Return to the Dark House (17 page)

Another eerie sculpture faces us on the back wall. It looks like it was done in limestone: a life-size woman reading a book, with children swooning at her feet. The children look
possessed—tiny pupils, darted eyebrows, rounded faces, and dimpled cheeks. Beyond the sculpture is a grand staircase with wide steps and thick banister railings. I picture myself falling
through the center, mid-ascent.

“So, maybe this wasn’t such a nifty idea.” I gaze back at the entrance doors, beyond tempted to bolt.

“What’s that?” Ivy asks, nodding to a package at the foot of the sculpture. It’s about the size of a shoebox and tied with a big red bow. Beside it is a hefty
flashlight.

“A party favor?” I offer, trying to keep things light for the sake of my own sanity. I pick the package up and give it a shake. Something knocks around inside it. “Do you want
to do the honors?”

“You can,” she says, her hand stuffed inside her bag again.

I look back at the entrance doors once more, picturing myself leaving, trying to formulate an excuse. My fingers fumble as I work to untie the ribbon. I don’t get the knot undone on the
first few tries.

“Need some help?” Ivy asks.

“I got it,” I say, finally pulling the ribbon free. I open the box and peek inside.

At the same moment, the front doors slam shut with a loud, heavy thud. The box springs from my hands, dropping to the floor.

“No!” I shout, going for the door. The sound of bolts locking echoes inside my brain. My heart tightens into a fist. The handle doesn’t budge.

Music starts to play—the theme song to
Haunt Me
.

“Shit, shit,
shit
!” I shout, pounding on the door, knowing I totally blew it.

Tears fill Ivy’s eyes. I’m crying too—on the inside, trying to hold it together. I’m so freaking stupid.

“This song,” she mutters. “My parents. The killer played this just after…” She focuses back on the gift box.

I move to pick it up, revealing what’s inside: a video camera—the kind that straps to your head. There are earphones attached, with another piece that curls downward for a mic,
reminding me of a 911 operator. “Put it on,” I tell her.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Look,” I say, forcing the camera into her hands. “This isn’t exactly
my
idea of fun, either. But since you came to play, don’t you think you should follow
the rules—at least to begin with?”

Ivy reluctantly slips the video camera on so that the lens shoots out from the center of her forehead and the headphones rest over her ears. The tiny voice piece hovers a few inches in front of
her mouth.

“There’s crackling,” she says, signaling to her earphones.

I move closer and grab one of the earpieces to listen.

“Welcome to
my
nightmare, Princess,” a voice plays, making my stomach twist.

“Are you ready to be a star?” he asks. “You survived
your
worst nightmare. Now, it’s time for you to experience
mine
—a place that haunted me when I
was a young boy. The cameras are rolling—except for your camera, that is. And how nice that you brought a co-star. Taylor Monroe, are you ready to reclaim your role?”

“Go screw yourself,” I shout into the mic. I take Ivy’s hand and give it a firm squeeze. “We’re going to get through this,” I tell her, trying to convince
myself the same. I muster my best smile, pretending to be acting a role, telling myself this isn’t real.

I thought
I
was jittery, but Ivy’s trembling like a diabetic in need of Pixy Stix. Still, I click on her camera, really wishing I’d gone with my gut.

From the Journal of E.W.

Grade 7, August Preparatory School

“I
TRUST THAT THE CAMERA
is properly affixed to your head.” His voice in my ear makes my head feel dizzy. “Now I can see things from
your point of view. Do you have any idea how exciting that is to me?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, imagining the camera like a ticking time bomb, about to go off. Taylor stands by my side, listening in, one of the earpieces turned outward.

“This building used to belong to August Prep,” the voice continues. “The school opened in 1896. Thomas Shumacher, the owner of this estate, wanted to create a small, multi-aged
academic environment that would cater to alternative learning styles and accept boys from all walks of life and with various areas of interest. I lived at this very boarding school, where five
years prior to my admission, a student had committed suicide.”

“Too bad that student wasn’t
you
,” Taylor says, speaking to the camera on my head.

“Parents pulled their sons from August as rumors about the suicide spread,” the voice continues. “Many believed the building was haunted. By the time I got here, the number of
students had dropped from forty-eight to just twelve. Do you believe in hauntings, Princess? Things that go bump in the night?”

“And now for the million-dollar question: Why does he keep calling you Princess?” Taylor asks.

I shake my head. I don’t have an answer. There’s a prickly sensation all over my skin.

“You’ll have just four hours to save the others,” the voice says. “In order to do that, you’ll need to get through every challenge and follow all of the
instructions.”

“Every challenge?” I whisper.

“Every challenge has a clue,” he explains, as if speaking directly to me. “If you want to find the others, you’ll need to collect all of those clues. Now, let’s
begin. Proceed to room number two.”

Taylor hands me the flashlight. She has her own—one of those mini keychain ones. She clicks it on and begins to look around, heading to the area behind the statue. There’s a doorway
to the right of a grand staircase. She pushes the door open.

We’ve found the kitchen. It’s huge—like for a chef—with high ceilings, stainless-steel appliances, and a crumbling tile floor. Beyond the kitchen is a dining area with
long rectangular tables. I angle my flashlight all around and catch something moving out of the corner of my eye.

To my left.

By the fridge.

I shine my flashlight at it, feeling my whole body tense.

“Holy shit,” Taylor says, following my gaze.

