Welcome to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I turn a corner, passing by more games. And that’s when I finally see it:

  CLOSE ON AN ENGLISH PHONE BOOTH

  It’s about eight feet tall and three feet wide. A checkerboard of windows forms the front door panel.

  I grab the handle. Lights start flashing right away, forming a frame around eight Nightmare Elf heads attached to the back wall.

  There is no phone.

  All the heads are the same: the Nightmare Elf with his pointed ears, Santa-like hat, and chubby face. But all the facial expressions are different: one happy, another sad. There’s also a scowl, a glare, and a puckering pair of lips.

  VOICE RECORDING

  Ring-a-ling-ding. Throw the ring for a chance to ding-a-ling.

  Is “a chance to ding-a-ling” carnival-speak for a chance to use the phone? There’s a stack of plastic rings at the bottom of the booth. I grab a bunch and stand behind a designated line on the ground.

  I toss a ring at one of the heads. It catches on a hat but then falls to the ground.

  VOICE RECORDING

  Remember, if at first you don’t succeed, ring, ring again.

  I toss another ring. This time it hooks around the Nightmare Elf with the happy smile. A bell CHIMES, announcing that I’ve won. I wait for something to happen, hoping that a phone will suddenly appear.

  Instead the lights go out. The ride goes quiet. I linger a few more seconds before chucking the rest of the rings to the ground.

  I’m just about to turn away, when I spot it, out of the corner of my eye.

  CLOSE ON ELF THAT WAS FROWNING BEFORE

  It now has a wild expression. Its eyes are wide; they stare straight out into space. Its brows are darted, and it’s baring razor-sharp teeth.

  I look up at an overhead camera.

  ME

  (shouting at the camera)

  You think this is funny?

  The elf doesn’t move, nor does it blink.

  I move around to the back of the booth. There’s a metal closet attached to the rear panel. Someone must be hiding inside that space.

  ME

  Come out!

  I kick at the metal sides and slam my fists into the back panel. When still nothing happens, I go around to the front again.

  The elf’s face remains with its wild expression. I study it a few seconds: its bright blue eyes, its waxy lips, its stupid rosy cheeks.

  PULLBACK TO REVEAL ME

  I slam the door—so hard that the glass pane BREAKS. I look back up at the camera.

  ME

  In case you haven’t already figured it out, I don’t give a shit about being in your stupid film. Cut my role right now. I don’t need this crap. I don’t need to meet you.

  I wait for something to happen or someone to come out. When nothing and no one do, I head back to Frankie’s ride.

  CUT TO: Natalie and Ivy, exterior graveyard dig.

  “WHERE ARE THE OTHERS?” Parker asks.

  Ivy nods to the graveyard ride. “Shayla went to look for Frankie. And Garth took off, tired of waiting around.”

  Parker checks his watch. A look of concern crosses his face.

  “Did you find a phone?” Ivy asks him.

  “Negative.”

  “So that was a lie,” she says.

  “Or maybe not,” I argue. “Maybe whoever was left in charge of installing emergency phones never got around to it.”

  “You don’t seriously believe that, do you?” he asks.

  Do I? I can feel the confusion on my face. It must be catching, because Parker looks confused now too.

  I move to sit on a patch of grass—away from their voices, so I won’t be influenced. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on only one voice: mine. Except it’s hard to know what I want, or what to think, when those things have always been dictated for me. Add that to the fact that Harris continues to tell me things he couldn’t possibly know—about Frankie being buried and a blue teddy bear with a missing mouth—and it’s hard to focus on the tiny voice inside of me.

  In the end, I think Garth’s voice is the most logical: we’ve all been given an opportunity here. It’d be foolish to throw it away.

  I look over at Parker and Ivy, engrossed in conversation. “I finally know what I think,” I say, moving to stand in front of them.

  “Okay…” Parker still looks confused, his face twisted into a question mark.

  “We need to find a way out of here,” Ivy says.

  “Without the others?” I ask.

  “We haven’t really gotten that far yet,” she says.

  “So, I guess you’ve decided to go with Harris’s voice, then.”

  “That’s right,” Ivy says; her tone has softened. “I think Harris might be onto something.”

  “And I think he’s trying to ruin our time here.”

  “And so what do you suggest we do?” she asks.

  “Let’s go on the rides,” I say, feeling empowered to voice what I want. “We’re here, so let’s enjoy ourselves. Let’s take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Maybe we can try that terror train ride again—the one that goes underground. Maybe we can connect with Frankie and Shayla somewhere.”

  “We were thinking about that, too,” Parker says. “But I’m not so sure we want to get lost in a web of underground tunnels.”

  “Especially in light of Taylor’s phone call,” Ivy adds.

  “Didn’t you listen to any of what Garth was saying? We’re supposed to be afraid. This is supposed to be scary. We’re at a horror-themed amusement park, where someone’s filming a movie.”

  “I know.” Ivy sighs.

  “Then what?” I look out at the park, feeling slightly reassured that I’m not the only one who gets confused. The blinking yellow lights are nearly intoxicating, as is the smell of candy and popcorn. “Here,” I say, pulling a long gray scarf from my bag. I hand it to Ivy, along with a spare pair of sunglasses. “I always keep extra stuff like this, just in case.”

