Return to the Dark House (28 page)
Read Return to the Dark House Online
Authors: Laurie Stolarz
I duck and pivot to the side. The knife punctures the door. I smash him over the head with my flashlight—so hard that the flashlight falls from my grip, crashes to the floor.
Using both hands, he tries to pry the blade from the wood. At the same moment, I kick him—hard—my heel plunging into the back of his knee. He collapses forward, losing his grip on
the knife. But still he rebounds quickly, catching himself on the floor.
He goes for the knife again.
Meanwhile, I grab and twist the door handle, tearing the door wide open, smacking it against his head. I shiver at the impact—a deep clunk sound.
He lets out a howl. I hear him stumble back.
I snag my flashlight and plow down the front steps—three at time.
It’s dark out. The chill in the air moves across my skin, waters my eyes. I run through the courtyard area, past the water fountain, headed for the woods, hoping the darkness can swallow
me whole.
It’s quiet behind me. Is he still in the building? Watching me from afar? I wind through the mazelike bushes and get back on the trail, moving forward, feeling as if I’ve gotten a
decent lead.
I stop, click off my flashlight, and crouch down behind some bushes, desperate to know where he is, tempted to go back.
My pulse races. My body shivers. I don’t hear him anywhere. I can’t see a thing in the dark. Does he have a flashlight too?
After several moments, I stand and take a step. There’s a loud snap. It echoes inside my bones, freezes me in place. It takes me a beat to realize that the sound was from me; I stepped on
a stick.
“Leaving so soon?” a voice squeaks out, cutting the dark silence. It’s the doll’s voice, right behind my ear.
I let out a scream. Hands wrap around my neck. The knife is pressed against my throat. I can feel his chest against my back, can feel his breath against my skin.
“You’ll always be my princess,” he whispers, running the blade along my neck.
I swallow hard, my mind reeling, my heart pounding, waiting for the right moment. Wind rustles through the trees, sending shivers all over my skin.
I press my back closer to his chest. The motion takes him aback; I’m able to feel his sharp inhalation. Before he can blow it out, I pound him—hard—in the groin, with the
flashlight.
The knife drops. He lets out a grunt and doubles over. I kick him again, plunging the heel of my shoe into his hip. He topples over, leaving me a window to run.
I grapple through the brush. Branches scrape my face, pull at my hair, slow me down. But I continue through them as best I can in the dark, keeping my bag in front of my eyes as a shield.
A good seven or eight strides away, I bump into something hard—a tree trunk. There’s brush all around it. I maneuver past and take a few more steps.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,”
the killer sings.
I stop in place, able to hear him moving toward me—the crunch of his boots over dirt, the sound of twigs snapping beneath his feet. But he isn’t using a flashlight either, so I
can’t see him anywhere.
I crouch down, and wait, and listen. After several moments, his footsteps seem to veer off in another direction; I hear the sound of twigs snapping at least several yards away.
I click the flashlight on, keeping the beam angled low, searching for the path. I don’t see it anywhere. I turn the flashlight off and venture to stand. It’s quiet again; he must be
standing still too.
There’s a rustle in the brush; it sounds as if it’s coming from a distance. I click the flashlight on again—for just a second—hoping to finally find the path.
Instead I find him—his eyes.
No mask.
My parents’ killer.
He holds a flashlight at his chin, highlighting his face. “You got your wish. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen this face, hasn’t it, Princess? Did you miss
it?” He’s standing only a few feet away; we’re separated by a sprawling bush.
I recognize his silver hair—thick and wiry. I picture him standing over my bed seven years ago—his dark gray eyes, his crooked teeth, the stubble on his chin, and the scar down his
face.
“I would’ve stayed to tell you a bedtime story that night in your room, but our time was cut short, wasn’t it, Princess?” He begins toward me again, the camera still
strapped around his head, recording our every move. Part of me wants to charge right into him, but I try to bolt instead.
I barely get two steps before I feel myself pulled back. He yanks me by the hair, giving me a sharp tug, dragging me into some brush. There’s a knife—a new one, with a jagged
edge—pressed against my neck.
He’s crouched behind me. I’m on my back. Razor-like branches poke beneath my clothes, cutting into my skin.
“I’d have told you the story about little Johnny and the burning house.” He points the tip of the blade below my ear and makes a tiny incision. He draws the knife downward,
toward my chin. I can feel a trickle of blood, can see a star-filled sky.
“Once upon a time,” he begins, “a little b—”
There’s a loud, hard thwack. Something metal. He lets out a wail and releases his hold on me. The knife falls from my neck.
I scramble to turn over, hearing the thwacking sound again.
Natalie’s there, with a shovel in her hand. The killer is down on the ground. I shine my flashlight over a trickle of blood running from his forehead.
Natalie takes the killer’s flashlight and points it beyond the brush, zeroing in on the path. “Come on,” she says.
Together we run, swiping branches and brush from in front of our eyes. Eventually, after what has to be a couple miles, we get to the lake. The boat’s there. We untie it from the stump and
climb in. I grab the oar. My arms ache as I paddle.
Natalie keeps the flashlight pointed toward the dock on the other side of the lake. With her other arm, she paddles, as we steer in that direction. It feels like we’re going nowhere. I
can’t paddle fast enough.
There’s a giant splash sound. Natalie sits up straight, pulls her arm out of the water. Did he jump in? Is it another trick? I paddle harder; my arms move faster.
