Welcome to the Dark House (13 page)

T
HE HEARSE PULLS UP AT
four p.m. sharp. I couldn’t be more stoked. Shayla comes and stands beside me as
we pile into the back. I’d rather she kept her distance. I’m really sick of her bullshit,
pretending that she’s all into me, only to want to get inside my head and excavate
something that isn’t there.

She ends up sitting between Ivy and Parker. “So, was anybody able to dig up the details
on this confidential,
Nightmare Elf
–inspired film project?” she asks.

“It seems to be totally hush-hush,” Parker says. “Everything online and in the trades
says that Blake’s filming in Beijing.”

“Hence the confidential-project part,” I tell them.

“Even this contest was on the down-low,” Frankie says. “I couldn’t find it on Blake’s
Web site, and when I went back to the fan site a week or so after I sent in my essay,
the contest post was no longer there.”

“Blake’s peeps probably took it down, tired of reading all of the entries—over twenty
thousand supposedly.” I yawn. “Anyway, I’m sure Blake’s chartered a private jet to
fly him back to Beijing after the filming tonight.”

“What are the odds that I’d be able to sneak myself onto that jet?” Shayla giggles.

“I’d say they suck pretty hard-core,” I tell her.

She shoots me a dejected look, which honestly warms my heart.

We drive for more than two hours before pulling onto a gravel road, lined on both
sides with trees. Parker takes out his video camera, rolls down the window, and starts
filming.

“Are you lost?” Frankie shouts to the driver as we get thicker into the forest.

The hearse rocks from side to side as the terrain beneath us gets more unstable. At
one point I’m not even sure if the car’s width will make it through the trees. Branches
scrape and poke the windows and doors.

“You know this is killing your paint job, right?” Frankie calls out to the driver.

Finally we reach a clearing, but the tree boughs overhead block out most of the light.
The driver—the same guy who picked me up from the airport—puts the car in park and
gets out. At first I think he must be going to check on the damage, but instead he
opens the door. “It’s a little too narrow to drive,” he says. “But we can get there
on foot. It’s just on the other side of these trees.”

“What is?” Parker asks.

“Harris says we shouldn’t go,” Natalie whispers.

“Your dead brother Harris, right?” I say, intentionally being obnoxious.

We follow the driver down the long narrow roadway. It’s several minutes of walking
before the entire area in front of us opens
up.

It’s like something straight out of a dream.
WELCOME, DARK HOUSE DREAMERS
is lit up in Gothic lettering, hanging above an entrance gate. There’s also a Ferris
wheel, a merry-go-round, and a ride called Hotel 9;
with multiple pointed roofs, it looks like the hotel in the movie.

There’s a tall iron gate that surrounds the entire area, keeping it from the public.
It’s got to be at least thirty feet tall. There’s also barbed wire threaded through
and around the rungs at the very top. “What the hell is this?” Parker asks.

“It was an old abandoned amusement park, from what I hear,” the driver says. “But
it’s been revived just for you, the Dark House Dreamers.”

“Okay, but I didn’t sign up for an amusement park,” Parker says. “I’m here to see
a movie.”

“Well, perhaps you should get your ticket.” The driver motions to the gate. “But first…”
He pulls what appears to be a red handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket,
only when he opens it up and shakes it out, it’s actually a red sack, just like the
Nightmare Elf’s. “Please deposit any cell phones, cameras, or video equipment inside
here.” He gives Parker a pointed look.

“You can’t be serious,” Parker says.

“I
am
serious.” The driver smiles. “If you want to see the movie, you’ll honor Mr. Blake’s
request to deposit your electronic belongings here.” He gives the empty sack a shake.

“And if we don’t make a deposit?” Parker persists.

“Then no movie and no Blake,” the driver says.

Frankie checks his cell phone for a signal. “Still nothing.”

“So, then, it’s not like it even matters,” Shayla says, checking her cell phone too.
“Except I
did
want to get a photo of myself with Blake.” She keeps a firm hold on her camera. “It
was a birthday present last year,” she explains. “Just in time for my two-week sojourn
to Prague.”

