Welcome to the Dark House

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Wait, so is Max there?” he asks.

  Parker hangs up the phone.

  “What are you doing?” I snap.

  He presses the dial tone lever—again, and again, and again.

  “What are you doing?” I repeat.

  The dial tone never comes. Instead, the male voice is still there. He’s laughing at us now. “Don’t think you can get out of here without facing your nightmare. I need those scenes for the movie.”

  “News flash: we don’t give a shit about the movie,” Parker says.

  “Well, you should, because surviving your ride is the only way out—the only way the gates will reopen.”

  “And what if we refuse?” I ask.

  “Then consider yourself stuck inside these gates.” The phone clicks. He hangs up.

  Parker takes my hand and leads me away from the phone.

  “Wait,” I shout, stopping short. “Justin Blake can’t do this. I mean, legally…he can’t.”

  Parker’s eyes lock on mine; he needs no words for me to know just what he’s thinking: this isn’t being run by Justin Blake. “Let’s go,” he says, taking my hand again.

  We round a corner and come face-to-face with a giant water tank. “Sink or Swim,” I say, reading the name on the sign.

  “This is mine,” he says, the color suddenly drained from his face. “I guess it’s my turn.”

  I CLIMB A LADDER THAT leads to a platform overlooking a tank of water. The tank is a perfect square, about twelve feet long and wide. The water is murky brown, making me think of my essay. Not only did I lie about the eels, but I also changed the setting from the ocean to a pond. Another thing I lied about, not being able to swim. The fact is that getting swept up by a riptide and nearly drowning prompted me to become a great swimmer. A national, competitive swimmer.

  A sign on the wall says ARE YOU READY TO SINK OR SWIM? According to the directions, I’ll need to stay in the water for one full minute. A digital timer blinks the number sixty. The clock will begin counting down as soon as I enter the water. Then, once a minute’s up, a bell will ring, indicating that I’ve succeeded.

  The directions also state that should I want to get out at any point prior to the required minute, I can push one of the many emergency buzzers located at the water’s edge. At that time, the “ride” will stop and a diver will assist me in getting out. I spot the emergency buzzers right away; they’re positioned just above the water line. The idea of them should be reassuring, but I have no reason to trust anything about this weekend. Plus, where are the divers?

  “You’re going to be freezing,” Ivy calls up to me. She’s standing outside the ride, at the bottom of the ladder.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, trying to sound optimistic, even though I’m beyond uncertain. I pull off my T-shirt and take off my pants, socks, and sneakers, leaving only a pair of boxers. I turn to look down at Ivy and give her a little wink to be funny.

  Gazing back at the water, I try to imagine that I’m on the other side of the camera—that this is a movie with me as the lead, or that I’m a contestant on a new reality game show. But neither scenario seems to stick, because this is real; I am here; I have to face this. My mental movie camera is temporarily broken.

  I dive in. The water’s cold, sending a shock wave through my body. Holding my breath, I plunge to the bottom. The tank is deeper than I expected—at least ten feet. Despite how much I don’t want to be doing this, it’s actually a relief to know that I lied—that no one can use a nightmare against me.

  Once I reach the bottom, I kick off the cement surface and start to float upward. But then I feel it—something long and slick against my leg. I pop up, my head above the water now, and wait for what happens next.

  Something sharp sinks into my calf. I struggle to swim to the side of the tank, unable to paddle fast enough. I reach down to feel the injured spot, just as something bites me again. My thigh this time.

  I swim toward one of the emergency buzzers, my fingertips grazing the side of it, but I’m not close enough to push it down.

  I fall beneath the surface of the water. My mouth fills up with muck. I resurface and spit it out. My skin’s torn. My leg’s bleeding. Spotlights shine over the water, enabling me to see the color red mix with brown.

  I go for the buzzer again—this time able to reach it. I smack it, but it makes no noise. I punch it, slap it, beat it with my fist. Still nothing.

