Return to the Dark House (3 page)
Read Return to the Dark House Online
Authors: Laurie Stolarz
PAST PSYCHIATRIC HISTORY
After her maternal mother and paternal father were killed, Ivy saw Paula Laub, M.D. From the age of 9 to present, she’s been seeing Donna Lamb, PhD.
No.
S
HE
’
S HERE.
S
ITTING AT A
table in the rec room, in a chair that’s way too small for her. Dr.
Donna looks like a little kid.
“Hi,” I say, in a voice that’s just as small.
She doesn’t hear me. The TV’s too loud.
Wheel of Fortune
. I snatch the remote from the bookcase and lower the volume. No one who’s watching seems to care, or maybe they
just don’t notice.
“Hi,” I try again, taking the seat across from her. Somehow, despite the obvious change of space—not her stuffy office but the common area of a mental hospital—I still
slip into rote routine, imagining this like a rerun on TV, suddenly wishing I could click away.
IVY:
Thanks for coming to see me on such short notice.
DR. DONNA:
Of course. I’m always here for you, Ivy.
IVY:
So, I’ve been thinking a lot about the case.
DR. DONNA:
Have you been thinking as much about healing?
IVY:
It’s him.
DR. DONNA:
What’s him?
IVY:
The man who killed my parents, the Dark House amusement park killer...they’re one and the same.
DR. DONNA:
That’s one theory that the authorities are working on.
IVY:
Excuse me?
DR. DONNA:
There are a number of theories, Ivy. The authorities are doing their job by looking into all of them. They want you to do your job too—by getting
rest and getter better enough to go home. Don’t you want that as well?
IVY:
So, they’ve obviously been keeping secrets from me.
DR. DONNA:
Do you think that rather the authorities don’t want to burden you with the details of the case as you’re trying to heal?
IVY:
I think they owe it to me be honest, especially when I’ve been telling them everything I know, everything I remember. I mean, I’m part of this
investigation too, aren’t I?
DR. DONNA:
This might feel like an injustice right now, but it’s important to put things into perspective. Your disorder can often make feelings seem
exponentially bigger, stronger, and more profoundly relevant than they need to be.
IVY:
This isn’t about my disorder. And my feelings
are
relevant.
DR. DONNA:
Of course they are. That’s not what I meant.
IVY:
My parents’ killer was a fan of horror movies. He re-created his favorite scenes from horror flicks for his crimes—just like the Nightmare Elf
killer...the way he used Justin Blake’s films as his inspiration for the Dark House weekend.
DR. DONNA:
Okay, but why would your parents’ killer go to all the trouble of organizing the Dark House amusement park weekend, holding a contest, and involving
others if he only wanted to come back for you?
IVY:
Because he wanted to make his own horror movie, and he needed more than one character. He handpicked all of us contest winners for his cast.
DR. DONNA:
And how would he know that you, specifically, would enter the contest...someone who hates anything even remotely fear-inducing?
IVY:
He kept e-mailing me his newsletters, ignoring my attempts to unsubscribe from his supposed list. He sent me contest opportunity after contest opportunity,
awaiting the day I’d finally enter one of them. I told that to Parker—how I kept getting the Nightmare Elf’s newsletters—and he seemed really confused. He never knew the
Nightmare Elf even had a newsletter. None of the winners did. They all found out about the contest through various fan-flavored sites—places the killer must’ve posted once I’d
finally entered.
DR. DONNA:
You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.
IVY:
I have a lot of time to think in here.
DR. DONNA:
What’s that?
IVY:
What?
DR. DONNA:
On your palm and wrists. Don’t try to hide it, Ivy. Have you been writing on yourself?
IVY:
It’s just my notes. The doctor confiscated my notebook, so I have no other choice but to jot things down on my skin.
DR. DONNA:
Why do you think he confiscated your notebook?
IVY:
Because he’s a controlling asshole.
DR. DONNA:
Because he must’ve felt it was holding you back from getting better.
IVY:
I’ll be better once the killer’s behind bars, once the others are found. To think the killer’s been prepping me for years...sending me all
those teaser gifts. The makeup kit for my theatrical performance, the star necklace pendant, because he wanted me to be his star.
DR. DONNA:
And the soccer jersey and journal? Do you think that those things are related to acting and theater as well?
IVY:
No, but they’re just as important. They’re clues that he knows who I am—before I was Ivy Jensen, that is, back when I was April Leiken, when I
played soccer, and loved anything pink and covered in paisleys. Back when he killed my real parents.
DR. DONNA:
Have you shared your theories with the authorities?
IVY:
I’m done sharing with authorities. They’ve yet to help me with anything—not my parents’ crime, not this one either. I need to figure
things out on my own.
