Return to the Dark House
Read Return to the Dark House Online
Authors: Laurie Stolarz
Copyright © 2015 by Laurie Faria Stolarz
Cover photograph © iStockPhoto (house) and © Jill Wachter (girl)
Cover design by Room39b
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End
Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
ISBN 978-1-4847-1930-5
Contents
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Epigraph
- Late Summer
- Ivy Jensen
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Autumn
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Taylor Monroe
- Taylor
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Natalie Sorrento
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Natalie
- Taylor
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Ivy
- Natalie
- Ivy
- Parker Bradley
- Ivy
- Parker
- Natalie
- Ivy
- Epilogue: Spring
- Ivy
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
Just when I thought my nightmares couldn’t get any worse, I woke up to face the reality of my life.
—Ivy Jensen
Dear Parker,
Years ago, after my parents were killed, my therapist thought it would be a good idea to write them letters—as many as I felt I needed to, for all of the things I wanted to share.
She told me that I should write the letters on special paper, seal them up in envelopes, and then mail them to myself, so that one day, years later, I could open the letters and see how much
I’d grown.
The idea seemed stupid to me at the time. I was angry, confused, incapable of perspective, never mind growth. But I really don’t know what else to do here, Parker. And so I’m going
to write you letters, starting with this one, but not as a way to track my growth, and not because I think you’re dead.
I’m just hoping to feel connected to you.
It’s been almost two months since the Dark House, and in that time, the FBI has come up with only a few basic theories—or at least only a few they’re willing to share with me.
First, that aside from you and Taylor, all of the other contest winners were killed at the amusement park.
I don’t think that’s true. They have yet to uncover a single body. That theory is based solely on my testimony about the movie clips we saw just before my escape. Well, that and the
amount of blood discovered at a few of the nightmare rides.
The second theory is that the person in charge has an unlimited supply of money.
I know, not exactly rocket science, right?
Everybody keeps telling me to move on. But how can I move anywhere when you and the others are still missing? I know it may sound dumb, but after my parents’ death, I never really allowed
anyone to get too close—not my foster family, not one single friend—for fear that person might get taken from me too. But then I met you, and I broke all my own rules by allowing myself
to be vulnerable and letting you in.
The time we spent together was the closest I’d felt to anyone in years. And, just as I’d always feared, you were taken from me too. But I’m going to get you back. And years
from now when I open this letter, hopefully you’ll be sitting right beside me, and I can share it with you for real.
Love always,
Ivy
M
Y BEDROOM DOOR CREAKS OPEN,
and the light from the hallway penetrates my room. I see his boot first: black wrinkled leather, soiled at the toe.
My gaze travels up his leg. He’s wearing a bright-red suit, as part of his elf costume, along with a floppy hat and green gloves.
He stares at me in the doorway with his tiny, dark-gray eyes: they’re rimmed with amber-brown; I’d recognize them anywhere. His silver hair is just as I remember it too—thick,
shoulder-length, and wavy, tied back in a low ponytail, and with thin strands of black coursing through it.
“Good evening, Princess,” he says. His tongue inches out of his mouth, between his crooked yellow teeth, in the creepiest of grins. He looks around the room—at my soccer
banners, my music posters, and all of my touches of pink—before meeting my eyes again. “It’s
very
nice to see you.”
There’s a cut on his face, just below his eye, extending four inches down his cheek. A trickle of blood runs from it, dripping onto my paisley bedcovers. Did my mom scratch him with her
fingernails? Did Dad cut him with something sharp?
“Have you enjoyed the gifts I’ve sent you?” he asks. “The star pendant? The makeup kit?”
My fingers trembling, I reach inside my bag, searching for Taylor’s cell phone. I go to click it on, only to discover that it’s a calculator, not the phone.
The Nightmare Elf pulls a knife from the pocket of his suit and holds it out for show—a six-inch spring spike with a double-action blade. He brings it up to my neck, points the tip into my
throat.
“Please,” I whisper, pressing the back of my head against the wall, fighting the urge to swallow.
“Ivy!” Parker shouts. His voice is followed by the sound of glass breaking.
The noise startles me awake. I sit up in bed, out of breath, before realizing where I am.
In my room.
At the hospital.
A clock on the wall ticks. It’s only four in the morning.
I touch my neck and try to swallow. It feels like sharp blades inside my throat. I must be getting sick.
Someone else must be up too. I can hear the sound of glass being swept, can picture the broken pieces entering someone’s skin.
And that’s when I remember.
I push the call button. “I need somebody to come in here!” I shout, despite the fact that my roommate is sleeping only a few feet away. I grab my notebook from beneath my pillow and
write down the new clue, hoping I’m not too late.
T
HE TICKTOCK OF THE WALL CLOCK
echoes the ticking deep inside me. My very own personal time bomb, just a sneeze away from going off.
I pinch the skin on my knee, and feel the familiar cramp—a stabbing sensation at the base of my thumb that radiates up my arm, into my elbow, setting my nerves aflame. The cramping is what
eventually gets me to stop pinching.
Not the bloodred nail marks in my skin.
Not the black-and-blue blotches over both kneecaps.
Not the shamrock-shaped patch of yellow (a bruise in healing) swimming in a sea of purple skin.
I think I might spontaneously combust if someone doesn’t come in here within the next sixty seconds.
Ticktock, ticktock.
The medication isn’t working. It’s supposed to lighten and dull, but instead it seems to magnify. Everything feels brighter, louder, harsher, sharper.
I’m in one of the private meeting rooms. Sitting among white walls and metal folding chairs, at a laminate table with boogers and gum wads stuck underneath.
Because I started sleeping with knives.
Because Apple and Core, my foster parents, don’t think I’m the safest person to be around.
Not safe for myself.
Not safe for any of my foster siblings.
I can’t say I blame them. I honestly don’t know what
safe
is anymore. I doubt that it even exists.
I drum my fingers against the table to drown out the ticking. My palm aches. The nubs of my fingers feel tingly.
Finally, there’s a knock on the door. It creaks open. An officer walks in. Detective Thomas, local P.D. A major letdown. “I’d asked to speak with the FBI,” I tell
him.
“Nice to see you too.” He nods a hello and takes a seat across from me. There are pouches beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. At least we have one thing in common.
I take my notebook from my lap and open it up to the first page. “There are some things we need to go over.”
After only a couple of seconds of reading, he lets out a heavy sigh. His breath smells like Cheetos. “We’ve been through these details before, Ivy. I thought you had something
new.”
“I do, but first we need to review.”
“We’ve already reviewed.” He’s looking at me rather than my notes. “We’ve also explored, dissected, examined, and revisited. Trust me when I say that
we’re doing all we can.”
