Ivy comes flying out of the house, tears streaming down her face. Blood stains the bottom of her pants. Her leg’s bleeding. A sideways slit.
I drop my mental camera and pull off my T-shirt. I tear a piece of fabric and wrap it around her ankle as a bandage.
“My bag,” she says, checking her shoulder. There’s nothing there. “I left it. I lost Taylor’s phone.” She looks back at the house, just as a TV screen lights up behind us. The costumed Nightmare Elf appears on the screen—most likely the same guy from the welcome video, the one dressed in the elf costume.
“Greetings, Dark House Dreamers,” he says. “Congratulations on facing your nightmares…and surviving them.” He releases a maniacal laugh. “Now, how would you like to see a rough cut of the film? I do hope you’ll enjoy it.”
Numbers flash across the screen, from ten down to one. The screen goes black, and then gets punctured by the image of headlights. Welcome to the Dark House appears in red crayon. The movie starts: there’s a car driving down a gravel road. Trees and brush surround the car on both sides.
The next thing I know, the name Ivy Jensen appears in the credits. It’s followed by my name and then Natalie Sorrento. The car continues, angled toward us on the screen, before finally coming to a stop.
“It’s us,” I say, able to see now that the car is actually a hearse. Ivy gets out and stares up at the WELCOME TO THE DARK HOUSE sign. More credits continue to roll: Frankie Rice, Shayla Belmont, Garth Vader, Taylor Monroe.
The film looks like it was professionally done, like whoever did it knows how to work a camera, but still, it’s not Justin Blake’s work—not the lighting, nor the audio, and certainly not the camera angles.
My bite marks throbbing, I keep one leg slightly elevated as I hold Ivy close, watching as our night at the Dark House unfolds. I’ve seen most of the content before, but some of it is new: a blond girl—who I assume to be Taylor—applying a thick coat of lipstick; Garth uncovering a splotch of blood in Taylor’s closet; and Ivy watching me sleep—the same way I had watched her sleep. There’s also a close-up of Garth and Shayla kissing, and of Frankie in the hallway, bummed that he’s not the one she’s with. We fade out on a back shot of Taylor as she flees the Dark House, into the woods.
Ivy huddles closer as we watch the scene where we enter the amusement park through the tall iron gate, as Shayla and Garth start cheering, and as we all stand beneath that first TV screen, where Justin Blake supposedly spoke to us. The shot dissolves on the tense expression on Ivy’s face—the same one that’s on her face now.
It’s clear that the movie has been at least partially edited. I can tell by all the cutaways—each of us on the Nightmare Elf’s Train of Terror ride, all experiencing different things.
Finally, we get to Frankie’s ride. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach as Frankie enters the shed at the back of the graveyard. After a phone call fiasco, he finds a trapdoor and descends a ladder, going down to an underground graveyard.
He moves toward the back row, where there’s a giant hole in the ground. The camera zooms in on a gravestone. Frankie’s name is engraved in the polished marble. Beneath it are dates—what I’m assuming is Frankie’s date of birth, plus today’s date.
A moment later, there’s a ringing sound. It takes me a beat to realize that it’s coming from the movie. A phone’s been buried; the ringing is coming from inside the hole.
Frankie climbs down into it, desperate to answer the call. He starts digging deeper, slinging the dirt with a shovel, creating a pile by his feet.
“Where’s the phone?” Ivy whispers.
A coffin appears. A skeleton. A watch. The camera refocuses, angling on Frankie as dirt comes down on him from above.
Eventually burying him alive.
His screams have blades; they cut a hole in my gut. “Holy shit,” I whisper, over and over again, almost unable to take it anymore.
Ivy’s face is full of tears. She holds her aromatherapy necklace up to her lips.
The scene fades to black, and then we cut to Shayla. She found Frankie’s grave. But then a noise startles her and she moves down a tunnel—what appears to be a mine—where she finds a body hanging in a closet; I can’t tell if it’s real. The camera angles on the Nightmare Elf. He approaches her from behind and lifts her up by the neck. Her feet flutter in the air as she struggles to break free. The last thing we hear from Shayla is the sound of her body as it drops to the ground.
