Welcome to the Dark House (7 page)

T
HE BOYS HERE ARE SUPER CUTE
, and I’m super excited to get to know them more—to get to know
everybody
more—but my roommate is a buzzkill.

“I want to go home,” Natalie says, sulking at the edge of her bed, her cell phone
clenched in her hand.

“Nonsense,” Midge tells her. “You’re just tired and probably hungry, but that’s nothing
that some rest and a warm meal wouldn’t cure.”

“Try clicking your heels together three times,” I joke.

But Natalie’s not really the joking type. She stares down at her clunky black boots
(for the record, Dr. Martens originals). I feel kind of sorry for her—and not because
of her lack of style, though that’s pity rendering too. Having spent the last nine
years at four different boarding schools, I’ve had my fair share of abrupt transitions
and seen some nasty cases of homesickness. My best friend Dara’s included.

“Maybe you could just give us a moment,” I tell Midge.

“Sure,” she says, but she seems unsure, as if Natalie is a delicate flower that I
could trample with one wrong step. Thankfully, Midge leaves us alone anyway.

I sit down beside Natalie on the bed, noticing that her hair looks even gnarlier than
mine does,
pre
-relaxer. It’s like something straight out of a Tim Burton movie—big and dark and
creepy and fake. I try to imagine how she might look if she’d fix her hair and shed
the bag-lady clothing. I’d bet she’d be really striking. She has a model’s facial
bone structure: high cheekbones, a nose that turns slightly upward, and a perfectly
pointed chin. Plus, her lips look naturally full and her skin appears virtually flaw-
and pore-less.

“So, Miss Natalie, where are you from? And what do you like?”

“I actually prefer to be called Nat.”

“As in the bloodsucking insect? News flash, bloodsucking is so five years ago,” I
say, still trying to keep things light.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

“I think roommate-sit would be the more accurate term, don’t you?” I smile. “Now,
tell me, what’s with the dark cloud hovering over your sunny time here?”

She gets up and fishes inside her suitcase, pulling out a package of Twizzlers. “I
just really miss Harris.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“My brother. We’re twins.”

I can feel the bewilderment on my face, unable to imagine missing my booger-picking
brother after five months, never mind five hours. “Well, you could call him, you know…on
the landline.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Why not?”

She opens the licorice package, twists a stick around her index finger, and gnaws
on it like a baby with a teething ring. “I didn’t tell him I was coming here. I didn’t
tell anyone, for that matter.”

“So, your parents don’t know where you are?”

“They probably have some idea. I mean, they know I won the contest. They just didn’t
want me to come. Harris didn’t either.” She swallows a mouthful of licorice before
loading her fingers with a couple more sticks.

“
I
could call them,” I offer, suddenly remembering that I promised my mom that I’d call
her, too. I flop back onto the bed and kick up my legs, admiring my checkerboard pedicure.
“Not to brag or anything, but I
do
have a way with parents. It’s one of my hidden talents.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, making the checkerboards dance.

A second later, there’s a knock on the open door.

It’s Parker…looking even more amazing than he did ten minutes ago. If I didn’t know
better, I’d say he just stepped off the runway. I mean, holy hunk of hotness with
his broad shoulders, tousled blond hair, chiseled features, and sea glass–worthy blue
eyes.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re all next door, in Ivy and Taylor’s room. There’s something
you’ll want to see.” There’s a delicious grin on his face. He’s just so incredibly
yummy.

“Totally,” I say, jumping up from the bed. But then I look back at Natalie.

She’s turned away now, silently asserting a big fat no.

It’s all I can do not to scream. “Just give us a few minutes, okay?” I tell Parker,
faking a smile, and closing the door behind him.

“You should go,” Natalie says, between bites of licorice.

“Why don’t you come too? I mean, we’re here to get to know everyone,
right
?” I spend the next eleven minutes telling her about my arrival at Winston Academy,
the only black girl in a sea of fair-skinned blondes with names like Josie, Bunny,
Kiki, and Coco. “But I had to eventually mix in and give people a chance. I couldn’t
just sit around sulking in my room all day.”

Still, bag of candy in hand, Natalie moves to lie down on her bed, drawing the covers
over her face.

I suppose I can take a hint. I leave her alone and hop next door. But, to my surprise,
no one’s in there now. I go inside, curious to know what Parker was talking about—what
I so desperately needed to see.

Half of the room is decorated with cookbooks and food videos, not to mention a creepy
cutout of Julia Child holding a slimy chicken carcass.
Classy.
The other half is baby-doll pink and suited to a dancer. I wonder which side is Ivy’s.

