Welcome to the Dark House (15 page)

W
E MOVE THROUGH THE AMUSEMENT
park, past all sorts of games of chance. Lights flash. Bells ring. Metal music blares.

“Step right up,” a deep voice calls out. It’s coming from a mannequin: Sebastian Slayer
from
Forest of Fright
, dressed in his overalls and work boots, with a pickax slung over his shoulder. He
stands in front of a bowling game with his famous toothy grin. “Hit the pin and win,
win, win. Easy as squeezy. I love bein’ cheesy.”

“I love being cheesy too,” Garth says, giving the mannequin a thumbs-up.

“The voice is probably motion activated,” Parker says.

I’d have to agree. As soon as Shayla goes to give the mannequin a high five, we hear
Sebastian’s snort of a laugh, making all of us laugh too.

Garth steps up to try a game called Dead Ringer, based on a game that I’ve seen at
practically every carnival I’ve ever been to. Except, instead of trying to toss a
plastic ring around a glass bottle, you need to throw a miniature noose around the
neck of a Barbie doll.

There’s got to be at least two hundred Barbies lined up: Biker Barbie, Studious Brunette,
Zombie Barbie, Princess Barbie-with-a-unicorn-on-her-head…

Ivy, Natalie, and Parker try the game out too, all of them grabbing nooses and tossing
them into the sea of Barbie hell. Shayla, on the other hand, retreats back, her face
all pouty like someone just died. Still, she makes sure to angle herself at the camera
so the world can see just how tormented she is.

“My money’s on Hula Girl,” Garth says, trying to hook the Barbie that’s wearing the
floral lei and grass skirt. He doesn’t succeed on the first try, nor does he succeed
on the fifth, but that doesn’t stop him from snagging himself a plastic sword from
behind the counter as his prize.

We keep exploring, stopping for a few rounds of Forest of Fright Skee-Ball (the faces
of the Targo triplets are on all of the balls), and a game of Nightmare Elf on the
Shelf, where you have to knock Nightmare Elf dolls off a fireplace mantel, using Christmas
stockings filled with sand.

“Step right up,” Slayer says. “Hit the pin and win, win, win. Easy as squeezy. I love
bein’ cheesy.”

“I really want to get to my ride,” I say.

Shayla quickens her pace to catch up to me. “You’re so brave,” she tells me, trying
to suck up, as if I didn’t just tell her off. “I’m such a wimp when it comes to face-to-face
stuff—stuff outside the safety of a movie or TV screen, I mean. And, let’s face it,
that’s, like, the
worst
possible quality for someone who’s supposed to face her biggest nightmare, right?
You totally should’ve seen me at
La Bocca della Verità
.”

“Bocci dell
what
?” I ask.

“
La Bocca della Verità
,” she says again, carefully enunciating every syllable. “You know, the Mouth of Truth.”
She looks at me with a concerned expression, like I’m supposed to have a clue or give
a shit. “You put your arm in the mouth—the sculpture of a mouth, that is—and it bites
off the hands of liars. It’s in Rome,” she says, still trying to jog my memory, like
I’ve ever been out of the country. “In the church of Santa Maria.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. She’s so people-dumb it’s scary.

Finally, we reach the back end of the park. I look up at the gate; it’s at least thirty
or forty feet high. There are three video cameras pointed down at us from the network
of barbed wire. While Natalie turns away from them, Garth steps right out in front.

“Who’ll give me fifty bucks to flash?” he asks.

“How about fifty cents?” I offer.

“This ass has star potential.” Garth undoes his pants, letting them fall to his ankles;
evidently it was never a question of money. He pulls down his boxers, bends over,
and shakes his hairy ass.

“Eww!” Ivy shouts.

Shayla, on the other hand, thinks it’s the funniest thing ever. “Should I flash too?”
she asks.

“Definitely,” Garth says, drawing up his pants.

But she hops away, the tease that she is, and leads us farther into the park.

We stop to go on the Eureka Shrieker, which is sort of like the Round Up, only faster,
with Eureka’s screaming voice in the background, shrieking over the sound of a chain
saw.

