Welcome to the Dark House (14 page)

A
FTER THE
T
RAIN OF
T
ERROR
, we remain hanging out by the ride, comparing one another’s thrill. Ivy is way freaked
out. Her eyes are red and she’s visibly trembling.

“What did you actually see in there?” I ask her.

“Two boys,” she says. “Dressed in tuxedos and singing a twisted version of ‘Three
Blind Mice.
’
” She takes a deep breath and then proceeds to describe a couple of kids that sound
all too familiar.

“Danny and Donnie Decker from
Nightmare Elf II: Carson’s Return,
” Garth says, all but drooling. “Did they do the dead man’s dance?”

Ivy bites her lip and gives me a blank stare, leading me to assume that she hasn’t
seen the movie. I wonder if she’s seen any of Blake’s films. And, if not, what the
hell
is
she doing here?

“Man, I love those Decker boys.” Garth smiles. “The scene where they sneak off from
their cousin’s wedding and get lost in the woods…”

“Only to find the Dark House,” Shayla adds.

“Their nightmares about being poisoned by aliens were epic,” Garth says. “Anyway,
sounds like I picked the wrong cart. All I got was a fan blowing at the back of my
head and the Nightmare Elf’s evil giggle.”

“And all
I
got were some dancing shadows and the rattle of Lizzy Greer’s shopping cart,” Frankie
says.

I look toward Natalie, who’s fallen silent, and take out my mental camera.

ANGLE ON NATALIE

She’s sitting on the ground, picking at the hair on her arm (just about the only skin
that’s visible). The rest of her is covered in clothes (long dress, high boots, zip-up
jacket, scarf, and oversize sunglasses).

NATALIE

(catching me spying on her)

Harris won’t stop talking now. He
keeps saying that it isn’t safe here
—
that we should find a way out.

GARTH

(to Natalie)

Just curious, but do they wear straitjackets where you live?

Shayla cracks up in response.

FRANKIE

(rubbing his chin)

Hmm
…
I wonder if Dara would think a comment like that is funny.


Shayla’s face drops. Her eyes narrow. The tension in the air thickens.

SHAYLA

Why would you say something like that?

FRANKIE

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re fake.

SHAYLA

Excuse me?

She cocks her head, as though genuinely confused.

SHAYLA (CONT’D)

How am I fake?

FRANKIE

Are you kidding?

(grinning)

Where do I even begin?

SHAYLA

Give me one example.

FRANKIE

Well, for starters, you claim to feel bad about not being there for Dara, and for
just playing along when others made fun of her. And yet it seems you’re just as insensitive
now.

SHAYLA

Wait, where is all of this coming from? Did I do something that hurt you?

FRANKIE

Forget about me. I mean,
seriously
? You’re so wrapped up in the World of Shayla that you don’t even have a clue, do
you? Think about it. Those nightmares you have, it’s like Dara’s haunting you, trying
to subconsciously get it through your head.

SHAYLA

Get
what
through my head? If I hurt you, I didn’t intend to.

FRANKIE

Forget it.

(laughing, tossing his hands up)

I give up.

CUT TO:

While Shayla licks her superficial wounds, and Garth and Frankie saddle up for another
ride on the Nightmare Elf’s Train of Terror, Ivy and I move to a bench. The temperature’s
dropped and I can feel her trembling. I wrap my arm around her shoulder, unable to
stop thinking about last night.

It was nice spending the night with her. I close my eyes, picturing us lying together
in bed, her back pressed against my chest, the scent of chocolate in the air.

“Parker?” she asks, pulling me back to PRESENT DAY: EXT. AMUSEMENT PARK—DUSK.

She nods in the direction of the ride. Garth and Frankie have squished themselves
into the fifth train cart—the same one that Ivy had.

“What the hell?” Frankie shouts out, smacking at the start button.

The ride doesn’t seem to be working now; nothing’s happening. And the lights in the
Nightmare Elf’s eyes have gone out.

Ivy rests her head against my shoulder and reaches to take my hand. “Thanks for being
so sweet to me.”

“It’s easy being sweet to you.”

“It’d probably be easier hanging out with the others—having fun like them.”

“I want to be with you,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Good.” She smiles. “Because I want to be with you, too.” And I have no idea if she
means for the next five minutes or the next five years, but I don’t even care. Because
we’re together right now.

“W
HAT’S HAPPENING TO US
?”
Harris asks.
“I feel like we’re
drifting apart.”

“You’re just angry because I’m not doing what you say. I’m not your puppet, Harris.”

At first I thought it was a relief that he was talking to me again. But I have a strong
suspicion that most of what Harris has been saying since his silent treatment has
been a complete and utter lie, his way of getting back at me for leaving home in the
first place. He doesn’t normally get nasty like this. It’s only happened a handful
of times—and only when he’s feeling particularly strong about something—that he’ll
punish me in the few ways he can. If it isn’t silence, it’s his incessant talking,
especially when I’m asleep to intentionally keep me up. But I don’t hold it against
him. He’s stuck on the other side, living in a sort of purgatory. Sometimes I wonder
if he isn’t waiting for me. Other times I think that if I didn’t feel so alone, he’d
leave me for good.