  “What’s it for?” she asks.

  “Harris says you don’t want to be recognized on film. Is that true? Are you already famous or something?”

  Ivy’s voice is gone now too.

  “I don’t want to be filmed either,” I continue. “But I’ll do just about anything to meet Justin Blake. So, I guess I’ll see you guys later?” I turn away before they can respond, ready to go find my nightmare.

  LUCKILY, THE DOOR TO THE graveyard shed is open. I go inside, and the door swings shut behind me. I try the knob. It’s locked.

  “Frankie?” I call out, telling myself not to panic.

  A lantern on the floor lights up the interior: wood-paneled walls and a carpeted floor. There’s nothing else in here.

  I pick up the lantern, spotting a cardboard tag attached to the handle with string. I flip the tag over, surprised to find my name printed across it. This lantern was placed here for me. Someone must’ve had another way to come in here. I search the walls and the floor, knowing there has to be a hidden door somewhere.

  At last, I find it—an area where the carpet’s been cut away. Beneath it is a trapdoor. Someone’s tagged it as well. Welcome, Shayla has been spray-painted across it. I touch one of the letters and a fresh smear of black comes away on my finger.

  There’s a small metal handle attached to the wood. I pull up on it. A ladder leads underground. I bring the lantern closer, trying to see what’s down there, but it’s too dark to tell.

  “Frankie?” I shout. I look back at the door. Fog begins to seep in through the crack at the bottom. Part of me is tempted to pound on the door in hopes that the others will come get me out. But I begin down the ladder anyway.

  Two rungs from the bottom, a bang crashes above. I startle and look upward. T
he trapdoor is still open.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Frankie?”

  No one answers.

  I hurry back up the ladder, but before I can get to the top, the trapdoor slams shut. I push on it, but it won’t budge.

  I take a deep breath in an effort to quell the jangling nerves inside me. What can this moment teach me? I repeat inside my head—one of my yoga master’s many life mantras.

  I begin down the ladder again, also thankful for Garth’s logic: I’ve come here to be scared. I knew that when I signed up. Breathe in, breathe out. Remember that things are as they should be. There’s no reason to panic.

  Once I’ve reached the bottom of the ladder, I turn around, hoping to see Frankie. But there’s nobody else here, and it seems I’ve reached yet another graveyard. Still, the whole scene is almost enchanting—in a Gothic, medieval-looking sort of way. It reminds me of a light show that my parents took me to in Scotland when I was twelve. There are dark trees with outstretched arms and twisted boughs surrounding the perimeter. Spotlights have been strategically placed on several of the limbs, illuminating the entire area and making everything look all aglow.

  Just like outside, there are rows and rows of headstones—crosses, squares, and oval ones. Each stone has a single red rose lying in front of it, except for two stones in the back.

  I meander around, recognizing most of the names on the headstones. They’re characters from Justin Blake’s films: Farrah Noyes from Nightmare Elf II: Carson’s Return; Darcie Scarcella from Hotel 9: Blocked Rooms; Josie, Carl, and Diana Baker from the original Night Terrors—none of them lucky enough to make it into the next movie of their series.

  I move to the last row—to the two stones without roses. I check the name on the larger stone—PETER RICE—unable to place it. Perhaps he’s a character from one of Blake’s earlier, lesser-known films. It seems that the two stones have the same plot site, leading me to assume that there’s a crypt under there, which is actually quite appropriate considering that one of the occupant’s names is Peter. Perhaps Blake was paying homage to Saint Peter, buried at Old Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

  The plot area has been freshly filled. The dirt is darker, the mound is fuller, and there’s zero growth (in this case, fake grass) sprouting from the site.

  A skull is etched into the granite surface of Peter’s sister stone; below it is writing, only the lettering is much smaller than that of the other stones. I scoot down to get a better look, hoping to find another message or maybe a clue as to where Frankie is.

  The breeze rustles through the trees; making the wind chimes clink. The sounds help ease my nerves. I’m being watched. I’m not alone. This isn’t real. This whole scene has been created for the movie.

  I move the lantern close to the smooth polished surface of the stone, able to see Frankie’s name with what I assume is his birthday and today’s date. I blink a couple of times, knowing that this was done for cinematic purposes. But still my stomach twists, because the gravestone looks really real, really legit.

  I struggle to my feet, spotting a shovel propped against the back of the stone. My heart tightens and I take another breath, wondering if I should start digging at Frankie’s site, if that’s what I’m supposed to do—if it’s indeed part of this nightmare-challenge, especially with a name like Graveyard Dig.

  I go to grab the shovel. But then I hear something. A crunching noise. It’s coming from behind the graveyard border. I can’t really see back there; there aren’t any lights beyond this last row of stones, but I can tell that the space continues. The wood framing overhead extends into the darkness.

  “Frankie?” I call.

  More crunching; it’s followed by a clanking sound. Keeping a firm grip on the lantern, I move in the direction of the noises.

