“Parker?” I call, hearing the tremor in my voice.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, it’s another voice that cuts through the darkness: a child’s voice, whispering something, but it’s far too faint to hear.
“Hello?” I call out.
I strain to hear, able to make out the words victim and doomed. Should I get out of my cart? Try to find my way out? Is it possible that my cart went off the tracks?
A light clicks on over my head, making me squint. Finally, I can see.
An image of two boys waivers a few yards away. They look freakishly real. Dressed in tuxedos, the boys have slick black hair and stark white faces. Their eyes stare in my direction.
“Hello?” I repeat, but no sound comes out. There’s a sharpness inside my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Music begins to play—piano keys tap out the tune to “Three Blind Mice.” “Seven blind mice. Seven blind mice,” the boys begin to sing. “See how they run. See how they run. They think they can get away from me, but I have another plan, you see. Fall asleep in the Dark House and you will be, seven dead mice. Seven dead mice.”
They smile at the same time—dark red lips, bright white teeth—and begin walking toward me.
I pull on the handlebar, but it won’t budge, trapping me in place. “No!” I shout. My forehead’s sweating. My mouth turns dry.
I shimmy my hips, trying to work myself out. The handlebar’s pressed into my gut.
Tears slide down my face, over my lips. The taste of salt. The sensation of spinning. I’m going to be sick.
The boys are inches away now, their fingertips within reach. I lean back, reminding myself that they aren’t real, that this is supposed to be fun.
Breathe through your anxiety, Dr. Donna would say.
I call up some of her other favorite sayings too—even those that don’t quite fit—in an effort to stay grounded:
Remember that sometimes our minds play tricks. Sometimes what we think is real is colored by our imagination.
Allusion is temporary—our brain’s way of protecting itself and processing information.
You’ve been through a lot, Ivy. Post-traumatic stress disorder can do that; it can impair your ability to decipher what’s real from what isn’t.
The boys reach toward my neck. Tears continue down my cheeks.
“Should’ve gotten out when you had your chance,” they sing. “Now it’s time to do the dead man’s dance.” They begin to dance, kicking their feet right and left, their dark eyes staring through me.
Moments later, the engine roars beneath my train cart. I creep forward again, plunging through the hologram.
The cart climbs upward, finally soaring through a loop-de-loop. The tracks screech with every turn. Finally, I can hear the hollers and cheers of the others as I go barreling down another drop.
At the end of the ride.
Outside again.
I’m able to see.
It takes me a second to realize that I’m behind Parker, rather than in front of him. Frankie and Natalie’s carts are reversed as well.
“It’s about time,” Shayla says, shouting back at me. “We’ve been waiting, like, a kagillion hours for you to come out. Okay, so more like five minutes.” She giggles. “We all came out at different times.”
I seriously have no words. My breath’s gone. I can’t speak. It feels like I’ve been run over by a bus.
“So, what’s next?” Garth asks, already looking for the next thrill.
“Hold up,” Shayla says, standing up, hands on hips, clearly for the camera. “I mean, was that intense or what? A ride that goes underground? All of a sudden my train cart stopped and music began to play with a little girl’s voice singing about burying a body. I recognized the song, but I couldn’t remember if it was in Night Terrors II or III?”
“It was in number three,” Frankie says. “The song is called ‘Flatline’ by Klockwise Krystina.”
“It’s in the scene with the postal guy at Little Sally’s lemonade stand,” Garth adds.
“My cart stopped too,” Natalie says. “But only for a second, and there were so many sounds: a motor revving, wheels squeaking, the Nightmare Elf’s laugh, and that heavy metal music.”
“Not to mention your dead brother’s voice,” Garth says.
“Wait, what heavy metal music?” Parker asks. “All I heard was whispering. How about you?” He turns back to me.
I shake my head, unable to answer. My whole body’s sweating and yet I feel completely chilled.
“So, then after that first drop,” Shayla continues, “we must’ve all gone in different directions, and experienced different things.”
While the others seem intrigued by that idea, I’m overwhelmed by it. I mean, if I thought this was hard—separating for just a handful of seconds—how am I possibly going to face the nightmare of my life on my own?
AFTER THE TRAIN OF TERROR, we remain hanging out by the ride, comparing one another’s thrill. Ivy is way freaked out. Her eyes are red and she’s visibly trembling.
“What did you actually see in there?” I ask her.
“Two boys,” she says. “Dressed in tuxedos and singing a twisted version of ‘Three Blind Mice.’” She takes a deep breath and then proceeds to describe a couple of kids that sound all too familiar.
“Danny and Donnie Decker from Nightmare Elf II: Carson’s Return,” Garth says, all but drooling. “Did they do the dead man’s dance?”
Ivy bites her lip and gives me a blank stare, leading me to assume that she hasn’t seen the movie. I wonder if she’s seen any of Blake’s films. And, if not, what the hell is she doing here?
“Man, I love those Decker boys.” Garth smiles. “The scene where they sneak off from their cousin’s wedding and get lost in the woods…”
“Only to find the Dark House,” Shayla adds.
