Welcome to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  Garth steps up to try a game called Dead Ringer, based on a game that I’ve seen at practically every carnival I’ve ever been to. Except, instead of trying to toss a plastic ring around a glass bottle, you need to throw a miniature noose around the neck of a Barbie doll.

  There’s got to be at least two hundred Barbies lined up: Biker Barbie, Studious Brunette, Zombie Barbie, Princess Barbie-with-a-unicorn-on-her-head…

  Ivy, Natalie, and Parker try the game out too, all of them grabbing nooses and tossing them into the sea of Barbie hell. Shayla, on the other hand, retreats back, her face all pouty like someone just died. Still, she makes sure to angle herself at the camera so the world can see just how tormented she is.

  “My money’s on Hula Girl,” Garth says, trying to hook the Barbie that’s wearing the floral lei and grass skirt. He doesn’t succeed on the first try, nor does he succeed on the fifth, but that doesn’t stop him from snagging himself a plastic sword from behind the counter as his prize.

  We keep exploring, stopping for a few rounds of Forest of Fright Skee-Ball (the faces of the Targo triplets are on all of the balls), and a game of Nightmare Elf on the Shelf, where you have to knock Nightmare Elf dolls off a fireplace mantel, using Christmas stockings filled with sand.

  “Step right up,” Slayer says. “Hit the pin and win, win, win. Easy as squeezy. I love bein’ cheesy.”

  “I really want to get to my ride,” I say.

  Shayla quickens her pace to catch up to me. “You’re so brave,” she tells me, trying to suck up, as if I didn’t just tell her off. “I’m such a wimp when it comes to face-to-face stuff—stuff outside the safety of a movie or TV screen, I mean. And, let’s face it, that’s, like, the worst possible quality for someone who’s supposed to face her biggest nightmare, right? You totally should’ve seen me at La Bocca della Verità.”

  “Bocci dell what?” I ask.

  “La Bocca della Verità,” she says again, carefully enunciating every syllable. “You know, the Mouth of Truth.” She looks at me with a concerned expression, like I’m supposed to have a clue or give a shit. “You put your arm in the mouth—the sculpture of a mouth, that is—and it bites off the hands of liars. It’s in Rome,” she says, still trying to jog my memory, like I’ve ever been out of the country. “In the church of Santa Maria.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I say. She’s so people-dumb it’s scary.

  Finally, we reach the back end of the park. I look up at the gate; it’s at least thirty or forty feet high. There are three video cameras pointed down at us from the network of barbed wire. While Natalie turns away from them, Garth steps right out in front.

  “Who’ll give me fifty bucks to flash?” he asks.

  “How about fifty cents?” I offer.

  “This ass has star potential.” Garth undoes his pants, letting them fall to his ankles; evidently it was never a question of money. He pulls down his boxers, bends over, and shakes his hairy ass.

  “Eww!” Ivy shouts.

  Shayla, on the other hand, thinks it’s the funniest thing ever. “Should I flash too?” she asks.

  “Definitely,” Garth says, drawing up his pants.

  But she hops away, the tease that she is, and leads us farther into the park.

  We stop to go on the Eureka Shrieker, which is sort of like the Round Up, only faster, with Eureka’s screaming voice in the background, shrieking over the sound of a chain saw.

  “That was crazy,” Ivy says, coming out of the ride, her hand clenched over her heart. But I also catch a glimpse of a smile, so I think she kind of enjoyed it.

  Meanwhile, Natalie’s got a huge grin on her face, no longer talking to herself or picking at her arm hair. And Parker’s explaining to Ivy who Pudgy the Clown is (basically that Pudgy’s the product of Eureka Dash’s nightmares).

  “And Eureka Dash?” Ivy asks.

  Seriously, is this chick for real?

  Shayla continues to lead the way, already onto the next ride. From the outside, Hotel 9 appears to be a haunted house. A sign at the entrance asks, ARE YOU READY TO CHECK OUT?, which is basically Blake-speak for “Are you ready to die?”