  With the lantern’s glow, I’m able to see about five feet in front of me. There’s a tunnel and a gravel-lined pathway. The sides of the tunnel are made of dirt, held in place by wooden strapping. Was this once a mine?

  I call Frankie’s name over and over, continuing through the tunnel. I recite the Gayatri Mantra from yoga class, still trying to hold it together.

  I turn to look back, but there’s only blackness now. The lights by the graveyard have all been turned off.

  Another noise makes me jump: the shifting of gravel. Someone’s moving in my direction.

  “Hello?” I hold my lantern high.

  A door creaks open somewhere in front of me.

  “Shay-la?” a woman sings.

  I don’t move. I can hardly breathe.

  “Come and find me,” the voice continues.

  My heart is pumping furiously. My hands are shaking uncontrollably. I’m here to be scared, I remind myself.

  There’s a trickling sound now, like water leaking from an overhead pipe. I walk deeper into the tunnel, able to hear a tiny whimper before realizing that it’s mine.

  “Do you remember our promise?” the voice asks.

  I stop. This is part of my contest entry.

  “You said you’d always be there for me,” she says.

  The voice doesn’t even sound like Dara’s. But whoever this is clearly represents her—or at least her memory—and I suppose that’s why I’m here: to face Dara once and for all.

  “Are you there?” she asks.

  I begin moving forward again. A knocking sound goes straight to my heart. It sounds as if someone’s rapping on a door. Maybe I’m supposed to answer.

  Keeping the lantern high, I search the walls as the knocking becomes louder and more desperate, as if someone’s trying to get out.

  “Frankie?” I shout, wondering if it might be him.

  Finally, I find a large gray door. The knocking comes from the other side of it. “Hello?” I call, looking down both ends of the tunnel—from where I came and to where I’m headed. Still, there’s only blackness.

  I wrap my hand around the knob, hesitating to open the door, half hoping that it’s locked. But the knob turns without a hitch. The door creaks open. The air through my lungs stops.

  It’s dark inside. I lift my lantern higher. A light turns on—from the motion of the door—and I’m able to see.

  A girl. A body. Hanging inside the closet. She’s dressed in a long T-shirt and heart-patterned socks; her hair is in a sideways braid.

  I drop the lantern. My hands fly up to my face. It can’t possibly be real. The chalky lips, the dark eyelids, the bluish-gray skin. Telephone wire is wrapped around the neck, creating a makeshift noose. The wire is attached to a light fixture. A lightbulb hangs down from the closet’s ceiling.

  My head feels woozy and the tunnel starts to tilt. The body wavers too. Maybe the motion of the door disturbed it.

  There’s something in one of the hands. An envelope. A note for me. It’s stuck to the skin with double-sided tape.

  I take and open it, my mind unable to catch up to the written words: You broke our promise.

  I step back, stumbling over my feet, wanting to get away, desperate to get back to the others.

  The eyes snap open. And stare back at me. Dara’s pale blue eyes, crying bloodred tears.

  A scream tears out my throat. I back up more—away from the door, away from her, bumping into something behind me.

  A red suit. Elf boots. A person is there. Wearing gloves, his fingers wrap around my throat.

  “Your role has been cut, Ms. Belmont,” he says. I can feel his breath against my neck.

  His fingers tighten.

  I try to let out another scream, but it sounds more like a wheeze. I’m choking. His fingers press against my throat. His hands wrap around my neck.

  My feet are dangling now. I picture those heart-patterned socks.

  My world darkens and swirls. More creaking sounds in the distance. It’s mingled with another
sound, another voice.

  Dara’s voice. Inside my head. She’s crying out to me, thanking me for being there for her. At last.

  IT TAKES ME TWO LOOPS around the park before I finally find my ride. It’s called Nightmare Alley, which makes perfect sense, seeing as part of my childhood nightmares involved walking down a long dark alleyway in the middle of the night, with Justin Blake’s characters stalking after me.

  The ride itself appears to be inside a building of sorts. Four giant walls have been erected, most likely to conceal what lurks behind them. I go inside and it’s like I’ve died and gone to nightmare heaven. I’m in an entryway with walls that are at least ten feet high. They’re decorated with illustrated murals of some of Blake’s most well-known characters: the Nightmare Elf holding his sack of tricks; Lizzy Greer pushing a shopping cart and swinging her bloodstained ax; Little Sally Jacobs with the skeleton keys punctured through her eyes; and Sidney Scarcella from Hotel 9, serving a platter full of victims’ ears—to name just a few. Word bubbles blow out each of their mouths: “If you dare.” “Come play with me.” “Ready to check in?” They urge me farther inside.

  There’s a bright red door in front of me. It’s shaped like the silhouette of the Dark House. I open it, and the Nightmare Elf’s mischievous giggle greets me.

  It’s dim inside. There are streetlights strategically placed down the long narrow alleyway—just far enough away from one another to keep the creepy quotient high. Bordering the alley are buildings and shops. I can tell they’re all movie-set fake, assembled for the sole purpose of my nightmare, which makes this whole experience even more incredible than it is. I mean, if it wasn’t cool enough that Justin Blake created this “ride,” he created it just for me.