I
T
’
S
SIX WEEKS LATER AND
I’m sitting in the same meeting room with the same ticking clock.
But this time I’m not waiting for the police. And my palms and wrists are clean of ink. Plus my knees are no longer bruised, not that you can see them. I’m no longer dressed in a
hospital gown. I’m able to wear my own clothes: my favorite sweats, my fuzzy slippers. I also got my bracelet back—six long strands of T-shirt fabric woven into a fishtail braid that
winds around my wrist. The fabric is from Parker’s T-shirt—the same one he wore on the Dark House amusement park night, the one he used to make a bandage for my ankle.
I touch over my heart, where my pendant used to dangle, reminded that he has something of mine too. My aromatherapy necklace. It’d fallen off as we were running to escape. One moment, we
were fleeing the amusement park together, heading toward the closing exit gates. The next moment, Parker had stopped to pick something up. It took me a couple of seconds to figure out what it
was.
That necklace was supposed to have been a gift for my mother. But she was killed before I could give it to her—just days before her forty-second birthday.
The necklace—a tiny bottle pendant with an even tinier cork, suspended from a silver chain—became my most cherished possession. Still, in that moment of trying to escape the park, I
no longer cared about the necklace. I only cared about Parker—about him joining me on the other side of the exit gate. But time was ticking then too. The exit gates were closing. I strained
my muscles, using all of the strength inside me to hold the doors open. But in the end, the iron gates closed with a deep, heavy clank, locking Parker inside the park.
And tearing my world in two.
At last, the door to the conference room opens and I sit up straighter. I smile—not too big, a closed mouth—and make direct eye contact as Dr. Tully comes in. He’s older,
mid-sixties, with hair like Albert Einstein and the tiniest glasses I’ve ever seen. He’s the bigwig here. Patients don’t normally meet with him, except upon admission or when
there’s a serious problem.
Or just prior to exit.
He starts with small talk, asking me a few basic questions—about the weather and the food here, and if I noticed the full moon last night. I haven’t missed a week of therapy for the
past seven years, so I know just how to answer, lying straight through my teeth.
“I love the winter,” I tell him. “My foster parents rent a place in Vermont and we go up on the weekends to ski. I can’t wait to get back there.” The truth:
I’ve never been skiing. But my answer shows that I’m looking ahead, excited about life, not intimidated by the thought of spending time with family.
“The food here?” I flash him a sheepish grin. “Well, it’s not exactly fine dining, especially for a food snob like me who wants to be a chef. Although, between you and
me,” I lean in close, “the mac and cheese here kicks my recipe’s butt.” The lie nearly kills me, but the outcome is totally worth it.
Dr. Tully grins at my answer. I’ve shown him my sense of humor while, at the same time, conveying my aspirations.
And as for that magnificent moon: “Yes, I saw it. It was so big and glowing, like a giant snowball in the sky.”
It’s true that I noticed the moon. I’d have to have been an idiot not to, considering that a couple of the patients were howling at it. But it didn’t make me think of a
snowball. It made me think of Parker—made me wonder if, wherever he is, he could see it too.
The remainder of the interview is key, because he segues into the reason that I’m here: “How often do you think about the Dark House amusement park night?”
I swallow hard, trying to keep a poker face. The truth is that I don’t remember what it was like to
not
think about that night. “I don’t know,” I answer, finally.
“At least once a day. I no longer dream about it, though; and it’s not the first thing on my mind when I wake up in the morning. I’m hoping that with more time—and
closure—I won’t think about it much at all.” Breathe in, breathe out.
Ticktock, ticktock
. I keep my hands on the table, where both he and I can see them, resisting the urge
to pinch.
“And what if you don’t get that closure?” he asks. “What if the others aren’t found and they never catch the person responsible?”
“I’ve been working on my own form of closure, trying to think up things I can do, ways I can help people, maybe talking to crisis victims...people who’ve had loved ones taken
away from them. I don’t know.” I feign a shy smile. “Does that sound dumb?”
Dr. Tully leans forward. A good sign; my answer has piqued his interest. “It actually sounds very ambitious.”
“I realize that. And I know I have a lot more healing to do before I can help others. But it’s definitely in my long-term plans.”
“Well, I think it’s a great plan.” He smiles, perhaps relieved by my newfound sanity and perspective—all thanks to Happy Hospital. “You’ve been through a lot
in your lifetime—more tragedy than most people will ever know. It’s healthy to think of that tragedy as a springboard to do good. Talk about your notebook, and your maps and charts. Are
you still writing down all of your theories and trying to track the person responsible for the Dark House weekend?”
