Welcome to the Dark House (12 page)

I
VY WENT THROUGH MY STUFF
. I know she did.

I almost opened the door. My hand was wrapped around the knob. My mind was flashing
forward to what would happen if I confronted her.

But I didn’t, because it feels safer in here—more controlled, less influenced by time.

How long have I been away from home?

How long has it been since Harris spoke to me?

How long ago did I call my parents?

Sitting with my back against the tub, I look down at the strands of hair collected
on the bath mat, between my knees. Twenty-six.

One-hundred-eighty-two wall tiles. Forty-three floor tiles. Thirty-six tissues in
the box. Ninety-two squares of toilet paper. Three bars of soap. Five travel bottles
of shampoo. Two drinking cups.

Someone screams. The sound echoes the screaming deep inside me. I grab the hair strands
and get up, unlock the door, and take a step outside. Shayla’s out in the hallway.
She’s dressed like Eureka from
Nightmare Elf
. Garth is with her, dressed as Sidney Scarcella. They’re both laughing.

I close the door, move over to the sink, and toss the hair strands into the basin.
Ever since I left home, I’ve been itching for another tattoo: Harris’s beating heart,
right over my own. When I was ten and wrote his name 311 times on my body, and my
dad told me that I wasn’t worthy of having Harris’s name inked on my skin, I believed
him. I
wasn’t
worthy.

But maybe Harris would think otherwise. Maybe it would even get him to start talking
to me again.

I take off my T-shirt and remove the towels I’ve placed over the mirror, squinting
my eyes to avoid the whole picture. I pluck a lipstick from my pocket and draw the
heart right over my own.

It doesn’t come out right the first time—too pointy at the bottom, too narrow at the
top. I wipe the mark and try again on the other side of my chest. But it looks more
like a potato. I wipe once more and give it another shot. At least ten attempts later,
my chest is covered in lipstick smudges and smears, and so are my palms. And the side
of my face.

A floorboard creaks. Someone’s here. Outside the door. There’s another knock. “Natalie?”
Shayla’s voice. “I have to get in there. I made a bloody mess of myself—literally—and
I need to wash up.”

I ignore her and rip off my wig. My heart pounds at the image. I hate the way I look.
I probably even hate it more than my parents do. My real hair, beneath the wig, is
the same dark color. I dyed it. And pulled out big chunks—what started out as single
strands. Now, it’s long in some places and short in others, with a gaping bald spot
in the back and a few smaller ones on both sides. Too noticeable without the wig.
Too much to cover up.

“Hello?”
she shouts, knocking again. Luckily there’s a lock. “We called your parents, by the
way,” she adds. “We asked them about Harris. Can you guess what they might’ve said?”

Sure, I can guess. Did they say that I was crazy? That I talk to myself? That I’m
a constant disappointment? Did they mention that I preoccupy myself with things they
don’t understand? That when Harris died eighteen years ago, the expectations for me
were doubled? But who could possibly live up to the achievements of two people, particularly
when one of those people is a baby who probably sacrificed himself for his twin before
he was even born? But still, I’ve tried. I study hard. I get good grades. I volunteer
at church. But that’s nowhere near enough. And I don’t know what else to do—I don’t
know what else I
can
do.

Shayla knocks again. “Come out here and I’ll tell you what they said.”

I run the faucet, hoping she’ll go away. I pick at my lips—the dry skin—rolling it
between my fingertips.

“I’ll give you ten seconds,” Shayla says, talking to me like I’m three. She counts
aloud, pausing between each number.

Until she gets to ten.

I take a deep breath and grab a three-strander from behind my ear. I yank, feeling
a wave of relief swim through my veins. I check out the strands. I got the follicles,
too.

“She’s going to come in,”
a voice whispers.

“Harris?” At last. My whole body tingles.

The bathroom door whips open.

Shayla is there.

She stares at my reflection in the mirror—my patchy scalp, my bloodshot eyes, and
the red-lipstick smudges on my face, neck, and chest. Her lips peel open in revulsion
and then retract back in what looks like remorse; they purse tight, her brow furrows.
Her expressions aren’t so much unlike my parents’ when they walked in on me in the
bathroom back home and saw my very first tattoos. Only, unlike Shayla, my parents’
remorse had nothing to do with invading my privacy, and everything to do with my very
existence. At least that’s what I believe. At least that’s how they make me feel.

A
FTER A MOSTLY SLEEPLESS NIGHT
—because I was anxious about meeting Justin Blake—I didn’t end up nodding off until
sometime around five a.m.