Finally on the other side, I scramble to climb out, nearly losing my balance. Already on the dock, I hold Natalie’s forearm, and we struggle our way across the field.
I can tell she’s weak, can see it in her gait. It’s labored and clumsy; she’s staggering from side to side. Her adrenaline’s running out.
Her knee buckles slightly and she lets out a yelp. I secure her arm to catch her from falling. With each step, our pacing gets slower, heavier. We still haven’t reached the rock wall.
There’s so much more distance to run. My wounded knee is aching.
“I can’t,” Natalie whines. She stops short, all out of breath, placing her hands down on her knees.
“You
can
,” I insist, still holding onto her forearm, giving her a tug forward. “It’s just a little bit farther,” I lie.
But Natalie won’t budge. She shakes her head and sinks to the ground. Tears run down her cheeks. I pull my water bottle out of my bag and kneel down beside her. I place the spout at her
lips.
She takes a few sips, but then ends up hacking up. “Go without me.”
“No. We’ve come too far.”
She curls up on the grass. “Just leave me here to die. I don’t really care. I miss Harris too much anyway.”
“Harris won’t be waiting for you,” I tell her. “Not if you quit.”
She looks at me, her eyes enlivened. “Has he been talking to you too?”
“He has,” I lie. “Now, come on.” I help her up, and we begin forward again, my knee throbbing with each step.
At last, we reach the rock wall. We climb over it and continue across the second field, not stopping until we get to the road where the bus let me out. My breath is visible—a long-winded
puff of air. A mix of emotions stirs inside my heart: sorrow, failure, loss, relief.
I look down both sides of the road, spotting a car moving toward me in the distance. I flag it down. Natalie’s sitting on the ground.
There’s a young couple inside. A tiny black dog.
“Could you give us a ride to the police?” I ask, keeping a firm grip on my bottle pendant.
I think they say yes. Maybe I respond with a thank-you.
The couple asks us questions: if we’re okay, what happened. Too much to answer. Way too much to think about.
Natalie opens the car door. There’s a sweet tobacco scent inside the car. She scoots in to make room for me.
But I don’t move. And I can barely breathe.
“Ivy?”
I look at the driver. She reminds me a little of Shayla—dark skin, pretty smile.
“Come on,” Natalie says, patting the seat beside her.
“I can’t,” I tell her, shaking my head.
“Ivy—”
I close the car door and head back toward the field.
INT. BASEMENT, ABANDONED GOTHIC BUILDING–NIGHT
A large open space with cracked cement floors and overhead ductwork. It’s dark, except for a spotlight that hangs in the far corner, several yards away.
ANGLE ON ME
I lie on the ground in a pool of my own blood. My head is bleeding. No one else is here. I’ve got to leave too.
I manage to sit up, but I can’t move my leg. I can’t even feel it.
Using all my strength, I prop myself up on my elbows and slither across the floor, toward the doorway that’ll lead out.
I let out a GRUNT. My bones ache. My muscles twitch. Drool drips down my chin.
En route to the doorway, there’s a puddle of blood on the floor, seeping out from a door to the left.
CLOSE ON DOOR
A hand sticks out from beneath it, palm facing up. The nails have chipped green polish.
I go to reach up for the knob, but my elbow buckles and I nearly fall on my face. I try again, sitting up. The door is locked, as before. The wood is thick and heavy. I’d
need to be able to stand to bust it open.
I POUND on the door.
ME
Hello? Can you hear me?
I touch the fingers. The skin is cold. I apply pressure to the thumb, looking for a response. There isn’t one; no movement—even when I pinch the skin.
I continue to POUND on the door, shoving my weight against it as best I can in a seated position, continuing to SHOUT for whoever’s inside to hear me.
A door SLAMS somewhere. I stop pounding and drop down to the ground. On my elbows again, I slither along the floor, working my way to the doorway. The skin on my forearms
burns.
There are FOOTSTEPS in the distance. I’m just a few feet from the doorway now. A trickle of sweat runs from my forehead.
I wrestle my way down the slab steps, landing face-first. My chin hits a rock. My teeth clank together. Blood runs from my nose. I drag myself onto the dirt floor; it’s
lit up with candles that lead the way back to the prison cells.
I move to the left, through an open doorway. My shirt rolls upward. The skin on my stomach scrapes against something sharp—a tearing, singeing pain—and I wince.
It’s completely dark here. No lights, no candles. I continue to crawl forward, my fingers raking over the dirt. My fingers are raw and bleeding.
The ground feels suddenly colder. I must be getting closer. A door hinge WHINES somewhere. There are other sounds too: CLANKING, BANGING, CLAMORING, the RUSTLING of bags.
I keep moving forward, unable to see a thing. I should’ve grabbed a candle. It’s too late to turn back now.
I hit a dead end—a dirt wall. I move in the opposite direction. Another dead end. The FOOTSTEPS move in my direction. I don’t know where to go. I back up against
the wall, praying that he won’t find me.
I
RUN ACROSS THE FIELD
and climb back over the rock wall, wondering how much time has passed since I left Parker. It has to be well over two hours (no
less than forty-five minutes in the woods with the killer; another ninety minutes, at least, getting to the street with Natalie; and now an additional hour to get back). There’s a cramp in my
side. It bites below my ribs, nagging me to stop.
Finally I get to the lake, but the boat has floated away. I can see it in the distance—too far to swim. The oar has floated off as well—in the opposite direction than the boat.