A boy’s face is there, on the fridge door. Blond hair, angry eyes, a scowl across his lips. The image is transparent, as if it’s being projected somehow. I turn to look behind me,
where there’s a wall of cabinets. I open a few of the doors, wondering if there might be a camera hidden inside.

“It’s gone,” Taylor says.

I swivel back around. The image has vanished. But still I can feel someone’s eyes on me. “Let’s go,” I say, leading us through the dining area.

We take a turn into a hallway. Candles help light the way—wall sconces positioned about five feet apart. I shine my flashlight over cracked walls with peeling paint and insulation peeking
through the ceiling.

“Bingo,” Taylor says, standing in front of an open door. She angles her flashlight at the number two hung on the wall.

I move to stand beside her, and peek inside the room. More candles light up the space; they’re set atop elementary school desks lined up in rows. There’s a portable chalkboard at the
front of the room. The words W
ELCOME TO
M
Y
N
IGHTMARE
are scribbled across the surface.

“Remind me why I followed you here,” Taylor says. “And why does it smell like rotting fruit?”

I take a step inside. A screen drops down behind the teacher’s desk, covering the chalkboard. An old-fashioned film projector at the back of the room, just a few feet away from us, clicks
on. The screen goes dark and grainy.

I turn to look at Taylor, just as the classroom door swings shut, nearly smacking her in the face. She jumps back, into the hall. I hear the lock turn.

“Ivy?” she shouts. The doorknob jiggles as she struggles to get back in.

I try the knob too. It doesn’t budge. The door is solid wood; there are no windows to smash. My hands wrapped around the knob, I yank with all my might, my foot propped against the wall
for added strength.

There’s a clamoring sound in the hallway. A moment later, the knob pulls away in my grip. I go soaring back, landing smack against the floor.

“Are you okay?” Taylor asks.

I get up. My back aches. There’s a clanking sound against the door on the other side. She’s trying to get her knob back into place.

I try as well, aiming my flashlight into the hole; it seems there’s a metal bar that I need to fit through a squarish space. After several seconds, I finally get the bar to slide in, but
the door still won’t open.

“Would you like a cookie?” a voice asks from behind me.

I turn to look. There’s a girl on the projector screen. Little Sally Jacobs from Justin Blake’s Night Terrors films. I recognize her right away: her dark red braids, her purple
sundress, the skeleton keys jammed into her eyes.

She’s holding a tray full of cookies. “This batch just came out of the oven.” She smiles wide, despite the blood running down her cheeks. “I also have fresh lemonade
inside my house. Want to come have a glass?”

The movie projector makes a click-click-clicking sound. Meanwhile, it’s quiet out in the hallway now. I place my ear up against the door. “Taylor? Are you still out there?”

“Hellooooo,”
Little Sally Jacobs sings. “I believe I asked you a question. Cat got your tongue? Or maybe
I’ve
got the cat’s tongue.” She
giggles, pulling a short red tongue from behind her ear like a coin trick. The tongue wiggles between her fingers. She pops it into her mouth and swallows it down like candy.
“Yummy, yummy
in my tummy,”
she sings.

“Taylor?” I call again, knocking on the door.

The image of Little Sally Jacobs darkens on the screen. The background behind her grays as well. It looks as if she’s hidden in shadows. I can no longer see her face or features, nor can I
tell that her dress is purple.

By the time the image lightens, it’s morphed into a woman—someone much older than Little Sally Jacobs. Wearing a long black dress, the woman has her hair pulled back into a tight bun
atop her head, and there are deep lines in her face.

“You’re a naughty, naughty girl,” she hisses. The lines in her face seem to deepen and multiply as she moves closer and her image becomes bigger. It looks as if she’s
moving out from the screen, as if this footage is three-dimensional.

She points at me, her finger waggling left and right, scolding me, forbidding me.

“Taylor?” I shout again, unable to recognize the woman. She isn’t from one of Justin Blake’s films.

“Go stand in the corner,” she snaps.

I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for the moment to pass.

“You heard me,” she continues, moving into the center of the room, as if the image has morphed again, become a three-dimensional hologram. “As a student here at August Prep,
you will do as you are told. Now, if you don’t go stand in the corner, you won’t ever get to see your friends. Is that what you really want?”

My mind starts to race. By
friends
, does she mean the other contest winners? Does it include Taylor too?

The woman has a cookie now.
“Mmmm,”
she says, moaning over its goodness. A trickle of blood drools out her mouth and rolls down her chin. There’s an eerie grin on her
face. “Oatmeal-raisin. Would you like a bite?”

I brush Parker’s T-shirt bracelet against my cheek, reminding myself why I’m here.

She grimaces when I don’t answer. Her eyes narrow into slits. “I’ll tell you one final time,” she says; her teeth are stained with red. “Get in the
corner—
now
!”

I do as she says, moving to the far corner of the room, reassuring myself that there are still more challenges to tackle, more scenes in his movie. The killer’s going to play with me for a
while.

“Ivy?” Another voice.

I turn to look.

Natalie’s there, on the screen. The hologram is gone.

“Where are you?” she asks, looking all around as if trying to find me.

My heart beats harder. My pulse races faster. Was this prerecorded? Or is it possible that it’s live, that she knows I’m here?

Her wig is off. Her hair’s uneven—shorter in some places, longer in others. She’s wearing the same clothes from the Dark House amusement park night—the layers of black
and gray.