-scenes look at his new confidential film project? E-mail me: thenightmare.elf@gmail.com.”

  I sent an e-mail, figuring I wouldn’t hear back. But ten minutes later the contest guidelines appeared in my inbox. And eight months later, here I am.

  Midge stops in front of the door at the very end of the hall. “This is it.”

  I point my camera into the room just before mine, wondering where the other winners are, looking for something else interesting to shoot.

  ANGLE ON GIRL

  GIRL, 18-ish, sits on her bed, looking down at her hands. There’s a tiny bottle between her fingers, hanging from a silver chain.

  CLOSER ON GIRL’S FACE

  Brown eyes, heart-shaped face, long dark hair. She’s way too beautiful to be real.

  The girl looks back at me and I’m totally caught.

  “Hey,” I say, lowering my camera, suddenly feeling like a creep. “I was just shooting my arrival.”

  My explanation sucks, and she knows it too. Her forehead furrows as she looks toward my camera; it’s half-tucked behind my back, as if I could possibly hide it now.

  “Coming?” Midge asks me.

  I give the girl an awkward wave and then proceed to my room. A king-size bed greets me, the cover of which has dozens of hungry, open-mouthed eels scattered across the blue fabric.

  “I guess somebody has a sick sense of humor,” I say, zooming in with my camera, remembering the essay I submitted for the contest.

  “How’s that?” Midge asks, evidently clueless.

  A laptop station sits beyond the bed with one of those ergonomic chairs—one that probably cost more than my car.

  “Nice,” I say, moving farther inside.

  As if on cue, music starts to play. An old black-and-white movie cranks to life on a projector screen on the far wall. The quality of the film is grainy, but I’d recognize this scene anywhere: it’s nighttime, there’s a storm outside, and an unsuspecting couple falls victim to the classic stranded-car-by-the-side-of-the-road routine. “The Old Dark House,” I say. Circa 1932, if I’m remembering correctly from my History of Film course. “How fitting for the weekend.”

  “Should I assume that things are to your liking?” Midge asks.

  “Definitely.” I aim my camera at the bookshelves lining the room. They’re jammed with screenplays—what has to be at least five hundred of them.

  “You’ll notice that some of them have been signed,” Midge says, following my gaze.

  “Signed by whom?” I ask, noticing a copy of Citizen Kane, one of my favorite films of all time.

  “It varies.” She grabs a copy of The Shawshank Redemption off the shelf. “Sometimes the writer, sometimes the director. This one’s been signed by Morgan Freeman.”

  “No way.” I set my camera down to take a peek.

  “Mr. Blake keeps quite a collection.” She smiles wide, exposing a shiny gold tooth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some dinner preparations to attend to.”

  Once she leaves, I continue to check out the screenplays. Cameron Crowe. Alfred Hitchcock. Stanley Kubrick. John Hughes. It’s too good to be real. They don’t even know me here, so how can they trust that I won’t steal a few?

  I grab the script for The Silence of the Lambs and then turn to sit on my bed, startled to find that I’m not alone. The girl from next door is standing in my doorway.

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” Her eyes search my face, as if checking to make sure that I’m okay with her being here.

  “No bother at all.” I mean, seriously? Holy shit.

  “I’m Ivy.” Her straight dark hair hangs past her shoulders, over a long purple sundress that stretches to the floor.

  “Parker,” I say, trying my best not to stare.

  But she’s not even looking at me now. Her eyes are fixed on the projector screen—on the group of people taking refuge from the storm. They’re sitting around the dinner table at the Femm family estate. There’s a pounding on the door.

  Ivy’s eyes widen.

  “This is actually a pretty safe scene in the film,” I tell her.

  “Okay,” she says, even though she’s totally not okay. Her face is completely flushed.

  I go to shake her hand, but she’s holding her cell phone and we end up making a weird cell phone–hand sandwich.

  “Sorry,” she says. There’s an awkward smile on her face. “I need to call home, but I can’t get reception, and I’m hoping it’s just my phone’s issue.”

  “Not just your issue. There’s no reception here, at least that’s what the hearse guy said, but he also mentioned something about a landline in the living room downstairs.”

  “Thanks.” She smiles. There’s an irresistible spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “
I promised I’d call home when I arrived.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Boston, just north of it. And you?”

  “San Diego, just south of it.”

