Return to the Dark House (20 page)

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“They’re here,” I repeat, turning away to study the photos again. Shayla’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a big, bulky coat. Frankie’s in a hooded
sweatshirt; I can’t see his legs. Neither of them is in the same clothes as on the night of the Dark House amusement park.

“Okay, but what if these photos were Photoshopped. Wasn’t Frankie buried alive at the amusement park?”

“They never found his body,” I remind her. “It’d been dug up. No one ever found any bodies.”

“Okay, but didn’t Garth fall like a kagillion stories out of a building?”

“Who knows how many stories it really was. The camera can and does lie.”

“My point exactly.”

I clench my teeth. Her words have blades.

“I’m sorry,” she says, reaching out to touch my arm. “I can be an insensitive beetle sometimes. I guess I’m just preparing myself for the worst. That’s sort
of how I deal.”

I take a deep breath, and suck up any tears. It’s not like I haven’t heard these doubts before—from police and people at the hospital, and even from Apple and Core.

Taylor wraps her arm around me. “Don’t listen to anything I say. I wasn’t even there. I was a coward, remember? I didn’t get to meet the others.”

“You met Natalie,” I say, correcting her.

“Right. And why isn’t her picture here? Or Parker’s?”

I search the wall, as well as the photos, really wishing I had a clue.

“Look,” Taylor begins again, “if you really believe that the people in these photos are the genuine, bona fide players, then I believe you.”

“Except they aren’t players.” I turn to face her again. “They’re people.”

“Right, and
I’m
an insensitive beetle, remember?”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Okay, so maybe only the beetle part is true. I mean, seriously? If someone like you can be so optimistic despite everything she’s been through, then what the hell is my
problem?”

“Let’s just keep moving,” I say. “Ticktock, remember?”

We continue down the hallway, passing by classrooms to the left and right. There’s a door at the end of the hall. We go through it. Facing us is a mahogany stairwell that leads up and
down.

“Should we try the basement?” I ask.

“Do you really think that prep school kids would agree to sleeping by leaky water pipes and mousetraps?”

“Maybe not.”

“Now, if
I
were a dorm room…” Taylor taps her chin in thought. “Upstairs?”

“It’s worth a try.”

We hike up the stairs, two at a time. At the top there’s another long hallway. Sheets of paper are sprinkled about the floor—fresh paper, the texture is crisp, the color is bright
white. I trample over a couple of sheets before picking one up.

“What is it?” Taylor asks.

“‘In a thousand words or less,’” I read aloud, “‘describe your worst nightmare. By Jenna Adams.’”

“
Huh
?”

“They’re contest entries,” I say, shining my flashlight over pages and pages of nightmares—there has to be over a hundred of them. “Some of the people who
didn’t win, maybe.”

Taylor nods, reading one of them. “This person dreams about the chicken in her freezer coming to life in the middle of the night and paying her back by pecking at her face.”

“Except if it’s frozen chicken, then its beak’s been removed.”

“Not necessarily.” She grimaces.

While Taylor proceeds down the hallway, I poke my head into a few of the rooms. You can tell that the core of this building was probably once a mansion. Though set up with school desks and
chairs, most of the rooms have hardwood floors, ornate pillars, and sculptured fireplaces.

I step inside an office, noticing a shiny red apple sitting in the middle of an ink blotter. I point my flashlight at it, trying to see if the apple’s real. I pick it up. It’s
definitely real. I puncture the skin with my fingernail; the juice pulls away on my thumb. I go to put the apple back.

And that’s when I notice.

The ink blotter is actually a calendar. It’s set to April 1966. There’s an illustration of storm clouds and rain droplets decorating the April heading.

“April showers,” I whisper, flipping the page to May. Daisies and daffodils frame the page.
Bring May flowers.

A giant
X
is marked over May 9th.

“Will you help me?” a male voice whispers, from behind, making me jump.

I turn to look.

A girl with swollen dark eyes stares back at me. Her lips are chapped. Her cheeks look sallow and sunken.

I take a step closer, suddenly realizing that the girl is me—my reflection, my ghostly appearance, my ratty hair. I’m looking in a full-length mirror. The words
SAVE
THE DATE
are scribbled across my image. I reach out to touch one of the letters. A smear of red comes away on my finger.

“Knock, knock.” Another voice. It steals my breath, even though I recognize it right away.

I open the door.

Taylor’s standing there. “What gives?” she asks. “And why do you look all Laurie Strode?”

“Laurie
who
?”

She rolls her eyes. “From
Halloween
…Jamie Lee Curtis’s character. She always looked so haunted.” Taylor continues to ramble on about some bedroom scene and the
boogeyman.

I’m only half paying attention, trying to listen for that male voice—the one that asked for help.

“So, do you want to find room F or what?” Taylor asks.

I nod and move back into the hall, slamming the door behind me.

From the Journal of E.W.

Grade 7, August Preparatory School

“W
E NEED TO FIND ANOTHER
part of the building,” Taylor says, pointing toward the room numbers. “Nine, ten, eleven,
fourteen…”

I nod. She’s right. “We need to find the lettered rooms.”

