Page 11
The item I treasure most? Easy: my locket. My neckline feels naked without it. And . . . a treasure hunt. For whatever reason, I’ve always been freakishly good at treasure hunts. I have this challenge in the bag.
And I do have it in the bag—for a while, anyway. Mads and Char first send me to crash a wedding performed by Elvis in the Little White Chapel, which I do with panache. Elvis hands me the next clue, which sends me to the Adélie penguin exhibit, where I have to reach into the tank to grab my next mission. I catch sight of Laurel creeping into the penguin habitat just as I am leaving, and I resist the urge to gloat. Good luck, I think. You’ll need it.
Then I look at the next clue. Boo! it says. That’s it. I unfold the map again. Huh. Maybe they mean the haunted house.
I follow the map to the Mansion of the Macabre. It’s in the under-construction part of the park at the absolute farthest corner of the compound, lit only by a single flickering fluorescent lamp that buzzes like an active hornet’s nest.
The steps to the mansion are covered in soot and old, discarded ride tickets. Its arched windows are cracked, cloudy, and in some places, completely boarded over. This particular attraction doesn’t look closed for renovations so much as it looks like it’s been full-on condemned. Okaay.
I take a deep breath. This is your reputation at stake, Sutton. This is the Lying Game. I can’t let Laurel take this from me.
I grit my teeth and make my way up the steps. The heavy oak double doors of the mansion are splintering, and when I rap on them softly, they swing open. I step inside through fine, sticky threads of cobwebs.
“Gross,” I whisper, dusting off my shoulders, where they’ve lodged themselves.
The house smells dank and oily, like must and wet soil. The doors swing shut behind me. With so many of the windows covered up, it’s pitch-black in here. I can’t tell how big the place is . . . or what lurks behind the corners. Something skitters above, and I flinch. Then I hear a creak. A rattle. A dry cough of something—or someone—lingering close.
Calm down, Sutton, I chide myself. It’s only a game. But when I reach to test the doorknob I’ve just closed, it doesn’t budge.
“Hello?” I call out, pulling at it. It doesn’t turn. “Hello?” I scream louder. But my voice just echoes uselessly. Something flaps above me. Something else creaks. I swallow hard, realizing what’s going on.
They’ve locked me inside.
12
FEAR, ITSELF
“Hello?” I call out again into the abyss that is the haunted house. I fumble around, but it’s so dark I can’t see my fingers in front of my face. No surprise, no one answers. I take a step into the room, and the floor seems to buckle under me. I scream and jump back, my heart pounding hard.
The world goes silent again. I run my fingers down my face, willing my heart to slow down. “Nice work, guys,” I call out, knowing they must be listening. “The door’s locked. Ooh, scary. ” My voice echoes. “Is this the best you could do?”
There’s silence, followed by a muffled giggle and footsteps. Thankfully, they’re too loud to be mice. A person, then.
“Char? Mads?” My voice is thin and high-pitched.
They don’t answer. A horrible thought strikes me: What if it isn’t them?
Of course it is, I tell myself. Who else could it be?
I fish my cell phone out of my hoodie pocket and flip the flashlight app on.
It’s weak, but better than nothing. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dim glow. I run the narrow spotlight over the room. There’s a wall, then a window, and then . . . an eye? I try not to scream, letting the flashlight linger there. It’s only a fake eye, a costume. And there’s an arm, a tattered black cape. This is what haunted houses are all about, after all: immobile, animatronic ghouls and monsters on motorized tracks. