by Dan Poblocki
Marcus only had a brief glimpse of what was in the bag. It looked like small human bodies.
AZUMI DIDN’T KNOW why she had been so drawn to the large paper bag on the shelf above her, but now that the parcel was lying torn at her feet, she felt sick.
There were five dolls splayed on the floor in front of her. They were made out of stiff papier-mâché, nothing a child would play with. Their features, including the clothes, had been painted on with vibrant, glossy acrylics.
The two dolls on the far left were painted light brown and were dressed in shorts, graphic T-shirts, and sandals. Beside them lay a girl with pale skin and splotchy freckles. Dark gold paper hair lay across her shoulders, where a pink satchel had been painted directly onto her body. Next was a boy with red hair. The details of his curls were shaded expertly, giving the illusion that you could pull on a strand and it would spring back to the paper skull with a boing! He wore a black sports jacket, khaki pants, and a convincingly dirty pair of white Converse All Stars. Finally, on the far right, was a girl with long dark hair. Her denim jacket was painted to appear buttoned tight, and her black dress stopped just above thin ankles.
“It’s us,” said Marcus quietly.
“They’re even wearing our clothes,” said Poppy, reaching out toward the one that looked like her, stopping just before she touched it.
“How?” asked Dash.
“Someone painted them on,” said Marcus.
“I can see that,” said Dash. “But handmade stuff like this takes time. The prop people on our set out in Hollywood would’ve needed at least a day to prep for something like this. This paint is dry.”
“How did whoever made these know what we’d be wearing today?” asked Poppy.
“Look … ” Azumi reached forward and touched a piece of twine that was looped around the neck of her papier-mâché counterpart. The other figurines were the same. They were all wearing nooses. Azumi grasped the string attached to the one that looked like her and lifted the thing from the floor. The Azumi doll turned around and around, peering at all of them, as still as a corpse and with eyes just as lifeless. Azumi was tempted to toss it violently away, but she was overcome with a feeling that something very bad might happen if she did.
“It’s a piñata,” said Marcus. “Like, for a party. Someone forgot to hang them up.” He searched the ceiling for hooks. “And aren’t piñatas filled with things? Candy and toys and stuff like that?”
Dash picked up the one that looked like him and shook it. Azumi heard something shift inside, like sand sliding through an hourglass.
“I’ve never played with a piñata before,” said Azumi.
“You don’t play with them,” said Poppy. “You break them.”
“I don’t want to break anything,” said Dash, turning to Dylan. “I just want to get out of here.”
To everyone’s surprise, Poppy grabbed the doll that resembled her and twisted its arm. Its elbow snapped, and its wrist and hand dangled loosely. Marcus gasped, as if she’d done the same to him.
“What are you doing?” asked Dylan.
“I wanted to see what was in it.” Poppy glanced apologetically at the rest of the group. She turned the figure and joggled it. Swiff. Swiff. Swiff. The group watched as a gritty gray material poured from the hole in the figurine’s arm and wafted slightly around them like smoke. Most of it formed a small mound on the rug by Poppy’s sneakers.
Waving the cloud away and covering her mouth and nose with her T-shirt, Poppy placed the figurine on the sofa and then leaned down and pinched a bit of the pile between her thumb and forefinger. It turned her fingertips a dark gray. “Ashes,” she said.
“We all fall down,” Marcus whispered with an awkward smile. No one laughed.
“What a sick joke,” said Azumi.
Just then, Dylan’s pocket buzzed and a muffled chime sounded. Everyone stepped away from him, as if a bomb were about to detonate.
PULLING OUT HIS phone, Dylan was surprised to see words glowing on the screen. You have a new voice mail! He showed the group.
“Weird,” Dash said. “The phone didn’t even ring.”
“But see!” said Dylan. “They’re looking for us. There’s just been a mix-up or something.” He put the phone on speaker, pressed play, and held up the device so everyone could hear.