“Rest assured, there will be plenty of photo opportunities later,” the driver says.
“Now, shall we?”

I place my camera and phone down into the sack. Shayla and the others follow suit.

“Very good,” the driver says, tying the bag closed. “Now, without further ado…” He
pulls something else from his pocket—a remote control—and points it at the front gates.
The doors open to the sound of music—the same whacked-out carnival tune that played
back at the Dark House.

The merry-go-round begins to revolve. The Nightmare Elf’s fat little face goes round
and round at the top. I move closer, standing just inside the gate now. There’s a
roller coaster called Creeper Coaster and a giant tree house called Forest of Fright.
A wooden cutout of Eureka from the Nightmare Elf movies—dressed in her peasant blouse
and ’70s jeans—stands in front of a snack shack, holding a tray full of fried dough
and popcorn.

It’s way too incredible to be real: the blinking lights, the music, and the images
from his films, brought to life, like on a movie set. All of it is hidden—here—in
the woods. And to think that it was just forty-eight hours ago that I was hanging
out in my parents’ basement, filling out applications to work at random gas stations
and liquor stores.

“This place is unbelievable,” I say. “I mean, if I didn’t already think that Justin
Blake was a creative genius, this pretty much seals the deal.”

A flat-screen TV lights up a few yards in front of us. We move in closer. And that’s
when we hear it.

Clamp.

Bang.

Bolt.

The park gates close. The driver threads a chain through and around the bars.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Parker asks him.

“Enjoy!” the driver hollers. He gives us a soldier’s salute before turning away, heading
back down the dirt path.

There’s static on the TV screen now; it’s followed by a black background that keeps
flipping.

And then I see it. On the screen. Justin Blake’s face. It has a grainy quality, but
it’s unmistakably him.

“Hello, Dark House Dreamers,” he says.

“Hello,” Shayla shouts back, silently clapping her hands.

“I hope you all had a pleasant journey to picturesque Hundley County,” he winks, knowing
full well how lame this area is, “and that you’re all enjoying the Dark House.”

“Definitely,” Shayla cheers.

“So, now that you’ve gotten a slight taste of the weekend, let’s see to it that you
get a full dose of what you came here for. After all”—he leans in closer to the camera,
and his pale blue eyes widen for effect—“you came here to be scared, didn’t you?”

“Yeah!” Frankie shouts, pumping his fist.

Natalie stands in front of us all. Her hands are clasped together and she’s mumbling
to herself, most likely auditioning for a future role.

“Okay,” Blake says, but the word actually comes out
“o
-kee-ay
.”
There’s so much static interference going on: a crunching sound in the background
and an annoying buzz. Add that to the fact that the screen continues to flip, and
that there’s a perpetual zigzag that cuts through his face, and it’s hard to get the
full
him
.

“So, let’s get down to why you’re
really
here, shall we?” he asks. “You want a behind-the-scenes look at my latest project,
don’t you?”

“Yes!” I shout, clapping my hands. I give Parker and Ivy a sideways glance. They’re
hanging on Blake’s every word, as if we’re all going to be tested later.

“You told me your worst nightmares,” Blake continues. “That was your ticket into the
gate. And let me just say in response to that”—he leans in closer again, his eyes
bugging out like a deranged serial killer—“revealing your biggest nightmare probably
wasn’t the best idea.”

Shayla squeals in anticipation.

It’s extra grainy on the screen. Blake says a bunch more stuff, but none of us can
hear him. The audio’s all out of whack. “…to face your biggest fears,” he continues,
but the words aren’t in sync with his lips. The speed must be off.

A moment later, the screen goes black.

“What the hell?” I shout.

It fades back a couple of seconds later, but Blake is no longer there. In his place,
hidden among shadows, is someone dressed up as the Nightmare Elf; I can just make
out his bright red suit and the chubby cheeks on his elf mask.

“The reason you’re here is far more paramount than just a behind-the-scenes look at
my film,” the elf says, in a voice that isn’t Blake’s. “This park is the set of my
new movie. And you are my stars.”

“Seriously?” Shayla asks; her inflated ego just got bigger. “We’re the actors?”