  We enter through a cobweb-laden door, only to discover that it isn’t a haunted house at all. A giant open area has been decorated to look like the lobby of Hotel 9, in all its Gothic glory: red couches, dark walls, gold accents, and fancy mahogany furniture.

  “Sweet!” Garth says.

  My sentiments exactly. There are seven chair swings that hang suspended from the ceiling. We each take a seat, and the swings spin in a circle as we fly around the room.

  Shayla, Garth, and Natalie extend their arms outward, making like they’re birds or planes. Clips from Hotel 9 begin to play all around us—guests screaming, dishes breaking, the chandelier crashing down in the center of the lobby as Sidney Scarcella cuts the chain with a machete.

  It’s absolutely epic.

  “Someone looks a little green,” I say, noticing Garth’s sour expression as we exit the ride.

  “Well if I need to barf, I’ll be sure to do it on your face,” he says. “Not that anyone would notice.”

  “That’s actually pretty funny,” I tell him, way too pumped to get pissed.

  We pass by a fun house and then stop in front of a ride called the Wild Thing. There’s a huge stuffed grizzly standing in front of it—the kind you see at lodges in the middle of nowhere.

  “The bear,” Garth says, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Care to claim your pain, now?” He looks at Ivy.

  “It isn’t mine,” she says.

  “Ho hum, it must be Taylor’s.” He sighs.

  The bear towers over me by at least three feet. Its mouth is wide open, exposing sharp yellow teeth and a thick gray tongue. With its arms raised, it’s mid-growl, as if ready to pounce.

  I reach out to touch its fur and it lets out a loud, hungry roar.

  “Holy shit!” I yell, jumping back.

  Ivy yells out too. But the others laugh, including Natalie, who also lets out a Sebastian Slayer–worthy snort.

  I look beyond the bear, at the ride. There’s a tent set up, as well as a campfire, and some lawn chairs. Behind the tent, there’s a network of trees and brush, like a forest. A trail cuts through it, reminding me of the path we took behind the Dark House, when we went to look for Midge.

  Garth pokes his toy sword into the grizzly’s gigantic stomach. The bear lets out another roar, but Garth doesn’t so much as flinch.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Parker says.

  “Not before we do the Wild Thing.” Garth starts singing, swaying his hips, and flailing his arms. He looks like he’s having a seizure.

  “Ride your own wild thing,” I tell him. “This one isn’t yours.”

  “Well, aren’t you a fun poker,” he says, pointing the tip of the sword into my bicep—again, and again, and again. I’m tempted to tear it out of his hands, but I clench my teeth and turn away, refusing to let him get to me. We move past the Wild Thing ride and make a sharp turn. Finally, I see my nightmare. I’d recognize it anywhere.

  Graveyard Dig is set back from the other rides, beyond an iron gate. There are headstones lined up in rows. Some look ancient, tilted to one side or leaning slightly backward. Others are in the shape of a cross.

  There’s a king-size bed in the middle of the cemetery. There’s also a dresser, a night table, and a closet. It’s supposed to be my parents’ room.

  “Is this your ride?” Shayla asks.

  I nod, feeling the color drain from my face.

  “Batter up,” Garth says. He’s absolutely loving this.

  Admittedly, I’m dreading it. Standing just outside the gate, I spot a rusty mailbox beside the lock. I open the lid. The action sets off a voice—one that’s slow and deep, and laced with static an
d clicking: “Welcome, Mr. Rice. Are you ready to dig?”

  Chills ripple down my back.

  Garth scoots down to check out the box, pressing his ear against the side.

  “Mr. Rice?” the voice asks. “Are you ready to dig?”

  “You bet,” I say, trying my best to sound brave.

  “Use the key inside this mailbox to unlock the gate and your closet door,” the voice continues. “Take the flashlight, too. You’ll need it.”

  “Are you okay to do this?” Shayla asks me.

  I reach inside the mailbox for the key and the flashlight. “Sure,” I say, looking out at the graveyard and thinking of that day, thirteen years ago, when I saw my uncle buried. I click on the flashlight, my fingers jittery.

  “Good luck,” Parker says.

  I unlock the gate and close it up behind me. It locks automatically with a deep clink.

