Read Return to the Dark House Online
Authors: Laurie Stolarz
Return to the Dark House (11 page)
“Lucky because you got away?”
“Lucky for a lot of things, I guess.”
“I wish I felt lucky too, but sometimes I wish that I’d died right along with them.”
She pulls away to look into my face. “Don’t talk like that. I mean, I know this’ll probably sound majorly cliché, but you have your whole life in front of you. Plus,
it’s like you said before: maybe the others are still alive.”
“I was talking about my parents. Sometimes I wish that I’d died right along with them seven years ago.”
Her expression shows no surprise; she must’ve heard that my parents were murdered.
“I’m going to find the killer,” I tell her.
“Wait.” Her eyes slam shut. “Your parents’ killer? Or the Nightmare Elf killer?”
“They’re one and the same.”
“Excuse me?”
“The person who organized the Dark House weekend is the same person that killed my parents. No one can deny it anymore.”
Taylor makes a confused face—her lip snarled, her nose scrunched.
“I’m going to find him,” I say again.
Ticktock, ticktock.
The ticking of the clock tower vibrates inside my chest. Only instead of rattling my bones, it’s somewhat
motivating, reminding me that time is of the essence and I have so much work to do.
B
ACK IN
T
AYLOR
’
S ROOM
, we sit in front of the computer. The video is
paused. The air feels stifling. There’s a twisting sensation in my gut.
“That’s me,” I say, nodding toward the screen.
“Hold on,
what’s
you?”
“The girl on the screen, at the diner. That was me,” I attempt to explain. “Seven years ago. Those were my parents—the ones who were murdered.”
“Wait,
what
?”
“I know it sounds crazy, bu—”
“Are you sure?” She fast-forwards to a spot where the camera zooms in on me—where I’m resting my head on Mom’s shoulder. My face looks a lot thinner now. My
cheekbones are sharper. My chin is more pointed. My hair is darker, straighter, longer. But still, my eyes are unmistakable—light brown, slightly angled, with somewhat droopy lids.
“Holy shit,” Taylor says, looking back at me, studying my face.
“I remember the day this video was taken,” I tell her. “I’d gone to a diner with my parents and we’d sat at that checkerboard table. I remember playing checkers
with the jam and peanut butter containers. My parents were murdered just a couple of days later.”
“Holy shit,” she says again. “We need to show this to the police. I mean, do you seriously get what this means?”
“That the killer’s been watching me for years.”
“Exactly, which is, like,
crazy town
.”
“It may be crazy, but it’s also what I’ve suspected all along. Even before the Dark House weekend, I’d be walking home from school or shopping in town somewhere and feel
his eyes on me.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Of course I told. My therapist knew. She thought I was being paranoid. She still does.”
“Okay, so if this crazed killer has been watching you for years—and wants you to know it—why would he send the link to
me
? Why not send it to you? I mean, to me
it’s pretty meaningless.”
“Because he wanted us to meet. And he was willing to wait until we did—until the two of us got together and compared notes.”
“But what if instead of sharing the link with you, I showed it to the police?”
“You didn’t have time to show them, though, did you? Didn’t you say you got this link just before I got here?”
“Minutes before.” She nods.
I replay the video again, searching for a clue—some hidden message as to where the others might be. Unlike the video of Natalie, this one wasn’t uploaded by Movie Marvin. It was
posted to Filmeo, a site where filmmakers showcase their works-in-progress—only this one hasn’t been made public. Words sit at the top of the screen:
EXCLUSIVE VIEWING
PERMISSION
.
“He posted this just for us,” I whisper, proceeding to fill her in about the video of Natalie.
“And so obviously the videos were made by two different people,” she says.
“Not obviously. The e-mail address is the same. The Nightmare Elf at Gmail.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “In the video of Natalie, she was wearing a gold bracelet with a star charm…just like the necklace pendant I received years ago.”
“Wait, what pendant?”
“I’ve gotten a number of anonymous gifts,” I explain, “ever since my parents’ death.” I click on the Nightmare Elf’s Filmeo account. There’s no
other information listed about him, or any other videos posted. I click on the link to e-mail him. A form pops up, asking for my name and e-mail address.
“You’re not seriously going to send him a message, are you?”
“If the person who posted this video isn’t the real killer, he’s at least had contact with him.”
“Ivy.”
“What?” I turn to face her again.
She’s looking at me like I’m a full-on freak, her eyes bulging, her lips parted like there’s something hairy in her mouth. “We have to show this to the police.”
I ignore her and continue to type.
Dear Nightmare Elf,
If this is really you, what did I put on my plate on that first night at the Dark House, when all of the winners were gathered at the dining room table for
dinner?
Yours truly,
Ivy Jensen
P.S. If you wanted to come back for me so badly, why did you wait so long?
I read the message over several times, thinking how silly that first part sounds, but also confident that it will answer my question. No one besides the killer, Midge, and the other contest
winners would know what I put my plate; I didn’t get that specific in my police statement.
I position my cursor over the
SEND
tab, my heart absolutely racing. And then I hit
SEND
.
“I can’t even believe you just did that,” Taylor says. “Did you e-mail Movie Marvin too?”
“I did, but I didn’t get any response.” Not from any of my e-mail accounts, not even when I posed as an indie filmmaker looking to have a trailer made. “I’m
thinking it’s because I showed that video to the police.”