“The camera’s already rolling,” the elf says. “So, enjoy the park. Walk around, have
a snack, go on all of the Justin Blake movie–themed rides as many times as you like.
A word to the wise, however: the Eureka Shrieker is a real killer.” He holds the sides
of his head.

Ivy looks like she’s about to hurl.

“But…but…but,” the elf continues, “before you begin, there’s something you need to
know. There are rides and challenges tailored for each of you, based on your essay.
If you want to make it to the final cut, you—and you alone—will have to face your
nightmare by going on that ride. Anyone who enters another Dark House Dreamer’s nightmare
will be unable to attend the rough-cut showing at the end with the
real
creative genius.”

“J.B.,” Shayla whispers.

The elf’s voice goes grave-serious: “Find your ride and face your fear. Any problems,
including if you chicken out, just use the emergency phones. Now, what are you waiting
for?” He unleashes a maniacal laugh that impresses even me. The TV screen fades to
black.

“Holy freaking shit!” I shout. “I mean, do you seriously get what this means?”

“We’re going to be in a movie!” Shayla bursts.

“With no script, directions, or rehearsals?” Parker asks, already trying to poke holes.

“Sort of like the reality-TV version of a major motion picture,” Shayla says. “Has
that even been done yet? Or are we breaking some serious new ground here?”

Tears well up in my eyes. An opportunity like this could honestly change everything
for me—show everyone who ever doubted me. My dad is going to freak.

While the others point out some of the video cameras positioned around the park, wannabe–Linda-Blair
Natalie runs back to the entrance gate. She looks outward, through the bars, wiping
an invisible layer of sweat from her brow.

“What’s wrong?” Frankie asks her, obviously buying her bogus act.

Instead of answering, Natalie struggles to get the gate to open, pulling at the chain
and shaking the lock. “Harris says we’re trapped,” she shouts.

“And Harris is as dead as last night’s dinner,” I say, still thinking about those
amazing ribs.

“It’s hard to be trapped when there are emergency phones,” Shayla says. “Plus, I thought
he stopped talking to you.”

“He’s started again.
Remember
?”

“Well, tell him to shut up,” I say. “Because we’re here to be in a movie. So let’s
get to it.”

Natalie turns away from the gate, and we all move deeper inside the park.

I’
M PROBABLY THE ONLY PERSON
here who isn’t completely enamored with Justin Blake and/or his work, and yet watching
him on the overhead TV screen just now, and listening to whoever it was dressed as
the Nightmare Elf say that we need to face our fears…it felt like they were talking
directly to me.

The others seem excited to be here. Garth smiles for the camera as he poses with a
wooden cutout of one of Justin Blake’s characters (some girl with a big floppy hat
and bell-bottom jeans). Shayla hams it up, squealing and giggling extra loud, as she
plays that game where you slam a mallet as hard as you can, trying to get a puck (in
this case, the Nightmare Elf) to jump up and ring the bell at the very top. She doesn’t
manage it on the first couple of tries, but then Frankie takes a crack at it, sending
the Nightmare Elf soaring; the elf’s head slams against the bell, causing the latter
to ring and the elf’s tongue to stick out from the impact.

Natalie, on the other hand, has the hood of her jacket up now, even though it’s at
least eighty degrees. She’s repositioned her scarf, too, so that it covers her mouth
and chin. A pair of oversize sunglasses conceals her eyes. I gaze up at a video camera,
noticing that she’s positioned away from it. Being videotaped must bother her—the
idea of seeing herself later on film. I don’t want to be videotaped either—don’t want
to risk that my parents’ killer might one day recognize me in a movie.

“So, what do you think?” Parker asks, standing at my side.

“I’m not really sure
what
to think. I didn’t ask to be in a movie.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t want to be a reality star?”

I wish I could read his mind to know if he’s thought about last night, because it’s
been on my mind all day. He was so incredibly sweet, staying in my room, and then
holding me when my anxiety got too big.

“Hey, come check this out!” Shayla says. She’s moved farther into the park, past a
merry-go-round with evil-looking horses. There’s another ride tucked behind it, but
only the back side is visible: a yellow house with a picket fence.