The scene switches again. We’re with Garth in his nightmare ride now. There are holograms and movie clips. Garth moves down a long, dark alleyway, dodging a dangerous encounter with the Nightmare Elf, trying to seek refuge in Hotel 9. The ride ends with Garth jumping out of a window. There’s a close-up of him landing facedown against the pavement below. The Nightmare Elf appears again. The scene cuts just as his ax is raised high.
Ivy lets out a gasp that rivals mine. She’s crying uncontrollably, her chest heaving in and out.
The scene changes once more. It’s Natalie’s turn now, but the film quality has changed. None of it looks edited. It’s more like footage tacked on from surveillance video. Natalie’s trapped inside a house of mirrors, pounding against the glass. The mirrors eventually shatter and cut into her skin. Blood sprays everywhere. Natalie’s screams are hoarse and desperate, I can feel them in my chest. But then I don’t hear them at all. The silence is far worse than her screaming.
There’s more footage too—of the disappointment in Ivy’s eyes when Eureka Dash’s scream interrupted our moment by the gate, of me entering the eel tank, and of Ivy and me kissing.
Finally, the closing credits roll. The screen goes black again. Then Ivy and I appear live, on the screen. The camera’s on us.
“You’ve made it,” the elf says. “The lone survivors, worthy of seeing the rough-cut. And now, as promised, I have a sneaking suspicion that you might be ready to leave the park. Am I right?”
“Where is he?” Ivy whispers, looking over both shoulders. She repeats the question, over and over, faster and faster.
“The entrance gates will reopen at the count of three,” the voice says. “You will then have exactly ten seconds to get out. If you don’t make it, don’t despair; consider yourself a lead part in the sequel.” He snickers. “Now, are we ready?”
I look in the direction of the entrance gates.
“One, two…”
Before he can get to three, Ivy and I make a beeline to escape. Keeping pace behind her, I hobble past a slew of games. Past the merry-go-round, the strong-arm challenge, and the Nightmare Elf’s Train of Terror.
I hear the entrance gates unlatch. The doors begin to creak open. The bites on my legs are throbbing. The one on the back of my knee burns with each step.
Just shy of getting to the gate, Ivy’s necklace falls to the ground, but she doesn’t notice. I stop to pick it up. The bite at my side stings as I bend forward. There’s a pulling-stretching sensation, and I let out a grunt. The pendant slips free of the chain. Sweat drips, stinging my eyes.
“Parker!” Ivy shouts.
I scurry to pick up the pendant, blood drooling down my leg and from my waist. And then I start moving toward the gates again, limping as fast as I can.
I trip and fall to my knees.
The gates have started to close.
Ivy’s already free, already on the other side. “Hurry!” she shouts. She struggles to hold the gates open, but the doors are far too heavy. I see her getting dragged, using all her weight against the steel bars.
I get up and hobble forward, feeling my eyes fill with tears. I’m not moving quickly enough. There’s no way I’m going to get there in time.
The gates lock shut just short of my getting there.
“No!” Ivy screams. Her voice echoes inside my head, bouncing off the bones of my skull.
I’m locke
d inside with no way out.
“We’ll get you out of there,” she says, grabbing my hands through the bars.
Meanwhile, I’m crying too hard for words, no longer able to hold in my emotion. The necklace falls from my grip.
“One of those underground tunnels has to lead outside,” she says. “Or maybe we can try digging again.”
“Just go,” I say, shaking my head, knowing that she can’t stay.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”
“You need to get help,” I tell her. “Then come back for me.”
“I won’t leave you,” she insists, crying even harder now.
“You have to,” I say, looking away, not wanting her to see what a mess I am.
Eventually, she picks up the necklace and places it back in my hand. “Hold on to this,” she says. “Until I come back, okay?”