  “Parker!” Ivy shouts. She says something else, but I can’t quite hear her.

  That’s when I see them: long and black, cresting the water, coming at me.

  Eels.

  They’re attracted by my blood. I duck my head and plunge, leaving the blood in my wake, hoping it’ll be enough to satisfy them for now. But I can feel them swimming between my legs and biting at my feet. Teeth sink into the arch of my foot and I let out a howl beneath the water. My mouth fills up once more.

  I kick the eel away, swim to the surface, and smack another buzzer. Still no sound. No divers, either. I look up at the digital timer. Twenty-two more seconds.

  “Parker!” Ivy calls out.

  “Stay down there,” I tell her.

  Fifteen seconds left.

  Eels swarm at my wounds. I can feel the slickness against my skin. My hands bracing the sides of the tank, I try to lift myself out, but I’m bitten on the back of my knee. The pain radiates down my calf and I fall back in, slipping beneath the surface once more. Treading water, I try to swat the eels away. There have to be at least twenty of them in here.

  “I’m coming up there,” Ivy says.

  “No!” I shout. I try to stay above the surface, but I keep sinking deeper, my head spinning with questions. Will I ever make it out of here? How can this possibly be happening?

  An eel swims between my legs. I grab it—it’s at least four inches thick—and try to lift it out, but it’s too heavy, too strong. It lunges for me, nipping at my side. An instant surge of blood.

  I scream beneath the surface. Water fills my mouth. Something gets caught in the back of my throat, creating a choking sensation. I reach in to yank it out—a leaf. A piece of it lingers, making me want to gag.

  Still, I fight to swim upward, feeling a tug at my thigh—teeth ripping through the flesh.

  My hands hit something hard. I’m at the bottom of the tank, or maybe it’s the side. I’m turned around, disoriented, having lost my sense of direction.

  I somersault in the water, able to find my feet against a hard surface. I kick off with all my might, following the direction of my air bubbles as I struggle to reach the top.

  Not quite there, I see something moving out of the corner of my eye.

  Holy freaking shit.

  It’s a steel cover—just like in my bogus nightmare essay.

  The cover expands the width of the water’s surface, moving steadily across the top, closing in the tank.

  Finally, I crest the water. I reach up to grab the ledge of the tank, hearing myself gasp. My lungs are aching. I can’t seem to get enough air. The steel cover is only a few feet away, getting closer with each breath.

  “Parker!” Ivy shouts.

  The digital clock has timed out. Zero seconds left. I lose my grip on the ledge and fall beneath the surface once more.

  The cover is within arm’s reach. I swim upward and grab the edge of it, trying to hold it in place. My biceps ache. My forearms throb. The cover continues to push forward, closing me in, trapping me inside.

  I swim to the side of the tank again. With one hand on the platform, I’m able to hoist myself up, gaining leverage with my elbow, and then with my knee. The cover grazes my foot as it seals over the surface of the water.

  Up on the platform, I collapse into a mass of blood and throbbing muscles. The leaf’s still stuck in my throat. I force it out,
sticking my fingers into my mouth, hacking up a piece of a stem.

  Ivy joins me on the platform. She rubs my back and tells me that it’s all over. But it isn’t. Far from it. Because now it’s her turn.

  GARTH’S RIGHT. WE’RE HERE FOR a reason. And it’d be crazy to walk away from an opportunity this monumental. And so after he takes off to find his nightmare, I head off to find mine, despite what Harris says.

  “You have to understand how much this means to me,” I tell him. “Justin Blake has really been there for me.”

  “And I haven’t?”

  “Of course, but this is different. He was there for me in ways that you couldn’t be.”

  “Well, then maybe you don’t need me at all.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Harris.”

  “Don’t do this, Nat. If you don’t listen to me ever again, listen to this: get out of there. If you don’t, you just might join me…on this side.”

  I pull out more hair—from my eyelashes this time—wishing that his words didn’t burrow so deeply into my heart.