“That was crazy,” Ivy says, coming out of the ride, her hand clenched over her heart.
But I also catch a glimpse of a smile, so I think she kind of enjoyed it.

Meanwhile, Natalie’s got a huge grin on her face, no longer talking to herself or
picking at her arm hair. And Parker’s explaining to Ivy who Pudgy the Clown is (basically
that Pudgy’s the product of Eureka Dash’s nightmares).

“And Eureka Dash?” Ivy asks.

Seriously, is this chick for real?

Shayla continues to lead the way, already onto the next ride. From the outside, Hotel
9 appears to be a haunted house. A sign at the entrance asks,
ARE YOU READY TO CHECK OUT
?, which is basically Blake-speak for “Are you ready to die?”

We enter through a cobweb-laden door, only to discover that it isn’t a haunted house
at all. A giant open area has been decorated to look like the lobby of Hotel 9, in
all its Gothic glory: red couches, dark walls, gold accents, and fancy mahogany furniture.

“Sweet!” Garth says.

My sentiments exactly. There are seven chair swings that hang suspended from the ceiling.
We each take a seat, and the swings spin in a circle as we fly around the room.

Shayla, Garth, and Natalie extend their arms outward, making like they’re birds or
planes. Clips from
Hotel 9
begin to play all around us—guests screaming, dishes breaking, the chandelier crashing
down in the center of the lobby as Sidney Scarcella cuts the chain with a machete.

It’s absolutely epic.

“Someone looks a little green,” I say, noticing Garth’s sour expression as we exit
the ride.

“Well if I need to barf, I’ll be sure to do it on your face,” he says. “Not that anyone
would notice.”

“That’s actually pretty funny,” I tell him, way too pumped to get pissed.

We pass by a fun house and then stop in front of a ride called the Wild Thing. There’s
a huge stuffed grizzly standing in front of it—the kind you see at lodges in the middle
of nowhere.

“The bear,” Garth says, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Care to claim your pain,
now
?” He looks at Ivy.

“It isn’t mine,” she says.

“Ho hum, it must be Taylor’s.” He sighs.

The bear towers over me by at least three feet. Its mouth is wide open, exposing sharp
yellow teeth and a thick gray tongue. With its arms raised, it’s mid-growl, as if
ready to pounce.

I reach out to touch its fur and it lets out a loud, hungry roar.

“Holy shit!” I yell, jumping back.

Ivy yells out too. But the others laugh, including Natalie, who also lets out a Sebastian
Slayer–worthy snort.

I look beyond the bear, at the ride. There’s a tent set up, as well as a campfire,
and some lawn chairs. Behind the tent, there’s a network of trees and brush, like
a forest. A trail cuts through it, reminding me of the path we took behind the Dark
House, when we went to look for Midge.

Garth pokes his toy sword into the grizzly’s gigantic stomach. The bear lets out another
roar, but Garth doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Let’s keep moving,” Parker says.

“Not before we do the
Wild Thing
.” Garth starts singing, swaying his hips, and flailing his arms. He looks like he’s
having a seizure.

“Ride your own wild thing,” I tell him. “This one isn’t yours.”

“Well, aren’t you a fun poker,” he says, pointing the tip of the sword into my bicep—again,
and again, and again. I’m tempted to tear it out of his hands, but I clench my teeth
and turn away, refusing to let him get to me. We move past the Wild Thing ride and
make a sharp turn. Finally, I see my nightmare. I’d recognize it anywhere.

Graveyard Dig is set back from the other rides, beyond an iron gate. There are headstones
lined up in rows. Some look ancient, tilted to one side or leaning slightly backward.
Others are in the shape of a cross.

There’s a king-size bed in the middle of the cemetery. There’s also a dresser, a night
table, and a closet. It’s supposed to be my parents’ room.

“Is this your ride?” Shayla asks.

I nod, feeling the color drain from my face.

“Batter up,” Garth says. He’s absolutely loving this.

Admittedly, I’m dreading it. Standing just outside the gate, I spot a rusty mailbox
beside the lock. I open the lid. The action sets off a voice—one that’s slow and deep,
and laced with static and clicking: “Welcome, Mr. Rice. Are you ready to dig?”

