Welcome to the Dark House (8 page)

T
HE DINING ROOM OF THE
Dark House is straight from a magazine: plum-purple walls, velvet drapes, gold-framed
paintings, and a mosaic-tiled floor. Parker’s filming the space, doing a close-up
of a portrait of a half woman/half feline dressed in a fur coat.

I sit with the others around a marble table lined with thick red candles. Parker takes
a seat beside me and bumps his shoulder against mine.

“Everything cool?” he asks, probably noticing that I’ve been mute for the past several
minutes.

Little does he know that there’s a ball of tension wedged beneath my ribs, making
it hard to breathe. “It’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile, wanting to prove to myself
that I can do this. Getting scared is part of the process, I repeat inside my head,
hoping the repetition will make it okay.

A crystal chandelier hangs down from a vaulted ceiling, illuminating our meal, which
is kept hidden beneath silver dome covers. Midge lifts the covers, unveiling some
of America’s most popular comfort foods: mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, green bean
casserole, fried chicken, and barbecue spareribs.

“Holy yum-ness,” Shayla says. “This is totally the meal from
Nightmare Elf III: Lights Out.
Remember when that couple ran out of gas en route home from their road trip? They
went to the Dark House for help, and the family that was staying there at the time—”

“The Kramer family,” Garth says to clarify.

“—served this very same meal.” Shayla spoons a mound of mashed potatoes onto her plate
and then tops it off with a drizzle of gravy.

“Can I pass you something?” Parker asks me.

“I’m good,” I say, taking a glob of mac and cheese, even though the thought of ingesting
anything right now makes me feel sick.

“So, when do we get to meet Justin Blake?” Frankie asks, as Midge fills our water
glasses.

“Tomorrow,” she says. “Didn’t you find the itinerary in your room?”

“I think I might’ve been too distracted by the Clapton Fender Stratocaster.”

“Nothing but the best for our Dark House Dreamers.” She sets a dinner bell in the
center of the table. “If anyone needs anything, just give this here a jingle, okay?”

We thank her and she leaves the room, dimming the overhead lights as she goes.

“I have an idea.” Shayla perks up in her seat. “How about after dinner we play an
icebreaker game. Something to help us get to know one another.”

I look over at Natalie, feeling bad that we haven’t officially met. “I’m Ivy,” I say,
somewhat encouraged by her presence—that there might actually be someone here who’s
more freaked out than me.

The others introduce themselves as well. Natalie flashes a polite smile and then resumes
eating her food in silence.

“How about we play spin the bottle?” Garth says, between bites of barbecue spareribs.
He flashes us a grotesque smile, his teeth and lips thoroughly saturated with dark
red goo.

Shayla laughs in response, making me wonder if there isn’t anything she doesn’t find
hilarious. “How about a Justin Blake trivia game?”

“Except I’d beat all of you in the first round,” Garth says.

“Don’t be so sure about that one. What year did Blake graduate from college?” Parker
asks.

“He didn’t graduate,” Frankie says. “He never made it through sophomore year.”

“No, but he did graduate from Wentley Vocational-Technical School,” Garth says. “His
father wanted him to become an electrician.”

“That actually isn’t right,” Natalie says, peeking up from her chicken leg. “His father
wanted him to become a doctor, but they ended up compromising on electrical work,
and that was only because Blake’s uncle was a master electrician, so Blake was pretty
much guaranteed a job.”

Garth pauses from licking his goo-covered fingers. His mouth hangs open, exposing
a hunk of chewed up pork. “Holy crap. She speaks.”

“She just doesn’t speak
to you
,” Frankie jokes.

I angle myself in Natalie’s direction. “Were you and Taylor on the same flight here?
Did you ride in the same car?”

“Yes,” she says, poking a hole in the nonexistence theory. “Why?”

“Because Taylor is missing,” I tell her.

“Not missing, just not
here
.” Garth rolls his eyes.

“I know what we should play,” Shayla says, snagging the conversation back. “How about
a game of two truths and a lie?”

“I vote that we don’t play any games,” Frankie says. “Let’s just talk like normal
people.”

“If only we
were
normal people,” Garth says, baring his sauce-smothered teeth once again.

“What did everyone write about for the contest?” Parker asks.