It’s now after one and I’m just getting out of bed. I grab a shower, and step out
of the tub, startled to find the words
THERE’S NO ESCAPE
written on the mirror, through the steamed glass.

I look around, making sure that I’m alone. And then I move closer to touch one of
the letters, able to feel a thick coating of wax.

I’m seriously going to miss this place.

Once dressed, I head downstairs to look for Shayla, disappointed that she didn’t come
into my room last night while I was playing guitar, practicing the song I wrote for
Justin Blake, inspired by
Nightmare Elf
. I brought along the sheet music, hoping to give it to Blake as a gift, but it’d
be even more amazing if he’d let me play the song for him on the Slipknot Telecaster.

“Good afternoon,” Ivy says, standing at the kitchen island. She’s made some egg thing—a
big casserole dish of it. There are also pans full of bacon and potatoes. “Midge still
remains among the missing,” she says. “I say
among
because Taylor’s still missing too. But I thought I’d make some food anyway.” She
grabs a cantaloupe half and begins slicing it up with the precision of an Iron Chef—fast
and furious, making perfectly symmetrical slices. She does the same with the other
half, the blade so close to her fingers that I feel myself squirm.

“Yikes,” I say, when she’s finally done.

Parker’s watching too. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

I take a step closer to grab a slice, and that’s when I see her.

Shayla.

She stares at me from the living room sofa. My first reaction is excitement. But then
I notice that the sofa’s been pulled out to a bed, and that there are blankets strewn
about. Garth sits up from a heap of them. They obviously spent the night together.

“Hey,” she says, smiling at me, like it’s no big deal—like she hasn’t been openly
flirting with me since the moment I climbed into that hearse.

“Hungry?” Parker asks them.

“Starving.” Garth stands from the sofa and stretches his arms wide.

“Can somebody go get Natalie?” Ivy asks. “Everything’s just about done.”

“I’ll go,” I say, desperate for a moment to myself. I round the corner and let out
a breath, trying to pull the invisible dagger out of my heart, but it’s wedged in
way too deep. I guess I’m not so used to letting myself get hurt.

After a few seconds, I climb the stairs. The door to Natalie’s room is partially open.
She’s sitting on her bed, gazing down at her suitcase.

“Hey,” I say, edging the door open wider.

“Did they tell you?” she asks.

“Did
who
tell me
what
?”

“The others…about me.”

“Apparently not, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do they.”

“Translation?” This chick is so messed up.

“Was that you playing the guitar last night?” she asks, switching gears. “Because
if so, you’re really talented.”

“Thanks. Do you play?”

“No, but my brother does. I really wish that he were here. He and I don’t usually
go more than an hour without talking.” She keeps her focus toward her heavy black
boots.

I glance down at my infinity bracelet, suddenly feeling sorry for her. “I know what
it’s like to miss someone.”

“Are you talking about your mom or your uncle?”

“My mom,” I say, impressed that she was so tuned in at the dinner table.

“Why did she leave?”

“I ask myself that all the time. I guess she didn’t want to be married anymore, or
didn’t want to be a mom anymore. I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll
ever
know.”

“Who wouldn’t want to be a mom to someone like you?”

The comment takes me off guard and I can’t help but grin. “My mom and I used to have
a lot of fun together. We’d go for long walks. She’d point out different types of
birds, plants, flowers, trees…everything was an adventure with her. Sometimes I wonder
if it wouldn’t have been easier for me if she’d died along with my uncle. Growing
up, it was way worse knowing that she was alive—that she was choosing to be away.”

“So, how are you able to go on?”

“Well, you can’t stop living,” I tell her. “Otherwise, we might as well be dead too.”

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she says. “I mean, I want to meet Justin
Blake and see the movie. But part of me feels like I should go home early—like I don’t
deserve those things since I came here without permission.”

“Give yourself permission. Live your own life, make your own choices. Because going
home early—punishing yourself—isn’t going to change the fact that you came here to
begin with.”

“Is that what you do…give yourself permission, I mean?”

“It’s easier said than done,” I admit, thinking about all the times that my dad’s
dumped on my plans by having me work overtime, and how I haven’t exactly spoken up.
“But I try to have my own voice—at least most of the time.”

“Your own voice,” she repeats. Her eyes grow big as if what I’ve said is gospel.

“Now, come on.” I hold out my hand, confident that whatever’s bugging her is more
than just a couple of days away from her brother. “Ivy’s whipped up an IHOP-worthy
brunch.”

Surprisingly, Natalie places her hand in mine and together we go downstairs.