At first he heard only static. Then a muffled voice spoke, low and gravelly like a whisper from a person who was very ill. “… pleased to see you … ” Dylan thought he could make out some background noise. “… games begin … ,” the voice went on. “The library.”
The message ended with a series of clicking noises and what sounded like growling, followed by silence. Dylan hit the button to call back and let Del know that they were on their way, but there was still no cell service.
“That didn’t sound like your great-aunt,” Azumi whispered to Poppy.
Poppy blushed. “Maybe she has a deep voice?” The others were quiet for a moment.
Dylan shrugged. “Did you check your phone? Maybe you got a message too.”
“I don’t have a phone,” said Poppy. Her face went scarlet. “I mean, I lost it on the way here.”
“Uh-huh,” said Dylan. Dash glared at him.
A hush filled the room. The dolls stared up at everyone from the floor.
“Well, let’s find this library,” said Dylan. “Sounds like that’s where Del will be.”
“Anyone have a map of this place?” Marcus chuckled.
“Yeah,” said Dylan. “I picked one up at the visitor’s desk on the way in.” Dash nudged his brother’s shoulder, warning him to bring it down a notch. Dash was always doing that, checking him. Dylan felt a flare of resentment, and he jerked himself away from his brother. “If we split up I bet we’ll find it pretty quickly.”
“Quick?” said Azumi. “What’ll be quick about it? This place is a palace.”
Dylan smiled at her, but his resentment grew. “Yeah, I can see that. We’ll meet back here in like twenty minutes.”
Dash spoke up. “I don’t know, Dylan. How’s your head feeling?”
“How many times do I have to say I’m fine before you get it?” Dylan snapped.
“I just thought maybe you and me could head outside and try to get some reception—”
“Stop! Seriously, chill out. Del said he’ll meet us in the library.”
Dash flinched. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”
Azumi stepped between them. “I didn’t hear anyone say anything about meeting anyone anywhere.”
Dylan frowned. “Me and Poppy will try upstairs where we saw that kid earlier. He was probably heading to the set.”
“Uh … okay?” said Poppy.
“And who knows, maybe phone service is better the higher up we go. I might even be able to call Del back.”
“Azumi and I can search together,” said Marcus. “We’re both looking for the school people anyway. We’ll check out the rest of the ground floor.” Azumi nodded in agreement, as if happy to be away from Dylan.
“What about me?” asked Dash.
Dylan smirked. “You stay by the stairs in the foyer, in case someone comes by. That way, you don’t have to worry about wandering around a big creepy house.”
“But—”
Dylan held up a hand. “Someone should stay with our stuff anyway. It might as well be you.”
Dash clenched his jaw. “Fine,” he growled. “But if you feel weird, or dizzy, or anything, come right back to me. Okay?”
“Whatever you say, little brother.” Dylan was already heading out of the room.
“HELLO?” POPPY CALLED out, her small voice sounding surprisingly loud in the second floor’s snaking hallway. “Anyone there?” Together, she and Dylan tried the knob on every door they passed. Some were locked, but the ones that were open didn’t seem to be remarkable, except they looked old—sitting rooms, reading rooms, parlors, closets—and otherwise empty.
“I really like your show,” she said as they turned anot
her corner, the daylight fading behind them. “Scoots is kind of my favorite.”
“Gosh, I hate that name.” Dylan sniffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I’m actually glad to be done with it.”
Poppy blushed, afraid that she’d offended him. “Oh, no! It didn’t get canceled, did it?”
“Me and Dash quit. Filmed our last episode just a few days ago. It wasn’t working out anymore.”
“I think I remember reading about you guys on some blog recently.” She tried to remember the article. “Maybe it was about this movie?”
One room was filled with filing cabinets and a couple of desks. It reminded Poppy of Ms. Tate’s office at Thursday’s Hope. She noticed a charcoal sketch hanging on the wall. Something about it was familiar, but she was so overwhelmed to be standing next to the Scooter Underwood, she couldn’t remember what.