  I circle the park for a third time, still searching for my ride. We passed by it earlier, but I wasn’t ready to go in at that point, especially with Harris’s barking.

  “Are you a little lost?” a voice asks, just behind me.

  I turn to look. There’s a movie screen there. On it is Little Sally Jacobs from Night Terrors, wearing a pair of pink sunglasses to hide her skeleton-key-punctured eyes. It’s mid-scene and she’s asking Mrs. Baker, a new neighbor, if she’d like to come inside the house for a glass of lemonade.

  “You can meet my parents,” Sally says, sweetening the deal. “Mama just made the lemonade this morning. She should also have some cookies coming out of the oven right about now.”

  This part of the movie—when the woman follows Sally inside—kept me awake for hours, because I knew just what would happen. And I was right. Mrs. Baker never came out.

  I watch the scene for several moments before gazing around at the other movie screens scattered about the park: all of Justin Blake’s films at various points in the story—some in the middle (Lizzy Greer chasing a streetwalker with an ax), others at the climax (Eureka trying to escape Pudgy the Clown, in some overhead ductwork). It appears that Forest of Fright just started, and the end credits are rolling on Halls of Horror, toward the center of the park.

  At last, I spot my nightmare ride; it’s called Mirrors of Mayhem, and it’s basically a fun-house maze of mirrors.

  It’s dark as I approach. There’s a blacked out door at the front. I climb the steps to enter, but it’s locked.

  “What the hell?” I shout, jiggling the handle and pushing my weight against the door panel.

  Still, it won’t open—even after ten minutes.

  I scurry down the steps and circle the ride, searching for another way in, wondering if maybe there’s some trick.

  Finally, the “ride” lights up, as if by magic. Music pours out of it—a mix of organ and harmonica.

  As I climb the steps again, the music grows louder, making it nearly impossible to hear Harris. Still, I know his voice is there. I can hear it, struggling over the music—like someone fighting to keep above water, only to end up drowned out by the waves.

  I enter the walls of glass and the floor begins to rotate. I take careful steps, trying to avoid eye contact with my reflection by keeping my focus down. But it’s absolutely no use. My reflection is everywhere—in front of me, beside me, cut in half, multiplied by five, as part of a giant mosaic of shapes. My Scissorhands hair, my crooked nose, my pudgy lips.

  Arms too long.

  Hips too wide.

  Swollen skin from picking, plucking, pulling, pinching.

  My face flashes red. In one mirror, I’m short and bulging, with stocky legs, a gigantic stomach, and a tiny head. In another mirror, I’m all stretched out and my face looks even longer than it is.

  I try to turn around, to get out, but I’m already lost in the maze of my reflection. I shut my eyes and extend my hands to feel my way around so I don’t have to look. But I manage to bump into the glass anyway—my cheek brushes against a corner of a glass panel. I open my eyes, catching sight of the brown mole on my upper lip. It looks bigger than I remember. Puffier than ever before. Is this another distortion mirror?

  I turn away, smacking into another glass pane—my nose this time. My sunglasses fall off. Blood trickles from a nostril, over my lips, and drips off my chin, landing on yet another image of me—so much worse without the glasses, in the light. I’m standing on a mirror. Another droplet of blood hits the reflection below my feet.

  There’s more red—a flash of it reflected in the mirror. Someone’s moving behind me, behind another section of glass. And yet I don’t see a face. The image is too fast and fleeting. The redness whirls and ripples, as if the person’s wearing a cape.

  I turn, following the figure with my eyes. Finally, the image stops. I see a slice of red, perfectly still. I wait, breathing hard. My breath steams up the mirror, making an oblong stain against the glass, covering my forehead.

  At last, I see who it is. The Nightmare Elf—most likely the same man who appeared on the TV screen when we entered the park, wearing a mask that has pointed ears, chubby cheeks, and curly blond hair. The mask is stuck in a perpetual grin; the forehead of it is shiny, as if it’s somehow sweating too.