I wonder if it’s mine.

“It’s the greenroom,” Shayla shouts. “Come on!”

Movie screens light up around the park showing films by Justin Blake. I look back
at the house, eager to get away from it. I follow the others to where Shayla is. It’s
a lounge area, set up with patio sofas and chairs. There are food coolers positioned
about, as well as a couple of portable refrigerators. “Seven chairs,” I say, nodding
toward a dining area, reminded of Taylor’s absence.

“Over here,” Frankie says, calling us to one of the rides. “Check it out. This ride
goes underground.” He points out where a tunnel burrows down into the ground and then
comes out several yards later.

The rest of the Nightmare Elf’s Train of Terror looks fairly normal—like a basic roller
coaster—with individual carts that resemble the Santa-like sacks that the Nightmare
Elf always carries. The elf’s chubby face is positioned in front of the very first
cart. His eyes are aglow, the pupils flashing red.

Shayla climbs into the cart at the very front.

“Wait, how do you know you can ride this?” Parker checks out the ride’s signage—basically
a board that lists rules about staying properly restrained—obviously heeding the Nightmare
Elf’s message that, in addition to our personalized nightmare rides, we’re only allowed
to go on rides that are based on Justin Blake’s movies.

“This ride is E for everyone,” Shayla says, suddenly a park expert. She peeks up at
the camera and sticks out her chest. “An equal opportunity thriller.” She blows the
camera a kiss.

Garth jumps into the cart behind her. “You’ll probably want to sit this one out,”
he says to Natalie. “I don’t think Harris would approve.”

Instead of taking his remark with its intended sarcasm, Natalie’s face falls flat.
“You’re right,” she says. “Harris wants me to find a way out of here.” She looks around
at the perimeter of the park in a halfhearted search for an exit. When she doesn’t
immediately see one, she climbs into one of the carts, careful to keep all her layers
of shrouding intact.

“Shall we?” Parker asks, motioning to the two train carts behind Frankie’s.

I climb inside the first one. Parker steps into the cart behind it. He presses the
start button, on a post by the list of rules. Everyone’s handlebars drop down, locking
us into place.

At the same moment, the Nightmare Elf lets out a childlike giggle.
“Hold on to your chair,”
the elf sings.
“Because I’m ready to scare.”

Shayla, Garth, and Frankie cheer in unison.

I clench the handlebars. A motor starts up somewhere beneath me, under my seat. The
train carts begin to coast into a tunnel, before spiraling downward into a deep, dark
hole.

“We’re going underground!” Shayla shouts.

The Nightmare Elf lets out another laugh.
“Too late to turn back now.”

My stomach drops. I lurch forward, feeling like I’m going to fall out of my seat.

One of us howls. Someone else lets out a scream.

Finally, the carts level out and proceed in a forward direction again. But still there’s
only darkness. “Parker?” I call out, but I can barely hear my own voice.

The wheels rip across the tracks, screeching over any other sound.

I grip the handlebar tighter. My teeth clench harder. I close my eyes, trying to breathe
through my anxiety. I’m stronger than my fears, bigger than this moment. I inhale
and then exhale, blowing out my negative thoughts, trying to return to a state of
calm.

The wind blows at my face, through my hair. And, for just a second, I almost convince
myself that this is actually kind of fun.

But then my cart comes to a sudden halt.

And the screeching noise stops.

There’s just the pumping of my heart—so hard and heavy inside my chest that I can
hear it in my ears, can feel it in my veins.

The lights remain out. I can’t see a thing—not the person seated in front of me, nor
the hand before my face.

Is it over? Are we stuck? Why isn’t anyone saying anything?

I can hear the sound of water trickling. A leaking pipe, maybe. I reach forward to
touch Frankie, but there’s just empty space in front of me. Our carts must’ve disconnected,
or maybe they were never connected to begin with.

“Parker?” I call, hearing the tremor in my voice.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, it’s another voice that cuts through the darkness: a child’s
voice, whispering something, but it’s far too faint to hear.

“Hello?” I call out.