“Nothing in there,” said Dylan. He paused. “Leaving the show wasn’t that big of a deal, actually. It was time for a change. That’s why me and Dash are here. On to bigger and better things.”
“Right.” Poppy listened as their footsteps creaked on the wooden floor, sending tiny shrieks out into the passages. “But I mean, you’re going to miss it, right? Being in a family like that—”
“That wasn’t our family,” Dylan interrupted, turning toward her. “They were just a bunch of actors, working for a paycheck. And most of them were jerks anyway. They barely ever blinked at me and Dash.”
“Then you did a really good job of making it seem like you all were close,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I … I’ve never had a family. So watching your show sort of made me feel like I was part of it. When you guys laughed, I laughed with you.”
Dylan stared at her for a moment. “Wow. That’s … That’s really just … Wow.”
Poppy felt her cheeks burn. “All I mean is, it was just, like, fun. You know? Funny.”
“Yeah, real funny. So what kind of a person doesn’t have a family?” he asked as he continued down the shadowed hall.
“What kind of a person?” Poppy echoed, her stomach squirming. She asked herself that all the time. What was it about her that made her unwanted? “Lots of people don’t have families. Not traditional families anyway. Not like the ones you see on television. I lived in a group home with a bunch of other girls. Some of them were orphans. Others had parents who weren’t able to care for them. My mom … Well, she kind of took off when I was little. That’s how I ended up at Thursday’s Hope.”
“Jeez, that’s harsh,” said Dylan. He wasn’t even looking at her. “So it must have been really exciting when you heard from your great-aunt.”
“Yeah. Of course. Like a dream come true. And now we’re going to find her.”
Poppy paused, and decided to return to safer topics. “It must be so cool to work with your twin,” she offered.
Dylan scoffed. “Dash can be a real pain sometimes.”
There was something about his dimples that was really starting to annoy Poppy. “Do you have any clue how lucky you are to have a brother?”
“Yeah, but Dash is just … ” Dylan stopped and looked at her. “You have no idea how weird he is.”
“He really seems to care about you.”
“People really care about him, that’s for sure.” Dylan started off down the hall again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean … people are always saying, ‘Oh, Dylan, why can’t you be more responsible? Why can’t you be more like Dash?’ But they don’t know him! They don’t know how far he’s willing to take things, how nasty he can really be. I’m not the bad twin.” Dylan’s voice had risen, and he dragged in a shuddering breath, as if surprised at his own outburst. He pressed his fingers against his temples. “I just think people will be really surprised when it comes to the two of us,” he finished quietly.
Poppy stopped walking.
“What?” asked Dylan.
“That’s an awful thing to say about your brother.”
Dylan folded his arms. “I’m sorry. I should have realized you were another Dash fangirl.”
Poppy shook her head. “You’re not who I thought you were. You seem so nice on TV, so I guess you’re a way better actor than anyone thought. I feel bad for your brother.” She felt herself trembling. “I feel bad for you.”
She had a small flash of satisfaction as Dylan’s jaw dropped.
“I’m going to go back,” Poppy said. “I want to check out that office again.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, I can do it myself. You can leave me alone.”
Dylan shrugged and stomped away.
Poppy almost called him back, but she clamped her mouth shut. She was used to doing things on her own, anyway. Still, the hall felt very empty without Dylan there. Something strange was happening here at Larkspur. Something she couldn’t put into words.
She turned around and made her way to the office once again.
Poppy approached the small frame hanging on the wall by the door. Upon closer inspection, she could see that the image inside the frame was a sketch of five children. Three boys and two girls. Each face was grim, eyes hollow and empty-looking. The children were wearing stiff dark flannel and starchy white cotton uniforms, the boys in shorts and the girls in skirts. It looked as though they had all attended the same private school fifty or sixty years prior.
Maybe Marcus and Azumi are right! Poppy thought. The style of the drawing was also familiar to her, and she suddenly remembered why. The Girl in the mirrors had given her a similar drawing—the one that Ashley had threatened to crush. Only in that other drawing, the children had been wearing masks.