“Just promise me you’ll come back.”
She kisses me through the bars. Her lips are warm, her breath is hot. I can feel her tears on my skin, can already feel her absence in my heart.
“More than promise,” she says, before kissing me one final time. After that, she turns on her heel, and escapes into the night.
I PULL DOWN THE GRAVEL road that leads to the amusement park. My car is compact and I’m able to pull up in front of the gate.
It appears that I’m alone. The sign welcoming me to the amusement park still hangs above the entrance, only it’s no longer illuminated, and the words are slightly crooked.
I get out of the car. It’s midday and the air is chilled, especially with the tree boughs shrouding the area. I go up to the gate, past the police tape that tells me not to. It’s amazing how different things look in the daylight, no longer sparkly and alluring, but stark, drab, and haunted. I reach out through the bars, picturing Parker on the other side, the pleading look in his eyes, the tears running down his face.
I hate myself for leaving him here.
After I escaped and made it to the street, and flagged down help, called the police, and showed them where to look, it was two hours later and Parker couldn’t be found.
The others couldn’t either. Not even Frankie. When investigators went to dig him up, all they found was an empty hole.
The investigation turned cold quickly. The FBI believes whoever is responsible is smart, rich, and demented. The rest remains a mystery—a string of false leads and dead ends.
I look back at the welcome sign, thinking how excited everyone was by it. The statue of Eureka is still there too, only it’s been blasted with a paintball gun. There are splotches of orange and green over her smiling wooden face.
This gated entrance area has been littered, too: soda cans, beer bottles, and snack packages strewn all over the ground—new and old Blake fans, desperate to get a taste of the “fun.”
The sound of creaking metal startles me. The Nightmare Elf’s Train of Terror must have a few loose hinges. The tarp on the snack shack rustles in the breeze. A set of wind chimes jangles.
A gust sweeps over my shoulders, blowing back my hair. I turn to get an extra scarf. But then I come to a sudden halt. I blink a couple of times, trying to make sense of what I see.
The Nightmare Elf doll. It’s perched on the roof of my car. The same doll that we found in Tommy’s nightmare chamber, with the missing eye and the dirty clothes.
My chest tightens. My mind begins to race. I look around—in the trees, down the road, beneath my car, in the park. But I don’t see a single soul.
The gate creaks, making me jump. I turn to look. It’s open a crack—just enough for me to slip through.
Music begins to play. The musical score to Haunt Me. The layering of violins, that haunting viola, the strum of the cello. It’s coming from behind the merry-go-round, from my nightmare ride; I’m sure of it.
He’s been waiting for me to come back.
I grab my keys, positioning the sharpest one—ironically, a skeleton key, just like Little Sally Jacobs’s—between my index and middle fingers, ready to fight. And then I move through the gate and across the park, toward the merry-go-round, pausing at one of the horses. Its eyes are slanted and blue, reminding me of Parker’s. Its golden mane is the same color as Parker’s hair, too. It’s crying bloody tears.
The merry-go-round music starts up, but it’s so slow and tired that eventually it stops playing altogether.
But still the musical score to Haunt Me lingers—a pulsing beat that pelts against my heart.
The picket-fence gate in front of the house—my nightmare ride—opens and closes in the wind. I move to stand in front of it, reaching for my aromatherapy necklace, suddenly reminded that I gave it to Parker. I keep grabbing for it, forgetting that it’s no longer a part of me.
I move through the gate. The front door is already open. Still gripping the key, I head inside and go to flick on a light. But it isn’t working. The windows have been covered over, too. The only light is from the open door.
I keep it propped open with a loose walkway brick, and then I move up the stairs, past the photos. The music grows louder with each step. My skin feels hot. The key is sweaty between my fingertips.
Just a step away from reaching the second floor, I hear a scuffling sound. It radiates down my spine. My mother screams. The front door slams behind me. More sounds follow: a bolt locking, glass breaking. Did someone throw a brick?
“Ivy?” Parker’s voice. It’s coming from outside.
