Return to the Dark House (13 page)
Read Return to the Dark House Online
Authors: Laurie Stolarz
I
WAIT UNTIL
T
AYLOR NODS
off before heading out to the hallway. Sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the wall, I
stare at the photo of the dolls, desperate for some clue. The background is dark. The dolls look vintage with their wide, haunted eyes and their dirty, scratched-up faces.
I check my phone, knowing I have at least a couple of missed messages—two missed calls from Apple and a text from Core telling me to check in. I text both that all is well at the food
fest.
The e-mail from the Nightmare Elf is up on the screen. I hit
REPLY
, thinking about all the other questions I might ask him: Why my parents? Is it true that my dad went
superquick, like the medical examiner said? What were my mom’s final words? And are Parker and the others still alive?
I run the T-shirt bracelet over my cheek, imagining that Parker can feel it somehow. The reply box still open, I type in my cell phone number. My finger trembles over the
SEND
tab. Should I? Shouldn’t I?
Finally, I press
SEND
, feeling a wave of relief. Only now can I get some rest.
There’s a vibrating sensation inside my palm; it jolts me awake. I open my eyes and sit up. I’m back in Taylor’s room, on the futon. Taylor’s still
asleep in her bed.
The phone clenched in my hand, the vibrating continues. The screen says
PRIVATE CALLER
. I click it on, moving out into the hallway. The brightness of the overhead lights
shocks my eyes.
“Hello, Princess.” His deep-throated voice sends shivers all over my skin. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
My head whirs. There’s a swirl of darkness behind my eyes, making everything feel hazy and thick. “What do you want?”
“Oh, but this isn’t about what
I
want. This is about what
you
want, isn’t it, Princess? You gave me your number. You looked Taylor up.
You
reached out to
me
. I’m assuming that by going to such great lengths, you must really want to reclaim your role.”
“My role,” I repeat, at a sudden loss for words.
“You want to be my star again, don’t you, Princess?”
I reach for the keys inside my pocket and run my finger over the sharpest one—not as pointed as a knife, but it has a tip, and manages to soothe.
I’m in control. I still have
choices.
“Where are the others?”
“It’s enchanting to hear your voice.”
“
Where are the others
?” I insist.
“By others, do you mean your costars?”
“Okay,” I say. There’s a hitch in my throat.
“You’ll have to see, my honeybee.”
A door creaks open at the end of the hallway. Three girls emerge wearing matching heart-patterned pajamas. They’re giggling as they move toward the stairwell, seemingly without a care in
the world.
I look at the time; it’s 7:32 a.m. “How do you know that I won’t go to the police?”
He laughs—a cackling sound that reverberates inside my bones. “Because I know you, April. I’ve been watching you for a long, long time, internalizing your every choice. You
were desperate enough a year ago to enter my contest, despite how scared you were by it, just to put old ghosts to rest. You’re even more desperate now.”
My breath stops. My skin ices over.
“Cat got your tongue?” There’s amusement in his voice. “Do you miss your fine prince, my princess? Would you like to see him again? I have an inkling he might like that
too.”
“Is Parker still alive?”
“Not so quick, my sugar stick. I believe you’d asked me a question. Do you remember what it was?”
“Why did you wait so long?”
“Because you’re like that fine bottle of wine just waiting to be uncorked. It would’ve been a waste to indulge too soon. One needs to be patient until things have properly aged
and ripened. Alas, from the very first time I saw you, I knew you’d be the perfect star. I hope you’ll be my star again.”
“Will it mean getting to see the others?”
“So long as you keep things between us. Do I make myself clear?”
“How do I know they’re still alive?”
“You don’t. That’s a leap of faith you’ll have to take.”
“And if I don’t take that leap?”
“Then you’ll never know if you could’ve done something, saved someone, silenced the screaming inside your head.”
There’s a jumping sensation in my gut, a rushing sensation through my veins. “What do I need to do? Where do I need to go?”
“Ivy?” Taylor asks. She’s standing right behind me. The door to her room is open. There’s a confused expression on her face.
I hold up my finger, asking for a second.
“Who are you talking to?” she persists.
“Just give me a minute,” I insist, cupping over the mouthpiece.
“Holy shit. It’s him, isn’t it? You totally e-mailed him, didn’t you? Even though we agreed to wait.”
The phone clicks. He hung up.
Ticktock, ticktock.
Boom.
I
VY IS TOTALLY GOING TO BLOW.
Still, she accepts my invitation for fresh air. We go outside and walk across the footbridge, finally ending up at the rec
hall—a favorite spot on campus. There are cushy chairs, snack machines, game tables, and an espresso bar with ten degrees of boldness (for those particularly rough cramming sessions).
Ivy and I gravitate to the espresso bar. She brews herself a #10, while I go for a #3 with extra cream and two packets of sugar, and we sit on a couch, overlooking the foosball tables.
“Look,” I begin, unable to take her silent treatment for one more sip, “I get that you’re upset, but I thought the deal was that we weren’t going to do anything
until morning.”
“The killer was about to tell me what I needed to do.”
“What you needed to do
to what
?”
