I turn back to the door. The light beams shine over the words It’s too late to turn back now, scribbled in crayon.
I go for the knob, but it’s locked. I jiggle it back and forth, telling myself not to panic—that this is obviously just a joke. “Let me out!” I shout, pounding on the door.
I search the walls—what’s visible in the red light—looking for a key or some trigger that might open the door.
A heart-patterned oven mitt is there. It hangs on a hook, reminding me of Dara. I slam my back against the wall, able to picture her hanging from the ceiling.
Her body wavers. Her eyes snap open. She glares at me, pointing her dark blue finger. “There’s no way out,” she says.
I shake my head. Beads of sweat form at my brow.
“You weren’t there for me,” Dara whispers. “And so now you’ll pay.”
I close my eyes, then look away, but still her image is there. Her bluish face, her chalky lips, the telephone wire around her neck, and those heart-patterned socks.
I pound on the door again. I kick it, smack it, throw my weight against it.
Finally it opens.
Frankie’s there, holding a bouquet of plastic machetes. “Holy shit,” he says at the sight of me. He drops the machetes and I crumble into his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, stroking my back. “I saw you go in there and thought it’d be funny.” He smells like a gas station.
Still, I press my nose against his shoulder and suck up all my tears. “I guess you got your payback.”
“We’ll call it even, okay?” He takes a step back to check my face. “Any chance dessert will make it better? We’re done looking for Midge—for now anyway. All we’re finding are props.” He picks up one of the machetes and pretends to jab it in his eye. “Let’s go have some lemon-filled eyeballs and intestine-layer cake.”
“Sounds good,” I say, taking one last peek into the closet. The heart-patterned oven mitt dangles in the red light.
In the dining room we find a platter of brains, a tray of mucous macaroons, two dozen maggot-infested cupcakes, and a plate of creamy fingers. Everything’s spread out over the table, surrounding a blood-chocolate fondue fountain.
“Seriously, how did they do that?” Frankie asks, focused on the fountain.
“With red and blue food coloring mixed in,” Garth says, dipping a strawberry into the red stream. “I must say, however, this particular mixture is pretty impressive—a sophisticated consistency, made possible only with just the right amount of corn syrup.” He takes a bite of his strawberry, letting the bloodred chocolate saturate his teeth.
“Gross.” Ivy squeals.
“What’s happenin’, hot stuff?” Garth says, trying to sound like Long Duk Dong from Sixteen Candles, one of the greatest films ever. He waggles his tongue, exposing a barbell pierced through the center.
I let out a laugh—so loud that a weird hiccupping sound shoots out of my mouth. Garth laughs at it—at me. And we both end up doubled over as the others look on with blank faces, which just makes me laugh more.
“If Midge is supposedly missing,” Frankie says, popping a lemon eyeball, “then where did all of these desserts come from? Who set up the table while she was busy disappearing?”
“Maybe she had time to set it up before she disappeared,” Parker says. “It’s all part of the plan, I’m sure.”
“What plan?” Ivy asks.
“A plan in which, one by one, we all start to go missing.” Garth rubs his palms together and lets out a maniacal laugh.
Meanwhile, Natalie starts muttering to herself again. She obviously has way bigger problems than just a humdrum case of homesickness.
“Does your imaginary friend want some brain cake?” Garth asks her.
I stifle a giggle by feeding a chocolate worm into my mouth, happy that Garth’s here. He’s in this purely for the fun factor, which helps distract me from thoughts about Dara. “So, what was your nightmare?” I ask him.
He ladles some chocolate syrup into a bowl; it looks like blood soup. “I wrote about the nightmares I had when I was seven—after my dad had dared me to watch Nightmare Elf. I didn’t want to, but he teased me into it.”
“Weren’t you scared to watch it?” Ivy asks.
“Sure, but with a name like Garth Vader, there really isn’t much of a choice in life. You either learn to like all things scary or you end up miserable. If you’re smart, you pick the first one.”
“And your mom was okay with you watching it?” Ivy continues.
“My mom’s at work most of the time. My dad’s on disability for a bad back.”
“Is she into horror too?” Parker asks.
“Negative, just like her B-type blood,” Garth says. “If my mom had it her way, my dad would’ve dropped dead years ago, preferably from a heart attack following one of his twisted tricks.”
“What kind of tricks?” I ask.
“Stupid stuff,” he says, dodging the question like darts. “Anyway, my nightmare was of the typical horror-movie variety …getting lost in the woods, finding the Dark House, being chased down a long alleyway with villainous ghouls stalking after me.”
“No big deal, then,” Parker smirks.
“No big deal anymore,” Garth says to clarify.
I study his face, wondering if his story is entirely true, or if there might be something more vulnerable beneath his seemingly resilient exterior—all his layers of dark, dark gray. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it more…” I say, suddenly eager to learn from him—to know how something that had caused him nightmares could wind up being something that he could fully embrace.
“Talk?” he asks, confusion on his face.
I nod, thinking about Dara. She’d wanted to talk too. If only I’d been more willing to listen.