The table goes quiet for several seconds until Frankie ventures to speak. “I wrote
about the nightmares I had after my uncle died—about digging his body up and getting
trapped underground, right along with him.”

“There’s a movie like that,” Garth says. “About a guy who gets buried alive.”

“There are at least
ten
movies like that,” Parker says, correcting him. “The idea is actually sort of cliché.”

“Were you and your uncle super close?” Shayla asks, turning to Frankie.

“Close enough, I guess,” he says. “But it was seeing the burial that
really
messed me up…seeing his body lowered into the ground and planted inside the earth,
like it could one day grow back to life. What made it worse was that my mom had left
a few months before.”

“Left?”
Shayla asks.

“Yep.” He nods, drawing a train track across his mound of mashed potatoes. “She packed
her bags and never looked back. This was her bracelet, by the way.” He flashes us
a gold link chain around his wrist. “It was passed down to her by her father—my grandfather.
And, one day, she took it off, fastened it around my wrist, and told me that I could
keep it and that we’d always be together.”

“The symbol for infinity,” I say, spotting the elongated figure eight.

“Which is actually pretty ironic, considering that she took off that following week.
Anyway, my dad hates that I wear it—says it’s a complete slap in his face—which is
why I got this.” He lifts the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Rice & Sons
is tattooed on his bicep. “It’s the name of my dad’s auto repair shop. My brothers
have the same one—proof of our loyalty. Needless to say, allegiance is pretty big
in my family.”

“
I
have tattoos,” Natalie says.

“Plural?”
Garth asks, his eyebrow raised. He gives her body a once over, but only her face
and fingers are bare. “How many, where,
and of what?”

“Seven. All over. And all for Justin Blake,” she says. “I guess I have my allegiances
too.”

“To a man you’ve never met?” I ask, genuinely curious about her motivation.

“Is that somehow less acceptable than getting permanently inked to show a supposed
loyalty to something that you don’t even care about?” Frankie asks, obviously referring
to his father’s business. “Something that you kind of even resent?”

“You don’t
really
have tattoos, do you?” Garth says, zeroed in on Natalie.

“Why would I lie?” she asks.

“I guess there’s only one way to prove it.” The menacing grin on Garth’s face reminds
me of the Grinch’s after having just stolen Christmas.

“She doesn’t need to prove anything to you,” Frankie tells him.

Natalie looks at Frankie and a tiny smile crosses her lips. A second later, the lights
flicker and go out, tightening the knot in my gut.

“It’s just a scare tactic,” Parker says. He nods toward the hallway, where the lights
are still on. “I’m sure this weekend is going to be full of them.”

As if on cue, his words are followed by the roar of thunder—a hard, heavy rumble that
reverberates in my bones. Even Shayla jumps at the sound.

I focus on one of the candles, trying to exhale my mounting anxiety, but my breath
gets caught in my chest, and I let out a wheeze.

“Are you okay?” Parker asks, placing his hand on my shoulder.

My heart beats fast. My hands start to sweat. I can’t seem to get enough air. “I need
to go lie down for a bit,” I try to say, but the words come out choppy.

“Seriously?”
Garth asks. “You’re one of the chosen, here for the party. Stay for the rolling credits,
why don’t you?”

I really wish I could, but right now I need to get away.

I
WAIT ALL OF FIVE MINUTES
before going upstairs to check on Ivy. “Hello,” I call, rapping lightly on the door.

She opens it. Her hair’s pulled back. There’s a thin veil of sweat over her forehead
and neck. Somehow it makes her skin glisten. The bottle pendant that hangs around
her neck dangles toward her cleavage.

I nod at the travel mug she’s holding. “You got something strong in there?”

“It’s chamomile.” She smiles. “Want some?” She points to a tin full of tea packets.

“I’ve got all sorts of flavors and colors: red, green, black, gray, kombucha, oolong,
dandelion…”

“Thanks,” I say, stepping inside her room. “But I’m not much of a tea drinker.”

“Really?”
She gives me a surprised look, as if not drinking tea is as peculiar as bringing
a stash of it along on vacation. She sits down on Taylor’s bed and the vee of her
dress opens ever so slightly, exposing three solid inches of plump ivory skin. “I’m
sorry I freaked out down there.”

“Don’t apologize. I get it. Being here is making you a wee bit anxious.”