Chills ripple down my back.

Garth scoots down to check out the box, pressing his ear against the side.

“Mr. Rice?” the voice asks. “Are you ready to dig?”

“You bet,” I say, trying my best to sound brave.

“Use the key inside this mailbox to unlock the gate and your closet door,” the voice
continues. “Take the flashlight, too. You’ll need it.”

“Are you okay to do this?” Shayla asks me.

I reach inside the mailbox for the key and the flashlight. “Sure,” I say, looking
out at the graveyard and thinking of that day, thirteen years ago, when I saw my uncle
buried. I click on the flashlight, my fingers jittery.

“Good luck,” Parker says.

I unlock the gate and close it up behind me. It locks automatically with a deep
clink
.

Shayla stares at me through the bars. “It’ll be over before you know it.” She gives
me a thumbs-up and flashes me a silly smile, still trying to get back on my good side.

“Just do me a favor,” I tell her. “If I don’t come out in fifteen minutes, come and
get me, okay?”

“What are you talking about? Of course, you’ll come out.”

“Just promise me,” I say, remembering how I passed out at Uncle Pete’s burial. If
I passed out inside this ride, who knows when I’d come to.

“I promise.” She smiles, beaming like it’s her birthday.

I turn away so she won’t see my lip twitch any more than she already has, and then
I head straight toward the closet.

Spotlights shine over the cemetery, highlighting some writing on the bed. A line’s
been spray-painted down the center of the mattress. On one side of it, it reads,
Mommy?

“You’re doing great,” Shayla says.

I trip over something. A rock slab. I swipe the fog from in front of my eyes, but
more fog fills the space. I navigate my way through it, using the flashlight to show
the way. Finally, I find the closet door. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I have to use
both hands to unlock and open it.

I step inside. The door swings shut behind me. If I thought it was dark before, it’s
nothing compared to now. I try the knob; it’s locked. I shine my flashlight around
the perimeter of the space. The room is about the size of a small bathroom—much bigger
than my parents’ actual closet—but the floor is covered in carpet, just like the real
deal.

In the corner, on the floor, sitting beside a shovel, a phone rings. I pick up the
receiver, noticing an extra-long coil cord; it drags against the carpet. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Frankie.” A male voice.

“Who is this?” I wait a couple of seconds before trying the knob again. It twists
left and right, but I can’t get the door to open.

I move over to the phone base and push the lever to hang up, trying to get a dial
tone. The phone is dead.

I point my flashlight at the wire; the beam shakes with the tremble of my hand. The
wire’s stuck in a wall crack. I give the wire a tug, only to find that the end’s been
severed. This isn’t an actual working phone. There’s no real outlet. Nothing’s plugged
in.

The phone rings again. Four rings, five.

I pick it up, able to hear breathing—and suddenly I feel stupid. I mean, why am I
bothering with the phone? And yet, I know his voice came from the receiver. I look
at the earpiece. At the same moment, I hear laughter—it’s coming from the receiver
again, only this time it sounds farther away.

I hurl the phone at the wall, unable to think straight. The phone smashes. I position
the flashlight on the ground, angled in my direction so that I can see. And then I
grab the shovel, determined to bust the door open. I wedge the blade into the door
crack, beside the knob. The wood makes a creaking sound, but everything remains intact.
I try again, jamming the blade deeper, but still nothing gives.

After several more attempts at trying to break the lock, I toss the shovel to the
ground. My flashlight beam shines over the blade.

And that’s when it hits me.

I look down at the rug, remembering how, in my nightmare, I raked my fingers over
the carpet, thinking that it was my uncle’s plot site, convinced that there was a
phone ringing inside his casket…my mother calling at last.

On hands and knees, I scour the rug in search of a seam, feeling my fingertips burn
from the friction. At last, I find a spot where the rug’s been cut. I peel away a
corner section. Beneath it, there’s a two-feet-by-two-feet wooden panel on the floor
with a shallow metal handle. I pull up on the handle, feeling a surge of excitement.