“Their nightmares about being poisoned by aliens were epic,” Garth says. “Anyway, sounds like I picked the wrong cart. All I got was a fan blowing at the back of my head and the Nightmare Elf’s evil giggle.”
“And all I got were some dancing shadows and the rattle of Lizzy Greer’s shopping cart,” Frankie says.
I look toward Natalie, who’s fallen silent, and take out my mental camera.
ANGLE ON NATALIE
She’s sitting on the ground, picking at the hair on her arm (just about the only skin that’s visible). The rest of her is covered in clothes (long dress, high boots, zip-up jacket, scarf, and oversize sunglasses).
NATALIE
(catching me spying on her)
Harris won’t stop talking now. He keeps saying that it isn’t safe here—that we should find a way out.
GARTH
(to Natalie)
Just curious, but do they wear straitjackets where you live?
Shayla cracks up in response.
FRANKIE
(rubbing his chin)
Hmm…I wonder if Dara would think a comment like that is funny.
Shayla’s face drops. Her eyes narrow. The tension in the air thickens.
SHAYLA
Why would you say something like that?
FRANKIE
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re fake.
SHAYLA
Excuse me?
She cocks her head, as though genuinely confused.
SHAYLA (CONT’D)
How am I fake?
FRANKIE
Are you kidding?
(grinning)
Where do I even begin?
SHAYLA
Give me one example.
FRANKIE
Well, for starters, you claim to feel bad about not being there for Dara, and for just playing along when other
s made fun of her. And yet it seems you’re just as insensitive now.
SHAYLA
Wait, where is all of this coming from? Did I do something that hurt you?
FRANKIE
Forget about me. I mean, seriously? You’re so wrapped up in the World of Shayla that you don’t even have a clue, do you? Think about it. Those nightmares you have, it’s like Dara’s haunting you, trying to subconsciously get it through your head.
SHAYLA
Get what through my head? If I hurt you, I didn’t intend to.
FRANKIE
Forget it.
(laughing, tossing his hands up)
I give up.
CUT TO:
While Shayla licks her superficial wounds, and Garth and Frankie saddle up for another ride on the Nightmare Elf’s Train of Terror, Ivy and I move to a bench. The temperature’s dropped and I can feel her trembling. I wrap my arm around her shoulder, unable to stop thinking about last night.
It was nice spending the night with her. I close my eyes, picturing us lying together in bed, her back pressed against my chest, the scent of chocolate in the air.
“Parker?” she asks, pulling me back to PRESENT DAY: EXT. AMUSEMENT PARK—DUSK.
She nods in the direction of the ride. Garth and Frankie have squished themselves into the fifth train cart—the same one that Ivy had.
“What the hell?” Frankie shouts out, smacking at the start button.
The ride doesn’t seem to be working now; nothing’s happening. And the lights in the Nightmare Elf’s eyes have gone out.
Ivy rests her head against my shoulder and reaches to take my hand. “Thanks for being so sweet to me.”
“It’s easy being sweet to you.”
“It’d probably be easier hanging out with the others—having fun like them.”
“I want to be with you,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze.
“Good.” She smiles. “Because I want to be with you, too.” And I have no idea if she means for the next five minutes or the next five years, but I don’t even care. Because we’re together right now.
“WHAT’S HAPPENING TO US?” Harris asks. “I feel like we’re drifting apart.”
“You’re just angry because I’m not doing what you say. I’m not your puppet, Harris.”
At first I thought it was a relief that he was talking to me again. But I have a strong suspicion that most of what Harris has been saying since his silent treatment has been a complete and utter lie, his way of getting back at me for leaving home in the first place. He doesn’t normally get nasty like this. It’s only happened a handful of times—and only when he’s feeling particularly strong about something—that he’ll punish me in the few ways he can. If it isn’t silence, it’s his incessant talking, especially when I’m asleep to intentionally keep me up. But I don’t hold it against him. He’s stuck on the other side, living in a sort of purgatory. Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t waiting for me. Other times I think that if I didn’t feel so alone, he’d leave me for good.
I don’t expect the others to understand any of this. I know that it sounds crazy. It goes against what we’ve all been conditioned to believe about death.
I tried to talk about my ability to speak with Harris in one of my sessions with Dr. Gilpin. But she responded by asking if I ever thought about hurting myself, which is basically shrink-speak for, “Do you fantasize about getting up close and personal with a noose and/or razor blade, plastic bag, exhaust pipe, coat hanger, railroad track, fill in the blank with your suicide method of choice.”
When I told her no, she prescribed me more pills, which I thought to be ironic considering that pills can also be ammo depending on how many you take in one sitting.
“Body lice?” Garth asks.
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s directing the question at me, because I’m scouring my arms, trying to count up all the remaining hairs. I wish I had a marker with me. I wish he would mind his own business.
