Return to the Dark House (27 page)

She’s real.

I’m here.

“You were warned,” she mumbles; her voice is shallow and weak. “Harris warned you. He told me. I told you.” She stumbles over her feet, seemingly unfazed by my presence.
“Don’t let her out of your sight. Is it true what Harris has been telling me, that Taylor came here too, that she’s missing now as well? That she’s not going to make
it?”

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “She’s fine. Taylor will be fine.”

Natalie covers her ears with her hands, as if Harris is speaking to her at this very moment.

“No,” I repeat, studying her eyes. Beneath the redness, her pupils are dilated; there’s only a slim ring of blue. “Were you given something?” I ask her, assuming
she must’ve been sedated or tranquilized.

“Not as much as him.” She nods to Parker. “But Harris warns me about that too—about which foods to eat and how much to drink.”

It takes me a second to notice the lock at the front of the cell. I fish a key out of my pocket—the gold one again—and jam it into the lock, suspecting that it won’t turn.

But it does. The lock clicks. The cell door swings open.

I hurry over to Parker’s cell, fearing the key won’t work, dropping it once again. It lands inside the cell. I scoot down and reach in, between the bars, but I can’t quite get
it. I need a few more inches. I struggle to reach in farther, my shoulder jammed against the bars, my cheek pressed against the dirt.

Finally, I’m able to grasp it. I get up and stick the key into the lock. It turns.

I’m in.

I rush over to Parker’s side.

“Hurry,” Natalie shouts.

I shake his shoulder and call out his name over and over. At last, I can tell he’s breathing—can feel the air exhale out of his nostrils.

“He’s been like that for a while,” she says, joining me inside the cell.

I reach into my bag, retrieving a small tin box filled with lemongrass and peppermint tea leaves, along with a bottle of eucalyptus oil. I unscrew the cap off the oil, pour a few droplets over
the leaves, and mix it all up with my finger, releasing the scent notes.

“What are you doing?” Natalie asks.

I place the tin in front of Parker’s nose and wait for him to breathe it in. After a few moments, his eyes open.

He sees me.

His lips part.

He blinks a couple of times, perhaps thinking that this is a dream.

I pinch his forearm. “It’s real,” I tell him, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

Parker labors to sit up, lifting himself with his elbow and then his hand. His eyes are dilated too. “Ivy,” he whispers; his voice is frail.

“Don’t try to talk.”

He reaches out to touch my face. His fingers are cold; they tremble against my skin. “You came back.”

I nod, desperate to hold him, to touch him, to never let him go again.

He squeezes my hand. I recognize the fit of my palm inside his grip.

“We need to go,” Natalie insists, looking toward the doorway.

Parker tries to get up, stumbling back, uneven on his feet.

“Stay close to me.” I stand and take his hand. “We’re going to get through this, but I need you to be strong for me.”

We move down the tunnel and up the slab steps. Parker’s gait is slow and clumsy. Back in the open basement area, something catches my eye—over to the side. There’s something
reaching out from the bottom of a closed door.

I move closer, my mind almost unable to grasp what I see.

Fingers.

Chipped green nail polish.

Taylor’s hand.

There’s a puddle of blood seeping through the crack at the bottom of the door, gushing beneath my shoes.

I try the knob. It’s locked. The gold key doesn’t work, neither do the keys on the ring. “Taylor!” I shout.

“She won’t answer you,” a voice says.

I look back at Parker and Natalie, standing a few feet behind me. But the voice didn’t come from either of them. It came from someplace else—across the cellar, hidden in the shadows.
I hear the scuffing of his boots.

“Hello, Princess,” he says, stepping into the path of my flashlight beam.

The sight of him evokes a visceral reaction in my gut. I grab the knife from my bag.

“Taylor isn’t the only one who didn’t make it. Those who aren’t currently present were properly disposed of long ago.”

“No.” I clench my teeth and shake my head.

“I couldn’t let her get away twice, after all. You, Parker, Natalie—you three are my survivors. For now, anyway.” He giggles.

He looks exactly as he did at the amusement park, wearing an elf mask (rosy cheeks, darted brows, and a perma-smile) and dressed in a bright red suit, floppy hat, and green gloves.

He cocks his head. His tongue peeks out through the mouth-hole in the mask. “It’s very nice to see you.”

I lunge for him, knife first, picturing the tip of the blade puncturing his neck. I go to stab him, aiming for the area just above his collarbone.

He grabs my arm and twists it behind my back—a stinging, wrenching pain.

I bend forward, trying to break free and unwind from his grip.

“Feel nice?” he asks; I can hear the smile in his voice.

Parker comes at him, swinging at his face, hitting him square in the jaw. I topple to the floor, landing on my side.

The killer is quick to rebound, securing his mask, and then pushing against Parker’s chest.

Parker nearly loses his balance, taking a moment to regain stability. He blinks a few times, confused.

“You’re in no condition for such heroics,” the killer says to him, pulling something from his pocket. A needle, with a syringe.

I charge him, wielding the knife above my head. But the killer trips me, winding his leg around mine, grinding his elbow into my spine. I hear a loud crack.

He shoves me, face-first. I land against my chest. The camera flies from my head. My nose hits the ground. The knife jumps from my grip. I go to retrieve it, blood pouring from my nose.