  “Wow,” she says. “We couldn’t be farther away from one another.”

  “Not for the next forty-eight hours we’re not.” It takes me a beat to realize what I’ve said—how cheesy it sounds—and my face flashes a thousand degrees of hotness.

  Ivy notices, and her smile shifts to a smirk. She must find my embarrassment amusing.

  “The last hearse is pulling up,” Midge calls. “It must be Shayla and Frankie, the final two Dark House Dreamers.”

  “Do you want to go down to meet them?” Ivy asks.

  Not especially, I think, wondering if she has a boyfriend. But I tell her I’d like to, anyway.

  MY ROOM AT THE DARK HOUSE has no mirrors. It was the very first detail I checked. Instead, it’s decorated with all-things Justin Blake: T-shirts, key chains, comic books, clapboards, the LEGO-constructed version of Hotel 9, and a collection of Pez dispensers of some of his most notorious characters.

  The suit Justin Blake wore to the Oscars in 1999 hangs on a hook, opposite my bed. I reach into one of the pockets and find an old gum wrapper. I sniff the silver packaging. It smells like berries. I run the tip of my tongue over the paper, finally stuffing the entire thing into my mouth. I chew the wrapper down, imagining the gum between his teeth, flipping over his tongue.

  I remove the jacket from the hook and slip it over my shoulders, picturing Justin Blake on the red carpet, waving to his fans. I wave too, moving to stand in front of a movie poster for Night Terrors II, imagining that I’m his date for the premiere.

  The far wall, behind a spare bed, is wallpapered with maps and postcards from around the world. I’m assuming there’s some Blake-flavored connection. There’s also a director’s chair, a rack of men’s shoes (size eleven), and an assortment of hairbrushes and combs (perhaps for Blake’s thick wavy hair), though I don’t spot any residual hair strands.

  I check out the chair. It’s been signed by Blake. I run my finger over a spot where the ink got smudged. I sit down, feeling overwhelmed and undeserving. Why does someone like me get to be so lucky, when someone like Harris got such a raw deal?

  I look toward the closet, wondering if there might be more clothing and collectibles inside. I hurry over and slide open the closet door.

  A full-length mirror stares back at me. It takes me a second to realize the reflection on the glass is my own—that it isn’t some Nightmare Elf monster.

  Was my reflection always this horrible? My face so long? My legs this short? My hands so big? Could my skin be any more pasty?

  Others have arrived. I can hear the sound of new voices, the clunking of suitcases, the trampling of feet up and down the stairs.

  I whip off the jacket, double-check the lock on the door to my room, and wedge a chair beneath the knob. Sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed, I pull off my wig. There’s an eight-strand wad of hair clenched between my fingertips. Who do I think I am to be wearing Justin Blake’s jacket? Or chewing his gum wrapper? Sitting in his chair? Thinking about trying on a pair of his shoes?

  Even Taylor could tell that I didn’t belong here. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked, on our hearse ride from the airport. She didn’t even know me. We’d sat on opposite ends of the plane, had only exchanged a few words since we’d landed, but still she could sense that something was off.

  “I thought this was what I wanted.” I turned away, faced the window, drew a heart on the glass in the steam from my breath. “No one knows I’m here.”

  “Not even your parents?” she asked.

  I could see her reflection in the window glass. Her dark blond hair was pulled back from her face, accentuating her wide green eyes, her pinched nose, and her perfectly pouted lips. Perfectly balanced features.

  “I just left,” I told her. Packed my bags, called a cab, snatched some money out of my mother’s stash in the oatmeal box, and bolted. My mother had told me to be ready by three, that we were going to see a new therapist. I said I’d be waiting. And I wasn’t lying: I was waiting. My heart pounding, I stood in my bedroom window, gazing out at the street, anticipating who would arrive first—either her or the taxi I called. The winner would dictate my destination. The taxi won, and off I went, on automatic pilot, to the airport, through the check-in, and then onto the plane, shocked that I’d done it. Defied them. Defied Harris. And in such a major way.

  “Wow,” Taylor said.

  I could tell from her tone that she didn’t know whether to be happy or sad for me. I didn’t know either. This trip wasn’t like a secret tattoo that I could hide. There was no turning back, no concealing what I’d done beneath layers of dark clothing.