“I’m sure he’ll call me back. He has my number. He knows how to reach me.” Her cell phone’s clenched in her hand.
“We need to go to the police,” I tell her for the umpteenth time.
“No,” she barks. “You need to promise me that you won’t.”
“I can’t.” I sigh. “I’ve already surpassed my limit on screwups regarding this case.”
“Give me at least a week.”
“A week to do what?”
“Research.” She pinches the skin on her kneecap. “I just want a chance to go through the clues on my own before turning them over to anyone.”
“You do realize that pawing over physical clues is, like, number one on the how-to-sabotage-the-evidence list, don’t you?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, right, because you binge-watch
CSI
?”
“The killer knows what he’s doing too,” she continues, ignoring my jab. “He’s way too smart to leave fingerprints or DNA.”
“Are you really willing to take that risk?”
“I think you owe me a week.”
“Why? Because everything’s all my fault? Because you obviously blame me too?”
“Because I’m asking
you
—someone who was able to dodge the worst weekend of my life, and arguably the worst weekend of the five other missing contest winners—to
wait.”
Her words are sharp. They form a knife that stabs into my back. “Three days,” I say to compromise. “After that, I’m going to the police. And I’m going to tell them
everything.”
“Three days,” she repeats, extending her hand to shake on it.
I give her a hug instead. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, but the embrace falls short of the one from last night when she first arrived—that palpable sort of connection.
“It’ll all be fine,” she mutters.
I know she’s totally trying to bullshit me—that things are about as fine as fuzzy bacon bits—but I take her lie anyway.
From the Journal of E.W.
Grade 7, August Preparatory School
WINTER 1972
I can see a face inside my head: a blond-haired boy with freckles and a pointed nose. I roll over in bed. My shades are drawn. My heart is racing. There’s still three more
hours until people start waking up.
I reach for my inhaler, flashing back to cold sweats and panic attacks, sitting alone in my bedroom at home, with the door locked and the light out, able to hear noises out in the
hallway—footsteps, door knocks, floors creaking, bells jangling.
My mind told me that it was Mother making the noises. I could hear her evil little-girl giggle, after all. But every other part of me was convinced that it was the ghost of Johnny, outside my
bedroom, coming to get me.
I click on my night table light. Everything appears normal—dresser, desk, chair, bookcase, journal—but it still feels like someone’s here. I lean over the side of the bed to
check beneath it. Empty.
It’s been like this all week. Whenever I close my eyes at night, I can see that boy’s face. I asked the man in charge of the rooms if I could switch mine, but he said no
changes—that if he changed one, then everybody would be asking. I wonder if my grandparents are paying him extra for that.
Last night, when I got up to check the door, I could’ve sworn the temperature in the room had dropped by at least twenty degrees. I tried the knob. A good sign: it was still locked. An
even better sign: I was able to unlock it, unlike years before in my bedroom back home.
I closed the door, turned toward the bed again, and felt my heart come to a sudden stop. There was something sticking up from behind my pillow—some kind of paper. I moved closer to see
what it was, thinking that maybe a page had fallen out from my journal or that I’d misplaced a handout from one of my classes.
I moved to stand just a couple of feet from the headboard, and the answer became clear. It was a page from an August Prep yearbook. I scanned the photos, somehow knowing what I would find. And I
was right. There was a photo of the blond-haired boy with the freckles and pointed nose—the same boy that’s been popping up inside my mind.
Ricky Slater.
I
T
’
S FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER
, and I still haven’t heard back from the killer. And so I’ve been searching
online, trying to find images of the dolls from the photo. Does he own them? Where are they from? What year were they made? What are the chances that I can find them together as a collection?
Dr. Tully called about an hour ago, reminding me about our outpatient therapy deal, which I took as a definite threat. And so that’s exactly where I am—in the hospital parking lot,
having just exited my car. I step through the doors of the mental health wing just as my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I check the screen:
PRIVATE CALLER
. My heart instantly clenches.
“Are you coming?” a girl asks, holding the elevator open for me.
I shake my head and click on the phone. “Hello?” I cover my ear and move toward the exit door, looking back out over the parking lot. “
Hello?”
“Good evening, Princess.” His voice sends a shockwave through my body.
“What do you want?” I ask him.
“This isn’t about what
I
want, remember? Are you alone?”
I look back over my shoulder, just as someone emerges from the stairwell and then moves past me through the exit doors. “Sort of.”
“Sort of isn’t good enough, Princess. Go someplace private.”
“Okay,” I mutter, heading outside. I cross the road in front of the entrance, and then hurry across the parking lot, fumbling to retrieve my keys from inside my pocket. I go to get
back inside my car, but the doors are locked. I jam the wrong key into the lock before finding the right one.
Back inside my car, I lock the door behind me. “I’m alone now,” I tell him, all out of breath. The overhead streetlamps shine through my windshield, making me feel exposed. My
head aches. I haven’t taken my meds.
“Good, because our conversations should only be between the two of us. Do you understand that, April? One word to anyone else—any lofty plans to conspire with the police—and
your costars will be cut. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very. I get it. It’s just you and me. What do I need to do? Where do I need to go?”
“I’ve actually come to you. Do you have paper and a pen?”