SHAYLA’S OFFER TO TALK TOTALLY takes me off guard and I don’t know what to say. What I do know is that I don’t want her to see me like that—like someone who needs to talk and gets bothered by crap, and has to work out all his feelings.
Just because horror was initially forced on me doesn’t mean that I didn’t learn to love it, or that I need my head shrunk, or that people should feel sorry for me.
So, maybe my dad’s a little messed up. Maybe he shouldn’t have shown those movies to a seven-year-old, or made life for my brothers and me like a real-life horror: locking us in the basement for fun, putting red food dye in our milk, leaving us home alone so that he could prey on us like an intruder, waking us in the middle of the night made-up like a zombie or demon.
Embracing horror was a means of survival, and so far it’s served me well.
After one more dip in the chocolate fountain, I suggest we head outside to continue our search for Midge. There are seven flashlights lined up on a shelf by the door. Clearly, Midge wants us to go outside. She also wants to remind us of Taylor’s absence.
I open the door. It’s perfectly black outside. Aside from a spotlight positioned over the door, the area is shrouded by trees; they even block out the moon. I click on my flashlight and lead the way, remembering that Tommy Tucker’s nightmare chamber was several yards into the woods, but still visible through the trees. I walk away from the house, aiming the beam into the trees, trying to find a path that might lead to the chamber.
“Midge!” I call out into the night, feeling the rush of my adrenaline.
“Are you looking for the shed?” Parker asks. “And, if so, wasn’t it on the other side of the house?”
“I know what I’m doing.” A slight exaggeration.
“Are you sure about that?” Parker asks. “Or is the Force not quite with you?”
I let the joke slide off my back, too busy trying to eavesdrop on Shayla and Frankie. They’re talking just behind me—something about Frankie’s boy band back
home. I can’t tell if she likes him or if she’s simply one of those girls who likes everyone and no one at the same time—who makes people think they actually mean something to her.
Finally I find a dirt pathway that leads into the forest. “Bingo,” I say, pointing my flashlight far up the path, into the woods. But still I don’t see the shed.
A few yards down the path, a rustling in the brush to the side of us sends a wave of screeches through the group. I aim my flashlight in that direction, but the rustling travels to the other side, producing more noises.
Whoosh.
Creak.
Snap.
I stop short to listen, but all I can hear is the sound of Frankie cracking up behind me. I turn to look at him just as he throws a rock into the brush, creating the source of the sounds. This guy is a total comedian.
“Midge,” I sing. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Ivy lets out a shriek. I pause and turn back again, but it’s just more of her paranoia. Close behind her, Natalie’s busy talking to herself, but she’s smiling all the while, so apparently it’s a good conversation. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole psycho-babbling bit of hers isn’t fake—if she isn’t trying to act like a Justin Blake–inspired character in hopes of landing herself a starring role in one of his future projects.
The back side of the shed comes into view. I turn to the others, angling my flashlight under my chin to light my face as I speak. “Are you prepared to enter Tommy Tucker’s nightmare chamber?” I ask, using a throaty voice.
“Let me in, let me in!” Shayla cheers.
“Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.” I move around to the front of the shed, amazed at how authentic it looks—all boarded up and with a busted padlock on the handle, just like the real thing.
“Midge?” I call. “Are you in there?” I open the door and aim my flashlight inside as Ivy lets out a gasp.
There’s a rocking chair set in the middle of the space. Seated on it, with its gloved hands neatly folded, is the Nightmare Elf doll. Between its legs is a single candle, positioned on a holder. Its flame flickers against the walls, casting a light on all of little Tommy Tucker’s etchings.
“Holy shit,” Frankie says.
My sentiments exactly.
With a permanent smile and bright golden hair, the Nightmare Elf is dressed in a tattered red suit, a Santa-like hat, and boots that curl up at the toe—exactly like the one in the movie. It’s missing one eye from when Tommy plucked it out using a fork, just as Carson ordered.
“It has a lazy eyelid,” Frankie says, squatting down for a better look. “Just like the real deal.”
I nod, picturing little Tommy Tucker dragging the elf through the dirt, tying a leash around its neck, and throwing it up in the air.
Beneath the chair is a shiny black music box, just like the one that Tommy had brought along on his camping trip, the one he used to store his treasures. I open it up, shining my flashlight on Tommy’s Silly Putty egg, remembering how he used the putty to make bubbles that snap.
“Will you play with me?” a high-pitched voice squeaks, nearly knocking me on my ass. I take a step back.
Ivy lets out another shriek.
It takes me a second before I realize that the voice was Frankie’s. He’s almost teary eyed from laughing so hard.
“Asshole,” I say, though I now have a newfound respect for the guy.
I turn the crank on the music box and a familiar melody begins to play.
“‘I’m a Little Teapot,’” Shayla says.
But the words are different. A little kid’s voice sings them: “I’m the Nightmare Elf, oh yes siree. Here’s my hefty sack, ho, ha, hee hee. Fall asleep tonight and you will see. I’ll take your nightmares and make them be.”
“Look,” Shayla says, holding out her arm. She angles her flashlight over the goose bumps on her skin.
Frankie does the same, comparing the size of his goose bumps to hers.