  Shayla stares at me through the bars. “It’ll be over before you know it.” She gives me a thumbs-up and flashes me a silly smile, still trying to get back on my good side.

  “Just do me a favor,” I tell her. “If I don’t come out in fifteen minutes, come and get me, okay?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course, you’ll come out.”

  “Just promise me,” I say, remembering how I passed out at Uncle Pete’s burial. If I passed out inside this ride, who knows when I’d come to.

  “I promise.” She smiles, beaming like it’s her birthday.

  I turn away so she won’t see my lip twitch any more than she already has, and then I head straight toward the closet.

  Spotlights shine over the cemetery, highlighting some writing on the bed. A line’s been spray-painted down the center of the mattress. On one side of it, it reads, Mommy?

  “You’re doing great,” Shayla says.

  I trip over something. A rock slab. I swipe the fog from in front of my eyes, but more fog fills the space. I navigate my way through it, using the flashlight to show the way. Finally, I find the closet door. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I have to use both hands to unlock and open it.

  I step inside. The door swings shut behind me. If I thought it was dark before, it’s nothing compared to now. I try the knob; it’s locked. I shine my flashlight around the perimeter of the space. The room is about the size of a small bathroom—much bigger than my parents’ actual closet—but the floor is covered in carpet, just like the real deal.

  In the corner, on the floor, sitting beside a shovel, a phone rings. I pick up the receiver, noticing an extra-long coil cord; it drags against the carpet. “Hello?”

  “Good evening, Frankie.” A male voice.

  “Who is this?” I wait a couple of seconds before trying the knob again. It twists left and right, but I can’t get the door to open.

  I move over to the phone base and push the lever to hang up, trying to get a dial tone. The phone is dead.

  I point my flashlight at the wire; the beam shakes with the tremble of my hand. The wire’s stuck in a wall crack. I give the wire a tug, only to find that the end’s been severed. This isn’t an actual working phone. There’s no real outlet. Nothing’s plugged in.

  The phone rings again. Four rings, five.

  I pick it up, able to hear breathing—and suddenly I feel stupid. I mean, why am I bothering with the phone? And yet, I know his voice came from the receiver. I look at the earpiece. At the same moment, I hear laughter—it’s coming from the receiver again, only this time it sounds farther away.

  I hurl the phone at the wall, unable to think straight. The phone smashes. I position the flashlight on the ground, angled in my direction so that I can see. And then I grab the shovel, determined to bust the door open. I wedge the blade into the door crack, beside the knob. The wood makes a creaking sound, but everything remains intact. I try again, jamming the blade deeper, but still nothing gives.

  After several more attempts at trying to break the lock, I toss the shovel to the ground. My flashlight beam shines over the blade.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  I look down at the rug, remembering how, in my nightmare, I raked my fingers over the carpet, thinking that it was my uncle’s plot site, convinced that there was a phone ringing inside his casket…my mother calling at last.

  On hands and knees, I scour the rug in search of a seam, feeling my fingertips burn from the friction. At last, I find a spot where the rug’s been cut. I peel away a corner section. Beneath it, there’s a two-feet-by-two-feet wooden panel on the floor with a shallow metal handle. I pull up on the handle, feeling a surge of excitement.

  A ladder leads underground. I grab the shovel and flashlight and begin climbing down, my adrenaline peaked. It’s dark at the bottom, but there are spotlights placed about, helping me to see.

  I’m in a giant underground room, dug out of the dirt—like an abandoned mine. There’s a wooden frame with strapping overhead and along the walls, holding the space together, so it doesn’t come caving in.

  There are headstones lined up in rows with a single red rose placed at each site. Tarantula-shaped trees border the graveyard, just as I described in my essay.

  I look beyond everything, trying to assess how extensive the space is—if there might be a network of underground tunnels. But the lighting only goes to the edge of the cemetery. Beyond that is total darkness.

  A blue teddy bear with no mouth and only one eye—just like the one I had when I was five—sits propped against a headstone. I grab it and make my way toward the back row, where there’s a gaping hole in the ground.