The longer Poppy stared at the picture on the wall, the more suffocated she felt by her own skin. Here was proof that her oldest friend, the phantom Girl who’d attacked her earlier that morning, the Girl in the mirrors, was connected to Larkspur House.
“Delphinia, where are you?” Poppy whispered.
DYLAN FUMED AS he continued his search for the library and Del. He couldn’t believe the nerve of that girl, Poppy. The way she’d spoken to him about his brother, as if watching them on television meant she knew the real them. I’m glad she wanted us to split up, he told himself. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know that I’m—The thought stopped cold, as if a door had slammed on it.
The hallway twisted deeper into the house, farther away from the daylight. When Dylan came around a sharp bend, the darkness almost seemed to reach for him. Scrambling for his phone, he held it up and switched on the flashlight. The pale beam shone only a few feet ahead, as if the shadows were denser here. As if they were alive. He scanned the walls for a light switch, but there was nothing except for iridescent-blue-patterned wallpaper, edging off into blackness.
As Dylan checked his phone for service again, he heard something moving in the distance. It sounded like the clink of metal against metal. “Del?” he called. “That you?”
A dim figure appeared from the well of shadows, walking slowly toward him. Dylan squinted. Was its face strangely shaped, or was it a trick created by the dark?
The light of his phone caught the figure, and Dylan saw it was another kid wearing a mask. A boy with the face of a bear. Black eyeholes watched him, as if there were nothing behind the mask but an unending void.
Dylan’s skin prickled in the sudden chill that surrounded him. The boy wore metal cuffs around his ankles, joined by a short length of rusted chain.
A sharp pain blasted the back of Dylan’s skull, and his eyes watered. His vision blurred, his body tingled as it had during the flash on the staircase, and once again, the world around him seemed to fade into something from a distant memory.
He was shoved back to the dressing room again, on the set of the show. And it was dark, darker than the shadows of Larkspur. His head felt like it had been sliced open with a blunt blade, and when he touched his scalp, a warm and sticky liquid pulsed over his fingers. He tried to yell out, but his lips wouldn’t work. He r
ealized then that he was soaking wet, and it wasn’t only the blood. He stepped forward, searching for a lamp that was just out of reach. And then Dash rushed at him, coming from the dark side of the room, his face a mask of fear more terrifying than any bear or rabbit could ever be.
And then Dylan’s vision cleared. The pain was gone and he was back in the hallway at Larkspur House. He slumped and then used the closest wall to catch himself. The boy in the bear mask watched.
“H-help me.” The words had spilled from Dylan’s mouth before he could stop them. The bear boy stepped back, cringing away from him.
Dylan shook his head, trying to clear the strange weakness away. If this kid was part of the horror film’s cast, Dylan couldn’t have him spreading rumors to everyone else before they even met him. Dylan stumbled toward the boy to catch him. “Hold on a second.” He took a breath. “I’m fine. I’m looking for Del.”
But the boy turned and ran. So Dylan lurched after him. The hallway went on and on, impossibly long. Dylan’s phone light caught the slightest glimpse of the boy’s chains as they rattled and shook. “Wait up!” Dylan called. “I need to talk to you!”
Ahead, the figure darted to the right. Dylan raced to the spot where the hallway turned. He could make out a thin staircase rising up into the darkness. At the top of the stairs a door swung shut, the click of the handle echoing toward him like a period at the end of a very long sentence.
Dylan took the steps two by two. When he reached a landing, he grasped the doorknob and pulled. The door gave a couple of inches, but then something pulled back from the other side. “Hey,” Dylan said, yanking on the door with all of his weight, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to—”
The door released, and Dylan fell backward with such force, he slid on his back a few inches along the runner, stopping just on the edge of the steps. His phone had fallen facedown somewhere nearby, and the landing was nearly pitch black.
Something stepped from the doorway.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The metal cuffs rattled softly. Hushed breath sounded right above Dylan’s face.