I strain to hear, able to make out the words
victim
and
doomed
. Should I get out of my cart? Try to find my way out? Is it possible that my cart
went off the tracks?

A light clicks on over my head, making me squint. Finally, I can see.

An image of two boys waivers a few yards away. They look freakishly real. Dressed
in tuxedos, the boys have slick black hair and stark white faces. Their eyes stare
in my direction.

“Hello?” I repeat, but no sound comes out. There’s a sharpness inside my chest, making
it hard to breathe.

Music begins to play—piano keys tap out the tune to “Three Blind Mice.”
“Seven blind mice. Seven blind mice,”
the boys begin to sing.
“See how they run. See how they run. They think they can get away from me, but I have
another plan, you see. Fall asleep in the Dark House and you will be, seven dead mice.
Seven dead mice.”

They smile at the same time—dark red lips, bright white teeth—and begin walking toward
me.

I pull on the handlebar, but it won’t budge, trapping me in place. “No!” I shout.
My forehead’s sweating. My mouth turns
dry.

I shimmy my hips, trying to work myself out. The handlebar’s pressed into my gut.

Tears slide down my face, over my lips. The taste of salt. The sensation of spinning.
I’m going to be sick.

The boys are inches away now, their fingertips within reach. I lean back, reminding
myself that they aren’t real, that this is supposed to be fun.

Breathe through your anxiety,
Dr. Donna would say.

I call up some of her other favorite sayings too—even those that don’t quite fit—in
an effort to stay grounded:

Remember that sometimes our minds play tricks. Sometimes what we think is real is
colored by our imagination.

Allusion is temporary—our brain’s way of protecting itself and processing information.

You’ve been through a lot, Ivy. Post-traumatic stress disorder can do that; it can
impair your ability to decipher what’s real from what isn’t.

The boys reach toward my neck. Tears continue down my cheeks.

“Should’ve gotten out when you had your chance,”
they sing.
“Now it’s time to do the dead man’s dance.”
They begin to dance, kicking their feet right and left, their dark eyes staring through
me.

Moments later, the engine roars beneath my train cart. I creep forward again, plunging
through the hologram.

The cart climbs upward, finally soaring through a loop-de-loop. The tracks screech
with every turn. Finally, I can hear the hollers and cheers of the others as I go
barreling down another drop.

At the end of the ride.

Outside again.

I’m able to see.

It takes me a second to realize that I’m behind Parker, rather than in front of him.
Frankie and Natalie’s carts are reversed as well.

“It’s about time,” Shayla says, shouting back at me. “We’ve been waiting, like, a
kagillion hours for you to come out. Okay, so more like five minutes.” She giggles.
“We all came out at different times.”

I seriously have no words. My breath’s gone. I can’t speak. It feels like I’ve been
run over by a bus.

“So, what’s next?” Garth asks, already looking for the next thrill.

“Hold up,” Shayla says, standing up, hands on hips, clearly for the camera. “I mean,
was that intense or what? A ride that goes underground? All of a sudden my train cart
stopped and music began to play with a little girl’s voice singing about burying a
body. I recognized the song, but I couldn’t remember if it was in
Night Terrors II
or
III
?”

“It was in number three,” Frankie says. “The song is called ‘Flatline’ by Klockwise
Krystina.”

“It’s in the scene with the postal guy at Little Sally’s lemonade stand,” Garth adds.

“My cart stopped too,” Natalie says. “But only for a second, and there were so many
sounds: a motor revving, wheels squeaking, the Nightmare Elf’s laugh, and that heavy
metal music.”

“Not to mention your dead brother’s voice,” Garth says.

“Wait, what heavy metal music?” Parker asks. “All I heard was whispering. How about
you?” He turns back to me.

I shake my head, unable to answer. My whole body’s sweating and yet I feel completely
chilled.

“So, then after that first drop,” Shayla continues, “we must’ve all gone in different
directions, and experienced different things.”

While the others seem intrigued by that idea, I’m overwhelmed by it. I mean, if I
thought this was hard—separating for just a handful of seconds—how am I possibly going
to face the nightmare of my life on my own?