  There are two headstones behind the hole—the only ones without roses. One of them reads PETER RICE, my uncle’s name. The other stone has a skull etched into the surface. There’s writing beneath the skull, only it’s too small to see from this angle. I move closer and scoot down, able to see: FRANKIE RICE engraved in the granite. Below my name is my date of birth—followed by today’s date.

  The sight of it freaks me out.

  I look down into the hole. It’s at least five feet deep and eight feet long and wide. A phone rings, again. It’s coming from inside the hole—buried beneath the dirt. I point my flashlight, but I can’t see a phone. I crawl forward on my hands and knees, trying to get a better look. Nothing. It must be buried pretty well.

  Still holding the shovel, I slide down into the hole, ignoring the tiny voice inside me that says it’s going to be a bitch to climb back out. The dirt is dry and powdery around me. It crumbles like a landslide, creating a pile at the bottom.

  Still focused on the ringing, I aim the blade of the shovel into the dirt, knowing what I have to do. It feels good to dig—like in some weird-fantastical-surreal sort of way, I’ve been given a second chance to answer the call I missed thirteen years ago, when I couldn’t wake up from my nightmare. What awaits me on the other end of that line?

  My forehead is sweating. The muscles in my shoulders ache as I get deeper into the hole, on one hand driven by the ringing, on the other hand maddened by it. It’s getting louder with each shovelful of dirt. I dig faster, sweat dripping from my forehead. About eight feet deep now, a dusting of dirt gets into my eyes. I drop the shovel to wipe my face.

  At the same instant, I hear it. A clamoring sound: metal hitting something hard. My eyes stinging with dirt, I grab the shovel and continue to dig, finally finding the source.

  A dark mahogany casket. The phone must be inside it. With trembling fingers, I dust it off and open it up. The hinges whine.

  There’s the phone.

  There’s Uncle Pete: a skeleton lying on a bed of creamy satin, dressed in a navy blue suit and a red tie. There’s a watch around the skeleton’s wrist. The strap is braided like his actual one. I slip the watch off and turn it over in my hand, feeling its weight. The back is blank, unlike my uncle’s, which was engraved. The difference is reassur
ing, but still I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  The phone rings and rings. It’s tucked beneath Uncle Pete’s arm. I pick it up and click on the receiver. “Hello?” I answer.

  “Did you find your teddy bear?” a woman’s voice asks.

  “I did,” I say, looking around for it.

  “You’ll always be my special boy,” she says. “Frankie and Mom. Mom and Frankie.”

  Mom. The word has become somewhat foreign to me over the years. It feels weird to hear it directed at me now.

  “Why did you leave?” I ask, unable to help myself.

  There’s silence for a moment as I wait for her response.

  “Did you find your teddy bear?” she asks again.

  I search around some more, inside the hole. No bear. “I must’ve left it above…outside, I mean. Should I get it?”

  “You’ll always be my special boy. Frankie and Mom. Mom and Frankie.”

  The receiver still gripped in my hand, I scurry to climb upward, out of the hole, to get to the bear. The dirt is powdery and light. The walls break apart beneath my grip and I fall to my feet.

  I jump up, using the pile of dirt as leverage.

  My fingers graze the top of the hole. Still holding the phone, I try to struggle up farther, but then something in my shoulder pops. A throbbing ache. My bicep quivers. I slide down again.

  I get up and plunge my foot into the wall, but I can’t get a good foundation. My foot falls away as the dirt slides down.

  “Help!” I shout. The phone slips from my grip. I scramble to pick it up. A dial tone plays.

  My one-eyed bear comes flying into the hole, landing on Uncle Pete. I can see a network of wiring above, just beneath the wood-strapped ceiling. A spotlight shines over it all, giving me a view of a pulley system. A giant bucket inches across it. Someone must be up there.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  The bucket wobbles from side to side and then turns over completely. Dirt comes raining down—on top of my head, surrounding my body. I try to wade through it as I struggle to get back on the wall, to work my way to the top. But the pulley continues to crank forward and soon another bucket appears. Fresh dirt comes pouring in, knocking me down against the coffin. I fall to my knees.