Parker jumps at the killer once more, throwing his weight against him, trying to knock him down. The killer staggers back a few steps, but then regains his footing. He thrusts
Parker—hard.

Parker falls headfirst to the floor. He tries to get up, but the Nightmare Elf kicks him in the side—again and again and again—before jabbing the needle deep into Parker’s
thigh.

Parker lets out a sharp, piercing wail that stabs through my heart.

“No!” I scream.

Parker looks at me with a pleading expression—his eyes wide, his mouth parted. But, not two seconds later, those same eyes go vacant.

His legs stop twitching.

His body lies still.

“This is turning out better than I anticipated,” the killer says, zeroing in on me again.

Still on the floor, I look around, searching for Natalie, but she’s nowhere in sight. Where did she go?

The killer turns to face me, his head cocked to one side. “Your turn?” he asks, taking out another needle.

I get up and meet his eyes, noticing the motion of his chest as he breathes. He’s slightly winded. His feet—work boots—are pointed toward me, ready to charge.

I wait for his first move, conjuring up various lessons I’ve learned in self-defense class: eye contact is key; timing is essential; more than half of all defense begins in the mind as we
await the opponent’s vulnerability.

I’m done being the vulnerable one.

He comes at me, the needle clenched in his fist, angling down toward my neck. I take a step back, watching the needle in my peripheral vision—just six inches from my heart
now—anticipating the opportune moment.

I plunge the knife deep into his gut. The needle drops to the floor.

He retreats, but then unzips his coat, revealing a layer of protective padding strapped to his body. My knife’s stuck inside the padding.

“Nice try, my Princess.” He laughs. “But I’m always one step ahead.” He grabs the handle of the knife and twists it left and right, trying to pry it out.

I run before he can, as fast as my legs will take me—hating myself for each stride I take toward the door, leaving Parker once again.

I
BACK AWAY
—
SLOWLY AT FIRST
—keeping my eye on the fight.

Parker and the Elf.

Ivy and the Elf.

My fight is with Harris.

“I can’t just leave like this,” I tell him, able to hear tears in my voice.

“There’s no other choice,”
Harris says.
“Not unless you want to be killed. A slice to your neck
,
in front of a mirror, so you can watch.”

Is he saying that just to scare me? The mirror detail is suspect, but I don’t want to chance it.

When I get to the doorway, I turn and run down the stairs, headed for the bulkhead exit. I know it’s here somewhere.

The hallway is dark, lined with candles along the ground, positioned every few feet. I grab a candle for light and then move in the opposite direction of where the prison cells are located,
turning left and then going right, trying to stay focused on Harris’s voice.

“There,”
Harris says, referring to a weathered door just a few feet away.

I remove the wooden brace across it. The door creaks open. A set of stairs faces me, but it’s too dark. I can only make out two of the treads.

There’s a slamming sound in the distance. It blows right through me, like a gunshot to my heart.

“What are you stopping for?”
Harris asks.

I move up the stairs, into a black hole. My head hits something hard. Am I trapped? What’s happening? Harris, are you still here?

I set the candle on a step and reach up. My fingers rake against something cold, hard, metal—like a ceiling above my head. I push upward, feeling a little give. My muscles quiver. My head
whirs. I slip down a step. I don’t think I can do this.

“You can,”
Harris tells me.

Using all my strength, I push harder. The bulkhead doors part open. A funnel of cold air blows against my face.

But then my muscles give. My arms jitter. I let out a wild animal cry.

Harris whispers in my ear:
“This is your only hope, your only chance.”

I take a deep breath and push upward again, punching against the metal, popping the doors open. They start to close once more, but I punch them again, feeling a rip in my skin. The doors splay
open.

I climb up the rest of the stairs and take a step outside. The cold air kisses my face, finds the bald patches on my head, reminding me who I am.

But still, I’m out, I’m free.

“Not yet,”
Harris says.

I
CAN HEAR HIM COMING AFTER ME
—the clobber of his boots, the panting of his breath. I hurry down the hallway, my nose still bleeding, my
shoulder aching from when he twisted my arm. I scan the walls, still looking for the photos of Frankie, Garth, and Shayla, as if they might possibly reappear.

In the lobby, there’s a chair positioned dead center. Two dolls sit on it—a mama with a little boy. Both have cracked porcelain faces. The mama only has one cheek and half of a
forehead. Their eyes are white, the pupils faded. The boy doll looks sad, its mouth turned downward. There’s a tear inked onto its cheek.

“Leaving so soon?”
the mama’s voice squeaks out.
“I was just in the middle of telling a bedtime story.”

Facing the exit door, I feel a rush of adrenaline inside my veins, but I know that I can’t leave—not now, not yet. I turn away, just as the killer appears. He stands in my
flashlight’s beam.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks. “The story isn’t over yet.”

“I want to see your face.”

He’s got the camera strapped to his head now. The shadow of a candle flame flickers across his mouth.

“Show me,” I tell him, trying to be strong, hearing a quiver in my voice.

He shakes his head again. His tongue sticks out through the hole in the mask. He waggles it up and down, teasing me, taunting me.

Keeping my eyes on his, I take a deep breath, noticing the knife gripped in his hand, down by his side.

“Leaving so soon?”
the doll asks again.
“I was just in the middle of telling a bedtime story.”

The killer comes at me with the knife, slicing through the air, releasing a maniacal scream.