I
SPENT THE NIGHT WITH
G
ARTH
. And it was really nice—until it wasn’t. Until it got all awkward and I wanted to
go back upstairs.

It happened like this: after the costumes, neither of us was ready to end the night.
Frankie was playing a guitar right upstairs, and the music made it easy for Garth
and me to sink into the comfort of the living room sofa getting to know each other
better.

We spent much of the night in hysterics, which is exactly how I suspected things would
be. But soon things got heated, and I found myself cuddled against his chest, playing
with the tear in his T-shirt—one long rip across his navel.

I could tell that he wanted to kiss me. The truth is, I wanted to kiss him, too—to
feel what it’s like to kiss someone who has a hoop pierced through his lip and a barbell
through his tongue.

He moved a little closer and stared straight into my eyes. “Shayla?” he asked. His
lips—that silver hoop—were just inches away from mine. “Do you ever go for guys like
me back home?”

The truth is that I don’t, but I sure as hell wanted to try. “Guys like
you
?” I decided to play dumb.

“Yeah, you know…dark, slightly twisted, not exactly the most popular.”

“I go for all types of guys,” I say, stretching the truth like bubble gum.

“Good.” He was staring at my mouth now.

I closed my eyes, anticipating the kiss. Not two seconds later, I went for it. The
hoop was cold and hard against my lip and had a slightly metallic taste.

The barbell made more of an impact. It teased against my tongue, glided across the
skin—kind of nice at first, but then it seemed like he was working it too hard, trying
to impress me with too much rubbing, which caused a nasty buildup of saliva.

I pulled away and flashed him a smile that told him that I liked it. “I’m really curious,”
I said, poking my finger through the T-shirt tear. “When you were talking before about
your nightmare…How were you able to end up loving something that had once given you
bad dreams?”

Evidently, I’d found the mood breaker, because his body language changed. He looked
away. His jaw tensed. “I just did.” He shrugged.

“Yes, but
how
?”

He straightened up on the sofa then, pushed me off him, and got up for more dessert.
He gulped down a mouthful of chocolate and let it drool down his chin.

But this time it wasn’t funny.

After that, we pretty much took opposite ends of the sofa, not really talking to each
other. I was done with the fun and games, and apparently that’s all he was willing
to offer.

He and I are sitting at the dining room table now, pretending like there isn’t a giant
elephant in the room. Natalie comes to join us, with her own fleet of elephants in
tow—none of which involves Frankie, though they
are
holding hands.

I busted in on her in the bathroom last night—thanks to her letter opener—and saw
some of what she’s been trying to keep under wraps: some sections of her hair are
shoulder length, while others are barely an inch long. She’s also bald in spots—places
where she must’ve pulled the hair out; there was a wad of strands in the sink. If
all that wasn’t disturbing enough, she was covered in lipstick.

I told her I was sorry and offered to talk, but in that moment she couldn’t really
speak, and I didn’t know who was more shocked—me by what I saw, or her because I was
seeing it.

Ivy takes a seat at the table, having prepared a feast. It’s kind of annoying how
good she looks in the morning, despite having no makeup on and her hair pulled back
in an old-lady bun.

“I wish I could cook like this,” I tell her.

“Thanks. It’s sort of my thing.” She seems far more relaxed than I’ve seen her yet.

“
I
need a thing,” I tell her. “Traveling, I guess. You should see all the maps and postcards
hanging on the wall in my room upstairs. Seeing them just makes me want to go everywhere.”

“I’m surprised that
you’ve
even seen them,” Frankie says. “You haven’t exactly spent too much time in your room,
have you?” He raises his eyebrow at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, knowing what he’s insinuating, but I’m not
really in the mood for drama. My head aches. I need more sleep. One of the sofa springs
dug into my hip last night, and now the muscle’s sore. I rub at my temples, relieved
that Frankie doesn’t say anything else.

“So,” Garth says, breaking the beat of silence. He leans across the table to Natalie.
“Shayla tells me that your brother’s dead.”

“Seriously?”
I let my fork drop to the plate. I mean, could he have any less tact?

“Is he the person you’ve been mumbling to?” Garth asks her. “Of course, I have my
own theories on the subject.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she says.

“That’s true,” Ivy says. “We don’t. But that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t like to get
to know you.”

“What’s up with the mirrors?” Garth asks.

“Catoptrophobia,” Parker explains. “A fear of mirrors and/or one’s reflection. It
can stem from poor self-image or urban legends associated with the supernatural…like
the magic mirror in
Snow White
, for example.”