I continue to look around, checking to see if anything appears off, finally spotting
a rack of ballet slippers. They’re all so pretty and delicate—like tiny works of art.
Even though I’m not a dancer now, I used to take ballet when I was a kid—back when
it was okay for little-girl ballerinas to be something other than white and emaciated.
But sometime around the age of eleven, when I started to sprout boobs and booty, and
when I decided to trade my frizz-ball hair bun for neat little cornrows, my ballet
teacher suggested that my “look” and body type might be better suited to hip-hop,
which totally squelched my dreams of being in
Swan Lake
one day. I haven’t danced since, which Dara always thought was crazy. “You’re an
incredible dancer,” she used to say. “Don’t let someone else’s opinion dictate your
life.”

If only Dara had taken her own advice.

I peer over my shoulder to make sure that no one’s looking, and then I go to try on
a shimmering white slipper, but I can barely squish my toes in, confirming what my
ballet teacher was talking about: some of us simply don’t fit.

I move over to the closet, noticing a stash of glittery costumes, hoping that there’s
one for Princess Odette, my favorite character from
Swan Lake
. I search the racks, eager to find one before someone comes in and sees me here.

There are costumes from
The Nutcracker
,
A
Midsummer Night’s Dream
,
Peter Pan
, and
Sleeping Beauty
, but I don’t see any for
Swan Lake
. I take some
Nutcracker
wings, imagining myself as the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Then I spot something else. At the back of the closet. A streak of red on the wall.

I part the costumes to get a better look. Dark letters on the back of the closet spell
out
GET OUT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE
.

“O
KAY, WHO HAS THE SICK
sense of humor?” someone shouts.

“Sounds like somebody’s looking for me,” I holler back, proceding down the hallway,
wielding my mighty ax.

It was Shayla’s voice. She’s in Ivy and Taylor’s room. There’s a sexy little smirk
on her face. “Did
you
do this?” She points inside a closet.

Before I can ask or see what she’s talking about, the others come back upstairs. I
swing the ax, picturing myself as Sidney Scarcella in
Hotel 9: Blocked Rooms
in the lobby scene, when poor Mrs. Teetlebaum ventures from her room in the middle
of the night. But they’re all so busy blathering on that they don’t even notice.

“Ohmygosh,” Shayla bursts out as soon as she sees Parker. “So, I was just checking
out the costumes, and…wait, where did you get that?” She’s looking at me now, referring
to my ax. A curious smile sits on her lips. I can tell she wants to play too.

“In the bathroom. The blade was stuck in the wall—just a sweet little reminder of
why we’re all here.”

“Is it real?” Ivy asks.

“Unfortunately, no.” I sigh, scratching my head with the plastic blade. “But it’s
the thought that counts, right?”

I move into the room and take a peek inside the closet. The costumes are pushed to
the side, exposing the back wall. “Get out before it’s too late,” I say, reading the
flaming-red words. I let out a big fat yawn. “I mean, seriously, this is
it
?”

“Did
you
do it?” Parker asks me.

“If only I could take the credit.” I step closer to examine the writing. Some of the
letters have fingerprints in the individual strokes. But, I know my stuff. “It wasn’t
written in blood,” I say, “in case that was a concern.”

“This from the guy who thinks that blood is as blue as his balls,” Frankie says.

“I don’t really believe that blood is blue. I just wanted to see if I could convince
you
that it was.” I smile, making sure to expose my pointy incisors, hoping to psych
him out. “If this were
real
blood there would be droplets all over the floor. Plus, if it’s been at least an
hour since this was written—and I’m assuming it has—the blood would’ve had time to
oxidize.”

“Meaning?” Parker asks.

“Meaning, it would’ve browned by now. It’s got to be paint or marker, or something
else—a nifty corn syrup concoction, maybe.” I lean in to give the writing a sniff,
noticing a slightly glossy sheen. “It’s still wet.”

“So, I guess that rules out the theory that it was done by a former guest,” Shayla
says.

It’s lip gloss. I’m sure of it. I can tell from the beeswax scent. I reach out to
touch the stain. “On second thought, maybe it
is
blood,” I lie, pretending to lick the smear from my finger.

Ivy lets out a shriek. She’s way too easy to disturb. My dad would be all over her
paranoid ass, injecting fake blood into her toothpaste tube, and other “fun” stuff
like that.

“Oh my God! Remember that scene in
Hotel 9: Enjoy Your Stay
?” Shayla asks. “When Emma Corwin commits suicide out of self defense?”

“So that the killer won’t get her.” Frankie nods.

“After Emma slits her wrist, she dips her fingers into her own blood and starts to
write the word
help
on the window glass,” I continue.

“Only she doesn’t get past the letter
L
,” Shayla says, finishing my thought. Her amber eyes grow wide. There’s a certain
smart-girl sexiness about her. Maybe it’s the square black glasses. Or maybe it’s
the curvy situation she’s got going on beneath that ridiculous housewife tracksuit.

“What if Taylor left us that message?” Ivy asks, still freaking out.

“You seriously need to be medicated,” I say. “I mean, think about it: a bunch of Justin
Blake horror junkies travel from all over the country to partake in a scary weekend.
This sort of stuff is to be expected.”