  “You know why the elf is here, don’t you?” Harris asks, ripping a hole in my heart.

  Why is he so hell-bent on hurting me, on ruining this experience?

  “What experience?” he asks. “Is this what you call a fun time?”

  I hold my bloody nose. Where did my sunglasses go? I don’t see them anywhere now. I keep looking for an exit. But, just one step away, I bump into a wall. The elf starts laughing. His head tilts back, jittering slightly, and he holds on to his belly. I sniff up the blood and extend my arms again, moving out from behind a pane of glass, trying my best not to cry.

  The Nightmare Elf moves too. One moment I think he’s in front of me, the next he’s behind me again.

  Then at my right.

  And over to my left.

  The reflections are too overwhelming. I’m standing in an alcove of a thousand mini-reflections of me. They make a checkerboard pattern, boxing me in, stealing my breath.

  There’s not much air. My chest feels tight.

  A swirl of red dances around me and then does a cartwheel behind my back.

  I try to get out of this alcove. I move to the side and then inch into what I think is another area, but it looks exactly the same; the checkerboard pattern surrounds me on all sides. I look up. There are mirrors there, too. And still more mirrors as I turn around—as if the thousand have somehow quadrupled.

  Finally, the music stops. There’s a rushing sensation inside my veins. I don’t see the elf anywhere. There’s just my reflection every way I turn.

  I move out from behind a glass panel, but I’m blocked. There are mirrored walls all around me now, as if someone’s locked me in.

  I run my fingers up and down the panes, my breath fogging up the glass, wondering if there might be an empty space I’m not seeing. The Nightmare Elf giggles, but still I can’t see him. I’m feeling more trapped by the moment. My throat constricts. I can’t get enough air.

  “I’m really sorry, Nat,” Harris says. “I wish you would’ve listened.”

  I turn around and around as the floor beneath me continues to rotate. My head is dizzy. I stumble over my feet.

  Suddenly, a wall goes black. I reach out to touch it just as a light clicks on inside it. The Nightmare Elf is there, on the other side. He waves at me with his glove-covered hand.

  “He’s come to watch you suffer,” Harris says. “The elf always appears at the time of death. After he steals your nightmare and uses
it against you, he comes around to watch his dirty work play out.”

  “Stop!” I scream. Blood spouts out of my mouth, from my nose, spraying the glass. I cover my fists with the sleeves of my jacket and then pound against one of the walls.

  Nothing happens.

  I pound harder, kicking the glass with my boot. The mirror breaks. But there’s another mirror in its place, just behind it.

  The elf laughs harder.

  Harris begins to pray: “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

  My heart beats faster. My pulse races harder. I start throwing my body against the glass walls, beating the panes with my fists, kicking as hard as I can.

  Glass shatters, cutting into my skin, making everything red. Thousands of years of bad luck. I look up, just as a giant shard of glass slices downward.

  PARKER IS REALLY BLEEDING. Lying on his back, he’s breathing hard, shivering from either fear or pure coldness. There’s a bite mark on his side, two in his left thigh, and a few more on his calves and feet.

  I take off my sweatshirt and blanket it over his chest, along with Natalie’s scarf. “I’ll be right back.” I run down the stairs, round the corner by the phone booth, and see the first aid kit in the distance, hanging on a post.

  Despite the blinking lights, the park feels vacant, especially without Parker by my side. It’s quiet, as if someone’s muted the volume, shut off the music, and pulled the plug on all the movie projectors.

  The air is warm and thick as I move toward the post. Just a few yards away from it now, I hear something: the sound of footsteps, the crunching of gravel.

  I stop and look around. Nothing.

  I turn back to head for the first aid kit. There’s a scuffing sound behind me again. “Who’s there?” I call out.

  No one answers.

  An owl hoots in the distance as I grab the first aid kit. It’s a metal box with sharp corners. I position it in my hands with a corner pointed outward, ready to use it as a weapon if need be.