Though, I’ll have to admit, it was kind of cool at brunch, when we were opening up about stuff, and when I told the group about Harris and my issue with mirrors. Cool…except for when Shayla said I’d be gorgeous beneath all my layers. Bullshit. I saw the expression on her face when she busted in on me in the bathroom door and saw my reflection. That was truth enough for me.
“Go to hell,” I tell Garth. Unfortunately, the words barely come out in a whisper and he’s already turned around. And I’ve lost count of arm hairs, which Harris finds hysterical.
I’ve tried to tell my parents that Harris talks to me, that he’s been growing up right along with me. Every birthday I have is his birthday, too. Every holiday celebrated, every family dinner, every therapy session and test I take at school.
He’s there. He doesn’t leave me. It’s as if his soul is alive inside of me.
Even his love of guitar. The first time I went to a concert—really an arts festival in town, where various bands came to perform—we heard this guy play an acoustic guitar. Harris got completely swept up in the beauty of it all—the notes, the rhythm, the emotion strumming from every chord. Shortly after, I asked my parents to get me an acoustic guitar. I took lessons for Harris. Kept the guitar tuned for Harris. Polished the cedarwood. Switched over to an electric when he asked. Practiced all my chords, memorized every song.
For Harris.
You’d think my parents would want to know that when our tiny bodies left the womb barely a minute apart—one of us crying and the other without breath—that we were still connected in spirit. But they won’t hear any of it.
Talking to them about Harris only scores me more sessions with more therapists, more people trying to fix me.
I know it breaks Harris’s heart. I know he’d do anything to be able to communicate with our parents using me as the go-between. Maybe then he’d be able to pass on. Maybe then his voice would fade.
The weird part? He doesn’t normally tell me things I don’t already know. Like, he’ll give me his opinions, but because he never leaves me, he never reports news to me—until coming to this amusement park, that is. Ever since we got here, it’s been one report after another from him about stuff he couldn’t possibly know.
“I’m telling you the truth,” Harris says. “It isn’t safe for you there.”
“I think you just want to ruin my time,” I tell him. “You’re angry, and you don’t know any other way to express that anger.”
“Sounds like someone’s been spending too much time with shrinks.”
“This ride is crap,” Frankie shouts, still trying to get the Train of Terror to work.
I get up and move to stand in front of Ivy, angled away from the video camera. I hate that we’re being filmed. When the Nightmare Elf dropped that bomb, I had to hold myself back from throwing up. But then I took a deep breath, pulled out a couple of hair strands, counted up all the water bottles behind the snack shack—thirty-three, plus twelve candy apples, sixteen bags of popcorn, forty boxes of Jujyfruits—and reminded myself that I still have choices.
I can choose not to watch the film.
It doesn’t have to ruin my experience here.
It’s obvious that Ivy’s ride on the terror train was far more terrifying than any of ours, and that it’s affected her in a major way. I can’t help feeling jealous of that. What I wouldn’t give to get distracted by fear, to have it sneak up and give me a rush.
“Hey, Natalie,” she says, looking up at me. Her brown eyes focus in and she cocks her head to the side. For just a moment I wonder if she can see straight through me all the way to Harris’s soul.
“It’s all going to work out fine,” I tell her, recycling a phrase that’s been used on me time and time again. I know the response doesn’t fit, and I know the words are shit, but it’s all I can think of at the moment.
<
br /> Her eyes narrow; she looks confused. “Okay, but didn’t you just say that we needed to get out of here?”
“Harris said that, not me,” I say, correcting her. “And I think he might’ve been lying. When he first says stuff to me, it sounds pretty convincing inside my head, but then, after I think about it, I have to question his intentions. Like, is he really being honest? Or just trying to ruin my experience?”
Ivy’s face scrunches, confused, and I’m not at all surprised. I sound like a flake, like my word can’t at all be trusted, when in fact it’s Harris’s word that’s up for debate.
“Let’s keep moving,” Frankie says, standing just behind us now. There’s a determined look on his face. “Time’s ticking and I want to go find my nightmare ride. I didn’t come all this way not to meet Blake.”
“I’ll second that,” Garth says.
“And I’ll third it,” Shayla agrees.
Surprisingly, Ivy follows along, and so does Parker. I fall in line too, shrouding my face as I move past the cameras, once again trying to block out Harris’s voice, despite how empty I feel in his silence.
WE MOVE THROUGH THE AMUSEMENT park, past all sorts of games of chance. Lights flash. Bells ring. Metal music blares.
“Step right up,” a deep voice calls out. It’s coming from a mannequin: Sebastian Slayer from Forest of Fright, dressed in his overalls and work boots, with a pickax slung over his shoulder. He stands in front of a bowling game with his famous toothy grin. “Hit the pin and win, win, win. Easy as squeezy. I love bein’ cheesy.”
“I love being cheesy too,” Garth says, giving the mannequin a thumbs-up.
“The voice is probably motion activated,” Parker says.
I’d have to agree. As soon as Shayla goes to give the mannequin a high five, we hear Sebastian’s snort of a laugh, making all of us laugh too.
Welcome to the Dark House Page 12