“Let’s play it again,” Natalie says, taking the box from me.
I turn to check out the etchings. Words line the walls—Die!, Torture!, Pain!—as do sketches of ghouls, giant rats, and people with missing eyes and serpent tongues. “T. T.,” I say, pointing out little Tommy Tucker’s initials. Below his initials is a picture of a wolf. I run my fingers over the image, imagining that it’s real, that Tommy once existed, and that this doll truly belonged to him.
There’s a picture of the Nightmare Elf holding his sack of nightmares. A hand reaches out from the bulge in the sack, as though someone’s trapped inside it, desperate to get out. The words above it read: There’s no escape.
“So cool,” I say, completely inspired.
“Except it isn’t true.” Parker’s reading over my shoulder. “You escape your nightmares when you wake up.”
“Sometimes,” Ivy tells him. “And sometimes they haunt you even when you’re awake.”
“Care to share?” I ask, curious to know what she wrote about in her contest submission.
“Check this out,” Parker says, nodding to the wall by the door.
Be careful what you dream is etched into the wood. Below it is a collage of our names and seven pictures: a snake, an ax, a bear, a tombstone, a broken mirror, a noose, and a pair of demon eyes.
“Anybody want to claim their pain?” I ask.
“The gravestone,” Frankie says, pointing out the image at the very bottom. “That’s obviously for my nightmare.”
“These images are obviously from all of our nightmares,” Ivy says.
“Which one is yours?” I ask her.
Ivy looks away, toward the door. She’s obviously a tease too.
Parker points to the snake. “This one’s mine,” he says, coming to Ivy’s rescue.
“The broken mirror is mine,” Natalie says.
“Mine’s the noose,” Shayla mutters, turning away from it.
“And mine is the ax,” I tell them. “Leaving only the bear and the eyes. One must be Taylor’s, and the other must be…” I glance at Ivy, but she refuses to look at me. “I’ll bet my right nut your dream involves devil eyes. Am I right?”
“Leave her alone,” Parker says.
“According to the mastermind, there’s no escaping your nightmare,” I continue, talking toward the top of Ivy’s head. “No escaping those eyes.” I inhale the musty air, reminiscent of the basement back home, wondering how the theme of no escape will play out this weekend.
“I FREAKED AGAIN.”
Back in my room, I sit on my bed, nursing a fresh cup of chamomile tea with an extra shot of lemon balm. Parker sits beside me.
“And just so you know,” I continue, “I’ll probably freak at least a hundred more times on this trip. But I’m hoping that each instance of freakishness will feel progressively less intense.”
“Do you mind if we rewind a bit?” he asks. “You never told me why you entered the contest,” he says. “Since you’re not a Blake fan, I mean.”
I bite my lip and gaze into his face. A lock of hair has fallen over his eye. I’d give anything to touch it.
“Trick question?” he asks.
Part of me wants to tell him the truth about my past. But I’m also afraid of what he’ll think after I do. What will he think of someone who fears everyday that her parents’ killer is going to come back for her?
“I thought it might look good on my college application,” I lie.
“And where are you going to college?”
“Le Cordon Bleu. It’s a culinary school in Paris.”
“And the people at Le Cordon Bleu really give a crap about winning a contest to go see a horror flick?”
I feel my face turn red.
“Makes complete sense.” He nods when I don’t say anything. “I mean, I c
an totally see how that would rank right up there with participating in the French club or feeding the hungry at a soup kitchen. Now that I think about it, I seem to remember a special ‘Contests Entered’ section on my college applications—only with all the turkey-coloring contests I entered as a kid, and the Fourth of July toasted marshmallow–eating contests, I couldn’t fit them all.”
“Okay.” I smirk. “You got me.”
“Have I?” He bumps his shoulder against mine. The gesture sends a wave of tea over the rim of my mug, spilling into my lap. “Crap, I’m so sorry.” He gets up to fetch a rag, just as Shayla taps on the door and comes in.
“More fat and sugar?” she asks, holding a plateful of desserts from downstairs.
Parker looks back at me, straight-faced, as if less than jazzed about Shayla’s impromptu visit.
“Does Natalie want to join us?” I ask, both relieved and disappointed that she’s interrupted my moment with Parker.
“Natalie’s holed up in our bathroom right now,” Shayla says.
“Because she isn’t feeling well?” I ask.
“Who knows.” Shayla inserts herself between Parker and me on the bed—the Fluffernutter to our two pieces of bread. “I tried to bribe her with treats, but she says she wants to be alone. She even took her pillow and a blanket in there.”
I’m pretty sure that Natalie pulls out her own hair. I almost caught her doing it earlier, but then she moved her hand away before I could fully see. I was never into hair pulling, but after the incident with my parents I started pinching—the skin on my kneecap, mostly, until it was purple, and black, and blue, and yellow.
A rainbow of dysfunction.
My way of trying to cope.
According to Dr. Donna, pinching was my way of transferring my pain and anxiety. If that theory holds true, the method never worked. Because as hard as I may’ve tried to transfer my pain, I always ended up with more colors, rather than less stress.
Welcome to the Dark House Page 8