“Okay, but if it was only done in fun, then why hide it in a closet?” Ivy nags. “Why
not put it out in the open? This message was done in secret. Maybe Taylor was hiding
when she did it.”

“Or maybe Taylor doesn’t even exist,” Frankie says. “What if this whole scenario was
created just for our entertainment?”

“There’s a movie like that,” I say. “Name that film: a group of seemingly random kids
gets invited to spend the night in a mansion that’s rumored to be haunted, only, in
the end, there’s nothing random about how the kids were chosen. They were all handpicked
according to their personality profiles—sort of like the personality profile that
we all had to submit for this contest—and the entire evening of horrors was orchestrated
by the hosts.”

Despite the accurate description, their faces remain blank.

“It came out in 1997,” I continue, giving them a hint. “It bombed at the box office
during its debut weekend, but then hit a grand slam in video. Jeffrey Salter was the
executive producer, two no-name actors played the leads, and the director was…” I
hum out the theme song to
Jeopardy
, waiting for someone to reply.

“Errrh,”
I say, sounding the buzzer.

“Are you talking about
House of Red
?” Parker asks. “Because that actually came out in ninety-six, not ninety-seven. And
it was directed by Henri Maltide and
co-
produced by Salter. Maltide was also listed as a producer.”

“Okay, but Salter did all the work,” I say, correcting him. “Including writing the
screenplay, so let’s give credit where credit is due, shall we? Oh, and PS, Taylor
is
real, or at least according to Midge she is. She was supposed to be on my connecting
flight, along with Natalie, but I got bumped thanks to my pet, Squirrely.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Parker says, grabbing his cell phone. He takes a few
pictures of the writing.

“Peek-a-boo,”
Midge sings, poking her head inside the room. “Was someone looking for me a few minutes
ago? I was down in the basement and thought I heard someone call out my name.”

Parker points to the bogus message. “We wanted to show you something.”

A twinge of surprise forms on Midge’s face, but then her expression morphs into a
sheepish grin. “Beats me,” she says, reaching into the pocket of her apron. She pulls
out a handful of bloody fingers. They look eerily realistic, complete with dirty fingernails
and hairy knuckles. She holds them out for show and then pops them into her mouth.

This woman is my new idol.

Ivy lets out a gasp, covering her mouth.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Midge says. “How rude of me. Would anyone like a juicy thumb?”

“I would,” I tell her.

Midge fishes a hairless thumb from her pocket and hands it to me. I pop it into my
mouth. It’s bubble gum.

“Are you all hungry?” Midge asks. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Taylor to get back from her walk?” Ivy asks.

“Taylor phoned just a little while ago, while I was on another call,” Midge explains.
“She stopped at a diner on Highway 9.”

“Is Highway 9 far from here?” Ivy asks.

“
Everything
is far from here.” Frankie laughs.

“We already have a car out looking for her,” Midge says. “So don’t worry. Just come
down to the dining room in fifteen minutes. I’ll have everything ready.”

“Sounds great.” I blow out a bubble and pop it with my ax, more than eager to get
this party started.

Once Midge and the others file out of the room, only Ivy and I remain. Ivy paces back
and forth, completely lost in her own little world, not even noticing the fact that
I’m lounging on her bed right now. Part of me almost feels sorry for her—I used to
get scared like that too.

I take a deep breath, thinking back to the day my dad pulled me aside and taught me
all about Leatherface. “Do you want me to teach you what I know?”

She looks at me, alarm on her face, as if surprised to find me still here.

“About the blood,” I explain.

Still no answer.

“Blink once for yes, twice for no,” I continue.

She blinks once—on purpose or by accident, I’m not quite sure—and so I get up and
stand in front of the closet. “See the glossy sheen?” I say, pointing to the individual
letters.

Ivy finally shows a pulse and comes over to join me.

“Now, get real close,” I tell her. “Do you smell the beeswax? I think there might
also be a hint of petroleum jelly.”

“Are you a bloodhound?”

“It’s my superpower,” I say, only half kidding. I may not be able to detect blood
type for real, but ever since I was little, I’ve had a keen sense of smell—sometimes
so
keen that it became somewhat of a handicap, forever distracting my attention. I failed
freshman Bio because Mr. Bing reeked of mothballs. “Do you smell the artificial ingredients?”
I ask her.

She shakes her head.

I lean in to sniff the letters again, and that’s when I notice it.

“What?” Ivy asks, able to spot the confusion on my face.

I look around the closet, searching for the source, spotting a palm-size smear of
blood in the corner, by the floor. I kneel down to check it out. It’s had time to
oxidize, but I can tell it’s still fresh.

“What?”
Ivy repeats.

“Just more of the lip gloss,” I lie, sparing her the truth. It’s probably just a fluke
thing anyway.