I don’t expect the others to understand any of this. I know that it sounds crazy.
It goes against what we’ve all been conditioned to believe about death.

I tried to talk about my ability to speak with Harris in one of my sessions with Dr.
Gilpin. But she responded by asking if I ever thought about hurting myself, which
is basically shrink-speak for, “Do you fantasize about getting up close and personal
with a noose and/or razor blade, plastic bag, exhaust pipe, coat hanger, railroad
track, fill in the blank with your suicide method of choice.”

When I told her no, she prescribed me more pills, which I thought to be ironic considering
that pills can also be ammo depending on how many you take in one sitting.

“Body lice?” Garth asks.

It takes me a moment to realize that he’s directing the question at me, because I’m
scouring my arms, trying to count up all the remaining hairs. I wish I had a marker
with me. I wish he would mind his own business.

Though, I’ll have to admit, it was kind of cool at brunch, when we were opening up
about stuff, and when I told the group about Harris and my issue with mirrors. Cool…except
for when Shayla said I’d be gorgeous beneath all my layers. Bullshit. I saw the expression
on her face when she busted in on me in the bathroom door and saw my reflection. That
was truth enough for me.

“Go to hell,” I tell Garth. Unfortunately, the words barely come out in a whisper
and he’s already turned around. And I’ve lost count of arm hairs, which Harris finds
hysterical.

I’ve tried to tell my parents that Harris talks to me, that he’s been growing up right
along with me. Every birthday I have is his birthday, too. Every holiday celebrated,
every family dinner, every therapy session and test I take at school.

He’s there. He doesn’t leave me. It’s as if his soul is alive inside of me.

Even his love of guitar. The first time I went to a concert—really an arts festival
in town, where various bands came to perform—we heard this guy play an acoustic guitar.
Harris got completely swept up in the beauty of it all—the notes, the rhythm, the
emotion strumming from every chord. Shortly after, I asked my parents to get me an
acoustic guitar. I took lessons for Harris. Kept the guitar tuned for Harris. Polished
the cedarwood. Switched over to an electric when he asked. Practiced all my chords,
memorized every song.

For Harris.

You’d think my parents would want to know that when our tiny bodies left the womb
barely a minute apart—one of us crying and the other without breath—that we were still
connected in spirit. But they won’t hear any of it.

Talking to them about Harris only scores me more sessions with more therapists, more
people trying to fix me.

I know it breaks Harris’s heart. I know he’d do anything to be able to communicate
with our parents using me as the go-between. Maybe then he’d be able to pass on. Maybe
then his voice would fade.

The weird part? He doesn’t normally tell me things I don’t already know. Like, he’ll
give me his opinions, but because he never leaves me, he never reports news to me—until
coming to this amusement park, that is. Ever since we got here, it’s been one report
after another from him about stuff he couldn’t possibly know.

“I’m telling you the truth,”
Harris says.
“It isn’t safe for you there.”

“I think you just want to ruin my time,” I tell him. “You’re angry, and you don’t
know any other way to express that anger.”

“Sounds like someone’s been spending too much time with shrinks.”

“This ride is crap,” Frankie shouts, still trying to get the Train of Terror to work.

I get up and move to stand in front of Ivy, angled away from the video camera. I hate
that we’re being filmed. When the Nightmare Elf dropped that bomb, I had to hold myself
back from throwing up. But then I took a deep breath, pulled out a couple of hair
strands, counted up all the water bottles behind the snack shack—thirty-three, plus
twelve candy apples, sixteen bags of popcorn, forty boxes of Jujyfruits—and reminded
myself that I still have choices.

I can choose not to watch the film.

It doesn’t have to ruin my experience here.

It’s obvious that Ivy’s ride on the terror train was far more terrifying than any
of ours, and that it’s affected her in a major way. I can’t help feeling jealous of
that. What I wouldn’t give to get distracted by fear, to have it sneak up and give
me a rush.

“Hey, Natalie,” she says, looking up at me. Her brown eyes focus in and she cocks
her head to the side. For just a moment I wonder if she can see straight through me
all the way to Harris’s soul.

“It’s all going to work out fine,” I tell her, recycling a phrase that’s been used
on me time and time again. I know the response doesn’t fit, and I know the words are
shit, but it’s all I can think of at the moment.

Her eyes narrow; she looks confused. “Okay, but didn’t you just say that we needed
to get out of here?”

“Harris said that, not me,” I say, correcting her. “And I think he might’ve been lying.
When he first says stuff to me, it sounds pretty convincing inside my head, but then,
after I think about it, I have to question his intentions. Like, is he really being
honest? Or just trying to ruin my experience?”

Ivy’s face scrunches, confused, and I’m not at all surprised. I sound like a flake,
like my word can’t at all be trusted, when in fact it’s Harris’s word that’s up for
debate.

“Let’s keep moving,” Frankie says, standing just behind us now. There’s a determined
look on his face. “Time’s ticking and I want to go find my nightmare ride. I didn’t
come all this way not to meet Blake.”

“I’ll second that,” Garth says.

“And I’ll third it,” Shayla agrees.

Surprisingly, Ivy follows along, and so does Parker. I fall in line too, shrouding
my face as I move past the cameras, once again trying to block out Harris’s voice,
despite how empty I feel in his silence.