“Your friend won’t be able to get in,” another voice whispers. Garth? Where is he?
My adrenaline racing, I climb another step looking all around. Standing outside my parents’ room, I wrap my hand around the knob, feeling my body tremble.
The knob turns. The door opens with a whine.
“Good evening, Princess,” he says, his raspy voice speaking over the music.
It’s my parents’ killer. The birdlike eyes. The silver hair. He’s got Parker in a headlock with a knife pressed against his neck. Wasn’t Parker just outside? Is it possible that I heard wrong?
The killer smiles when he sees me, his head cocked to the side. “Welcome to the sequel.”
I grip the key tighter. “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” I tell him.
The comment takes him off guard. I can see it in the flutter of his eyelids, the swallowing in his throat.
Before he can rebound, I lunge forward, swiping at his face with the key. The motion causes him to release Parker.
I swipe at him again. This time I get his chest. He lets out a scream, but then I realize that I’m screaming too. I’m screaming as I cut him, as I stab him, as I plunge my key deep into his heart.
“Ivy!” Parker shouts, holding me back, taking the key, pinning my arms to the bed.
Someone else sits on my legs.
There’s a hand on my forehead.
I wake up.
Parker isn’t here.
It’s Apple and Core, my foster parents. Rosie and Willow linger in the doorway, looking on.
I’m in my room. My covers are dark, dark blue. My walls are pale green and there are angled ceilings. A shag carpet covers the floor. And there’s an armoire in place of a vanity. There are no soccer banners, nor is there a single reference to Katrina Rowe.
Apple gets up from my legs, sends Rosie and Willow back to bed, and then gently closes the door. Meanwhile, Core’s got my knife—not a skeleton key—in his hands. My double-action switchblade; I’ve been keeping it beneath my pillow while I sleep.
Neither of them show alarm. Nights like this have been an all-too-regular occurrence—my subconscious wreaking havoc during my sleep, blurring the lines of reality, creating a mishmash of nightmarish visions from my nightmarish life. So far my parents have confiscated four knives and five keys, even though we were supposed to be play
ing by the “three strikes” rule.
Three strikes and they were going to check me in someplace, afraid that I might hurt myself, terrified that I might hurt one of the others. I can’t really say I blame them.
“You know what this means,” Core says, sadness in his voice.
Apple nods, her eyes filled with tears. But instead of talking about the consequences now, she crawls into my bed and holds on to me for dear life. For just a moment, I forget that she isn’t my real mother.
I face the window as she snuggles me close. The breeze filters in through the window screen, and I can hear the sounds from outside: the tinkling of backyard wind chimes, the banging of shutters somewhere, and the rattling of overturned trash cans.
The musical score to Haunt Me still plays in my mind.
I vow to make it stop.
I vow to find Parker.
I REACH FOR THE LARGE manila envelope hidden beneath my bed—a package that arrived last week. With no postmark and no return address, I assumed it was another anonymous gift from my parents’ killer, like the pink soccer jersey from two years ago. But then I saw that my name and address were written in red crayon, just like the WELCOME TO THE DARK HOUSE sign, and I knew that wasn’t the case.
I open the envelope and pull out the winning essays. A note attached to the first one reads See you for the sequel, Princess.
As has become my my bedtime ritual, I begin to reread:
In a thousand words or less, describe your worst nightmare.
By Frankie Rice
At five years old, I was too young to be at a wake, but I was, and I saw the body. Dressed in a navy blue suit and a slim red tie, Uncle Pete was no longer as I remembered him: the funny guy at the end of the dinner table telling jokes. Instead, he was lying in a box with no reason to laugh at all.
I climbed up on a stool to view the casket and focused on just his hands, unable to bring myself to look at his face. Gone were the oil stains from working on cars. His hands were cleaned, polished, and powdered. If it weren’t for the watch around his wrist—the same braided leather one that my dad has—and his long, callused fingers, I’d have sworn those hands weren’t his.
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