“We have to show
this
to the police,” she says yet again. “I mean, we’re talking about a major piece of evidence.”
I clench my teeth and look away.
“Ivy? Okay, you’re acting a little
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
—and not in a good way.” She stares at my balled-up fists.
I take a deep breath, my adrenaline pumping. But somehow I also feel calmer than I have in months, more confident than ever before. “I can’t go to the police,” I say.
“The killer wants me to do this on my own.”
“Well, um,
duh
. Of course he does—so he can chop you up into a million pieces and throw you into a sinkhole.”
“I’ve given the police seven years,” I tell her, “and what have they done for me so far? My parents are dead. Five people are missing and assumed dead, including a boy I
really care about—the first person I’ve opened up to since my parents’ death. What more could the killer possibly take from me?”
“Only your life.”
I focus on the video again. It’s paused at a close-up of my eyes, back when there was a spark in them—when I laughed, and had friends, and looked forward to tomorrow.
“I’ve spent the majority of my life feeling dead, fearing death, or wishing I had died.”
“This isn’t a game, Ivy.”
“It is to him. And he wants to play. But this time I refuse to lose.”
“Okay, seriously? It’s time for some tough love. Let’s push the pause on the intensity button, shall we? We need to think things through.”
“I’m intense for good reason.”
“Okay, but too much intensity and people wind up storing chicken carcasses under their beds. Didn’t you see
Girl, Interrupted
? What you need is some Handyman Harry.” She
holds up a keychain doll: a bearded little guy wearing blue-jean overalls and work boots. She presses his gut to make him talk.
“Hey there, hottie,” Handyman Harry says. “Do you want to see my big screwdriver?”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Not what,
who.”
She winks. “I won him during freshman orientation for having the loudest belch. The loudest boy belcher got Harry’s sister, Handygal
Harriet.” Taylor follows up with a burrito-and-soda-worthy belch so loud that it almost sounds fake. “Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say?” Taylor continues to press the
doll’s belly.
A series of terrible pickup lines play out of Harry’s mouth: “Hey, baby, how about we build a future together? We can start with my hammer and some nailing”; “Hey, angel,
does your crack need some caulking?”; “Do your shrubs need pruning?”
Taylor pretends to make out with the doll—
with
tongue—finally shoving it down the front of her sweatshirt. “Oh, Handyman Harry!” she purrs, tossing and turning on
the bed, her eyes rolled back, her body quivering.
I can’t help but laugh, even though I don’t want to. And the harder I try to stop it, the stronger my giggles get. My stomach aches as tears streak down my face. Ironically, this is
the worst time of my life and yet I haven’t laughed as hard in years.
From the Journal of E.W.
Grade 7, August Preparatory School
LATE AUTUMN 1971
I just found out that some kid who used to go here killed himself. His name was Ricky Slater, and I’ve been assigned to his old room. Tray across the hall says that
I’m the first person to sleep in Ricky’s room since the suicide. He said that the room had been closed off for painting and refinishing, as if that would make everything nice. Too bad
it doesn’t work that way.
Gramps once bought Mother a pretty yellow sundress, but that didn’t change squat. That same night she crawled into my bed and told me a ghost story—about a twelve-year-old boy named
Johnny who’d lived on our property a hundred years ago, and died when the house went up in flames.
“Johnny was an angry, angry boy because of it.” I can still hear Mother’s little-girl voice.
I was six years old, and couldn’t sleep after that. When Mother saw how scared I got with Johnny’s story, she made a habit of visiting my room each night with a different, more
horrifying tale about him.
“He may have died that day,” she’d say, “but he’s still here, in this house. Ever feel someone’s eyes on you when you’re in the bathtub or reading a
book? That’s him. That’s Johnny, watching, studying, learning all of your habits. He talks to me, you know. He tells me how angry he still is and what I could do to make him feel
better.”
I’d beg her to stop talking about him. Sometimes I’d even pretend to be asleep. But it didn’t matter. She was there, every night, whispering in my ear, waiting for me to cry.
Only then would she leave me alone, which in some way was even worse, because I’d look around my room—at my stuffed lion and the nutcracker doll on my desk—and think they were
possessed by Johnny’s spirit.
People are saying that this school is haunted by the ghost of Ricky Slater. I wonder if Nana and Gramps knew that when they signed me up, and if they might’ve even requested that I get
Ricky’s room.
I’ll bet anything they did. They knew about my mother’s nightly ghost stories, but they didn’t do crap to stop them.
E
VEN THOUGH
I
GOT A
hotel room, Taylor insists that I stay in her dorm.
“Let’s just sleep on stuff, okay?” She opens up the futon and dresses it in pear-patterned sheets. “We won’t make any major decisions until after we get some
shut-eye. Oh, and PS, sorry if the cushions smell like pickles. Sometimes I get a craving, and one time I spilled a jar.”
We wash up and get changed—me in sweats and her in lipstick-kiss-patterned footie pajamas—and then crawl into our beds. It’s just after one in the morning, but instead of going
off to sleep, Taylor rolls over to face me. “I’m really glad we did this—that you called me, that I called you back, that you came here.”
“Because I’m so much fun to be with, right?”