“And you know this because…?” Garth asks.

“Because the lead character in the screenplay I’m working on has catoptrophobia. He
was traumatized after watching his sister play Bloody Mary at a sleepover. You know,
the game where you summon evil spirits to appear in the bathroom mirror.”

“So, which camp are you in?” Garth asks, focused on Natalie again. “Poor body image
or supernatural sufferer?”

“I just hate my reflection,” she says, as if she belongs in another camp altogether.

“Is that why you cover yourself up?” I ask. “Which is completely ridiculous, by the
way, because you know you’d be totally gorgeous, right?”

“Have you ever tried to talk to someone about it?” Ivy asks. “A therapist, I mean?”

“I’m the product of therapy, and you can see how well that’s worked out,” Garth jokes.

“Yeah. Me too,” Ivy says.

“Me three.” Natalie smirks. “Harris is the only one who understands me.”

“Okay, but Harris is
dead
,” Garth says.

“Not to me, he isn’t. I don’t expect any of you to get it, but he talks to me. I hear
his voice inside my head.”

“The voice of a dead man?” Garth grins.

“
I
believe that stuff,” Ivy says. “I think there are people who can communicate with
those who’ve passed on.”

“For me, it’s only Harris,” Natalie says. “And he hadn’t spoken to me since the moment
I got on the plane to come on this trip, even though I’d been continuing to talk to
him. But then, last night, in the bathroom, he whispered a little something.”

“A little
what
thing?” Frankie asks. “You make him sound so real.”

“He
is
real—
very
real to me.”

“I wish I could communicate with the dead,” I tell them. “My best friend Dara hung
herself, and I have so many unanswered questions.”

“What’s your biggest question?” Ivy asks.

“If she knows how much I cared about her, I guess.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Garth’s eyebrow raises.

I shrug, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Maybe because I wasn’t exactly there for
her in the way that I could’ve been. She was pretty much a social outcast at my school.
And instead of constantly trying to defend her, sometimes I just played along. I mean,
I know it wasn’t right, but being with Dara became social suicide for me.”

“But real suicide for her,” Garth says, stabbing me with the truth.

“Why didn’t people like her?” Natalie asks.

“There was no one thing.” I shift uneasily in my seat. “She just wasn’t into the same
stuff that the rest of us were, and that kind of brought down the group.”

“Stuff like what?” Ivy asks.

“You know.” I shrug again. My face feels hot. “The whole social scene at school—trying
to get invited to A-list parties and go to A-list clubs. Dara didn’t care about that
stuff. She’d even go out of her way to reject it. Like, if I snagged her an invite
to a party, she’d arrive underdressed.”

“Imagine that,” Garth says, poking a finger through the hole in his T-shirt.

“But it’s more than that,” I say, remembering a wear-red-for-love fund-raiser party
when Dara showed up in blue-jean overalls and insinuated that Amanda’s family was
gluttonous for owning three homes and four cars.

“It’s really hard to explain, but she wasn’t doing anything to help her situation,”
I continue, “which was really frustrating to watch. I saw her becoming more and more
isolated. And I know I definitely should’ve done something, because I knew that behavior
wasn’t
her
. Dara was so much better than all of that. But I distanced myself instead.”

“And so now you feel responsible?” Ivy asks.

“Not responsible.” I swallow hard. “I just wish I’d have known how unhappy she was.
I mean, I knew she was depressed, but I never pegged her as suicidal.” I look around
for a wall vent, wondering if the air conditioner is on, if anyone thinks it’s as
humid as I do. “Anyway, it happened a little over two years ago, and I still dream
about it—about finding her body and about how alone she must’ve felt—but, unlike some
of you, I didn’t go to therapy. I discovered Justin Blake. During the weeks following
Dara’s funeral, there were round-the-clock marathons of his films. And, since I wasn’t
really sleeping much back then, his movies were the perfect distraction to my own
horror.”

“Cheers to that,” Natalie says, raising her coffee mug. “Justin Blake’s movies: the
very best form of therapy.”

We all raise our mugs to toast. A moment later, a cuckoo bird comes out from its birdhouse-clock
to alert us to the time, only instead of just making a simple chirping sound, it starts
to sing:
“Greetings, Dark House Dreamers, it’s almost time for fright. The Nightmare Elf promises
to visit you all tonight.”

“Holy crap,” Ivy mutters, panic mode returned.

“Only one more hour to go,” Garth says, rubbing his palms together.

I want to share his enthusiasm, but suddenly I want to go home.