We move down the hall. A sign for the dormitory points us back downstairs. On the first floor again, I notice a door to the left without a room number over it. I open it wide.

This isn’t a classroom or an office. There’s a narrow hallway with a low ceiling and a ramp that leads downward. “Come on,” I say, wishing my flashlight beam were
brighter.

The dormitory must’ve been added on. I picture us moving through a tunnel, into another building altogether.

“Talk about a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare,” Taylor says.

I’d have to agree. There are no doors or windows, and there’s barely enough room for two people to pass through, headed in opposite directions.

“Where are you going?” a male voice stutters out.

I stop. And look back. Taylor shines her flashlight all around. But we don’t see anything. There doesn’t appear to be anyone.

We continue through the tunnel. The sound of footsteps follows us.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” the same voice whispers.

Someone screams. A female voice. A piercing blare that burrows into my heart.

I stop again. Taylor’s right behind me. “Who was that?” I ask, my mind zooming to Natalie and Shayla.

Taylor shakes her head.

I turn back around, finally reaching the other side of the tunnel. There’s a pocket door. I slide it open and then slam it closed behind us, trying to catch my breath.

There’s a staircase that leads upward and a crude cement hallway—cracked floors, visible overhead pipes—that goes to the right.

Taylor shines her flashlight over a sign by the stairwell, welcoming us to the dormitory and pointing us upstairs. “Jackpot,” she says.

My adrenaline pumps as I move up the steps, finally reaching the top. There’s another narrow space. A long skinny hallway. I search the room numbers. They’re in alphabetical
order.

The door to room B is open. There are two single beds, two dressers, and a small corner desk. Like the rest of the place, the windows have been boarded up.

“Room F,” Taylor says. She’s moved down the hall, standing outside the room.

“Welcome to the dormitory, Princess.” The killer’s voice is a soft purr; it stops me in my tracks. “Nice work finding Ricky’s room. I made up the bed, especially
for you. But don’t get too comfortable yet. Don’t forget about Ricky’s note.”

“Is he talking to you right now?” Taylor asks.

I nod, moving forward again. I stand by Taylor’s side to peek inside the room. There are spotlights over the bed and on the desk illuminating the space. There are also candles lit on the
dresser, several more on an overhead shelf, and a bunch of tiny ones on the windowsills.

“What’s he saying?” Taylor asks, grabbing an earpiece to listen.

“Be sure to blow out all the candles before you lay down to sleep,” the voice continues. “And turn off all the lights, including flashlights. It’s important that things
are completely dark for shut-eye, wouldn’t you agree? Lastly, I’ll need you to close the door, leaving Taylor outside. Do all of that now.”

Taylor shoves her hand over the camera lens. With her other hand, she blocks the mic to muffle our voices. “Don’t close the door,” she whispers. “It’s not like
he’ll know.”

“Have you not noticed the thing on my head that you’re currently blocking? It’s not exactly a tiara.”

“So, what if you close the door and then I’ll wait a few seconds and open it back up? If you’re laying down, your camera’s focus will be at the ceiling. And even if there
are other cameras, the focus is going to be on you.”

“Okay,” I nod, more than anxious to get this over with. I close the door behind me and move into the room.

I unfold the note and set it on the bedside table, beside a book with gold trim. If only Ricky had done the same years ago, maybe people would’ve found his note. Maybe it would’ve
become public. Maybe we wouldn’t be here right now.

“Everything okay?” Taylor shouts.

“Just dandy,” I mutter, shining my flashlight all around. The inside of the room looks a lot like the first one I looked at, with the exception of two beds; this room is a
single.

“Ivy?” Taylor shouts again. The knob jiggles back and forth. She can’t get the door to open.

My heart tightens. The room starts to tilt. I move back to the door. “The knob won’t turn.” I try to twist it, pull it, and wrench it with all my might. But nothing makes a
difference. The door won’t open.

I take a step back, wondering if the killer’s here somewhere, in this room, under the bed. Could he be using a remote control? I try to maintain normal breath, but it gets caught in my
lungs. I press my forehead against the door and silently count to ten.

“Do you want me to go look for something to break the lock?” Taylor asks. “Or I can stay right here and talk to you the whole time. Just tell me whatever’s
best.”

There’s a broken-glass sensation inside my chest. I look toward the bottom of the bed and scoot down, shining my flashlight beneath it. But I don’t see anything.

“Ivy?” Taylor calls.

“I’ll be fine,” I call back, suspecting what this is about. The door won’t open until the killer gets this scene.

I blow out all the candles and click off both spotlights. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I close my eyes, preparing myself for the darkness. I breathe in the scent of the blown-out
candles, trying to think of happier times, like my purple birthday cake two years ago and the wish I made for someone like Parker to come into my life.

I run my lips over his T-shirt bracelet, imagining that it still smells like him—a musky, salty scent. I click off my flashlight and open my eyes, almost unable to believe what I see.