Welcome to the Dark House

Copyright © 2014 by Laurie Faria Stolarz

Cover photograph © Paul Knight / Trevillion Images

Cover design by Room39b

Author photo by Joseph Puleo

All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney
Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmit
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or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
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ing, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written
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ISBN 978-1-4231-9032-5

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For those who face their nightmares with eyes wide open.

I
WAKE WITH A GASP
, covered in my own blood.

It’s everywhere. Soaking into the bed covers, splattered against the wall, running
through the cracks in the hardwood floor, and dripping over my fingers and hands.

I touch my stomach, searching for a stab wound. My chest heaves in and out. I’m breathing
so hard that it hurts—so hard that I wish for my lungs to collapse and my heart to
stop.

I wish that he’d killed me along with them.

The moonlight shines in through the open window, enabling me to see.

I’m in my present-day bedroom.

It’s six years later.

I’m seventy miles away from the crime scene.

There is no blood, only sweat. There are no hardwood floors, either. A shag carpet
covers unfinished plywood. I reach down and run my fingers over the thick wool threads,
just to be sure. Then I check and recheck my comforter, looking at it from different
angles. It isn’t pink paisley, like the one I had when I was twelve. This one’s
dark, dark
blue.

And there are pale green walls.

And angled ceilings.

And there’s an armoire in place of a vanity.

There are no music posters on the wall, nor is there a single reference to the soccer
I used to play.

I’m seventy miles away.

It’s six years later.

This isn’t the same room.

There is no blood.

This was obviously another nightmare.

Still, I make sure of everything by switching on my night table light. I make sure
of everything by going through these rituals one more time:
by saying the alphabet forward and backward one more time, by touching the pendant
around my neck—an aromatherapy necklace that was supposed to be a gift for my mother—one
more time.

I’m eighteen years old, not twelve.

I dreamed about him again, because I fear that he’ll come back for me one day and
do to me what he did to my parents.

Six years ago now.

In a room unlike this one.

Seventy miles away.

I
T’S
S
ATURDAY AFTERNOON
, and I’m sitting in Dr.
Donna’s
office. I’ve been sitting here, on this same leather chair, surrounded by these same
four walls.

On the same day.

At the same hour.

For the same reason.

For the past six years.

I’m not sure if it helps, but I never skip a session, because coming here gives me
hope that one day I’ll no longer live in fear.

Dr. Donna sits across from me. Her legs are crossed at the knee, as usual. Her beige
leather clog bops up and down to the ticking of her mantel clock as she waits for
me to say something. But coming here—doing this—is starting to feel like watching
a rerun. It’s the same episode on the same channel, with the same actors, saying the
same dialogue. Again and again. And again.

DR. DONNA:
So, what do you think?

ME:
What was the question?

DR. DONNA:
It’s been six years, Ivy.

ME:
Six years and my parents are still dead, and I still feel like I’m rotting away in
purgatory, waiting for a killer to determine my fate. Will he come back and kill me
today? Or wait until tomorrow? Or will he put it off until next year? Or perhaps he’ll
surprise me on the ten-year anniversary?

DR. DONNA:
And maybe he won’t come back at all. You’ve changed your name. You’ve changed your
address. You’ve even changed your family.

ME:
What choice did I have with that last one?

DR. DONNA:
My point is that maybe he’s done.

ME:
That depends. Do serial killers retire? I think he’s waiting for the opportune moment,
watching me, studying my habits. Sometimes when I’m shopping in town or walking home
from school, I can feel his eyes on me.

DR. DONNA:
Do you still think he’s the one who sent you the gifts?

ME:
I don’t
think
; I
know
. He knows what I like. He knows where I live.

DR. DONNA:
You’re not into makeup, Ivy. So, how do you explain that elaborate cosmetic kit?

ME:
And how do
you
explain the paisley-covered journal, the pink soccer jersey, and the Katrina Rowe
CD? My love for those things was apparent from my bedroom that night.

DR. DONNA:
A lot of people like Katrina Rowe’s music, Ivy. And the color pink, paisley designs,
and soccer…all of those things are popular too…as are stars….That star necklace pendant
you received, it doesn’t get much more generic than that. Anyway, my point is that
perhaps a secret admirer sent you the gifts.

ME:
Except I haven’t played soccer in six years, nor have I listened to Katrina Rowe.
And no one who knows me now has any reason to believe that I used to like
either.

DR. DONNA:
You haven’t told a single person? Even in casual conversation?

ME:
You still think I’m being paranoid, don’t you?

DR. DONNA:
I think you have a lot of fear, and I want to help you to defuse it. But I’m not
sure what else we can do here. We’ve talked about that night. We’ve talked about your
nightmares. We’ve gone over every possible scenario—good and bad—of what could happen
in the future.

ME:
I need to try something else—to learn to live
with
fear, rather than
in
fear. I mean, lots of people live with fear, right? They put down good money for
it. They seek it out from the front row of movie theaters and on roller coasters.
They wait in long lines for ghost tours and to go inside haunted houses. They don’t
let it control their lives.

DR. DONNA:
Interesting point. So, how do you propose we get there?

ME:
I need to learn from those people. I need to see fear the way they do.