“More like a huge bit.”

“I mean, I know the message in the closet upset you, and that Taylor’s absence really
bothers you.”

She angles toward the closet and her dress opens up even more. “The message is probably
like Garth said—a scare tactic.” She looks back at me, straight into my face. “Are
you okay? Because if you want to talk about something else, I totally get it.”

“Right,” I say, but I have no idea what I’m agreeing to, and the confused look in
Ivy’s eyes tells me that she doesn’t know either.

I mentally splash some water onto my face, noticing that she smells intoxicating—like
lavender and chamomile. I take a deep breath, trying to picture this whole scene like
a movie—
anything
to help keep myself focused.

INT. BEDROOM
—
NIGHT

One half of the room is decorated for a dancer, with ballet slippers and costumes;
the other half is full of cookbooks. There are two full beds.

IVY, 18-ish and unbelievably cute, sits on one of the beds, wearing a dress that’s
driving me crazy.

I move to sit beside her.

IVY

Taylor already started unpacking her stuff.

She motions to Taylor’s leopard-print suitcase at the foot of the bed. It’s unzipped.
And the top drawer to Taylor’s dresser is only half-closed.

ME

And?

IVY

And why would she start unpacking if she were just going to bolt? I mean, I suppose
I get it. Maybe she needed some fresh air and wanted to regroup, which is totally
understandable. I mean, I keep having to remind myself what
I’m
still doing here, and why I even came to begin with.

ME

Why
did
you come?

IVY

Why did
you
?

ME

For the networking possibilities. I want to be a filmmaker one day.

IVY

Which explains the video camera.

ME

(nodding)

I only end up using about five percent of the footage. But still, getting in the habit
of filming stuff
—
trying to get those perfect angles
—
and then editing clips together to tell a story
…
all of that helps make me a better filmmaker.


IVY

Sounds like you really love it.

ME

I do. And getting to meet Justin Blake is a major step in the right direction. Now,
your turn.

IVY

I don’t know.

(a shrug)

I guess I entered this contest because I really love horror.

ME

Right
.

(a smirk)

I should’ve known that from your expression during
The Old Dark House
movie. I think it looked something like this.

I flash her my most frightful face, my eyes wide and my mouth arched open in terror.

IVY

That obvious, huh?

ME

Do you want to be an actress?

IVY

Apparently I’m not a very good one if you’re onto me already. Can you keep a secret?
I hate horror. Like, I
really
hate it. I don’t get what the appeal is
…
why someone would ever want to be scared.


ME

Okay, so it makes
perfect
sense why you’d want to enter this contest.

IVY

Really?

ME

Not really. (a grin) How did you even find out about the contest?

IVY

The Nightmare Elf kept e-mailing me. For whatever reason, despite many attempts to
unsubscribe, I’m on his e-newsletter list, which means I’m constantly getting updates
about his numerous contests.

ME

Does the Nightmare Elf even
have
an e-newsletter?

Ivy lets out an exhausted sigh and then flops back onto the bed, making it impossible
for me to stay focused. I put my mental video camera away, zeroing in on the silhouette
of her body beneath the thin cotton sundress—her curvy hips, her narrow waist, and
the soft mounds of her chest. It’s almost too much to handle, and I don’t quite know
where to look.

“Ivy?” I ask, after several awkward seconds.

Her eyes are wide. She stares toward the open window. Her chest moves up and down
with each breath, accentuating the sweet layer of perspiration on her skin. “What?”
she asks, rolling onto her side to face me.

But I’ve suddenly forgotten the question.

She props herself up on her elbow, brushing up against something beneath the coverlet,
by the pillow.

“What is it?” I move closer to get a better look.

Ivy pulls a cell phone from beneath the bedsheet. Like Taylor’s luggage, the case
is leopard print too.

“I assume that belongs to Taylor?” I ask.

Ivy’s mouth falls open. “Why would she go for a walk and not take her cell phone with
her?”

“Maybe she forgot it. I forget my cell all the time.”

“Yes, but Midge said that Taylor called her.”

“She probably used a pay phone.”

“I think we should tell the others,” she says.

“And
I
think you need to relax. Do you want some more tea?”

Instead of answering, she pockets the cell phone and goes for the door, leaving me
even more curious about her.