  “We’re here,” the driver announced as we pulled up in front of the Dark House. “You two are the first to arrive.”

  Taylor tried to hide her smile with a nibble of her lip. I hated that I was spoiling her excitement. I wanted to be excited too.

  Hours later, sitting on the floor, I wonder if Taylor has turned up; it seems she wandered off. Earlier, Midge forced her way into my room to see if Taylor might be hiding somewhere.

  I rock back and forth, watching the room in anticipation, as if it might spring to life at any moment—as if I’m in the audience, waiting for the movie of my life to start. I yank the eight-strand wad of hair. The action feeds my blood, soothes my nerves, slows the fleeting thoughts through my head.

  My hair strands stick in the creases of my fingers. I sprinkle them over the rug, imagining them like seeds that might one day grow into something healthy.

  ONCE THE PLANE LANDS, the old guy sitting next to me spills his pill-meds all over the floor. I should ignore it, but I help him out, exiting the plane a good ten minutes after everybody else.

  The silver lining? I’m picked up by a Cadillac hearse. The platinum lining? There’s a hot girl sitting inside it.

  “Hey,” I say, joining her in the backseat.

  There’s a huge-ass smile on her face, like we’re long lost friends and she’s been waiting to see me all day. “Hey back at you.”

  She’s cute—really cute with insanely bright golden-brown eyes; they’re framed behind a pair of square black glasses.

  “I’m Shayla,” she says, sticking her hand out for a shake. “Shay, for short.”

  “Frankie,” I say, shaking her hand. “No shortening required.”

  “Too funny.” She laughs, despite the lameness of the joke. “Were you on the flight from JFK, because I totally didn’t see you? Where are you from…and cool bracelet, by the way. Is that a Celtic knot?”

  “Yes. Just south of Richmond. And the symbol for infinity, actually.”

  “As in Justin Blake forever?” She giggles.

  “Something like that.” I smile. She’s so unbelievably perky.

  We ride to the place where we’re staying, with Shayla chattering on the whole way about art, politics, books she’s read, places she’s traveled. I try to listen to most of it, but I’m so busy anticipating what it’ll be like to meet Justin Blake—how I should act and what I should say—that it’s hard to keep up.

  Finally we pull up in front of the Dark House B and B. Some lady dressed up as Midge Sarko greets us in the entryway.

  “It is so nice to meet you,” Shayla says, jumping in front of me to shake the woman’s hand. “What an incredible opportunity this is.”

  Other winners are already here. A guy comes forward to shake our hands. “Hey,” he says. “I’m Parker.”

  I introduce myself and Shayla—not that Shayla needs any introduction. She’s already pumping Parker for info, asking him where he’s from and when he got here, tossing me to the side. “This weekend is going to be so super fun,” she
tells him.

  A guy layered in dark clothes and silver jewelry is sitting on a couch. He looks up from his sketchpad as I approach. “Hey, man,” he says. “I’m Garth Vader.”

  “As in Luke Skywalker’s father?”

  “Garth with a G,” he says, correcting me, as if the distinction is even worth it. “My dad’s a huge Star Wars fan.”

  “I’m Frankie,” I say, extending my hand for a shake. “Where are you from…besides the dark side, that is?”

  “Delaware,” he says, immune to the joke. He sniffs his fingers after shaking my hand. “O-positive, right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a gift…my ability to sniff out blood type. You’re O-positive, aren’t you?”

  “Cool trick,” I say, unfazed to find someone like him here—someone who wears his inner freak on his sleeve. Still, as psycho as he seems, he’s right about my blood type.

  I peek at his sketchpad. Is it any wonder that he’s doing a color sketch of a two-headed ghoul? A mixture of blood and puke spews out of the double mouths, pouring down like rain. The guy may be a walking cliché, but he’s actually pretty talented.

  “Hey, there,” Shayla says, making a beeline in Garth’s direction. Clearly this girl has a social agenda. She plops down beside him. “So, let’s hear it: What’s your story? Who are you and what was your worst-ever nightmare? Holy yum fest,” she says, before he can answer anything. The girl is a complete spaz. There’s a plateful of Nightmare Elf cookies on the table in front of them. “No wonder it smells like a bakery in here.” She takes one, proceeding to tell Garth that she’s from the West Village and that the bakery near her apartment is “out-of-this-world fabu-licious.”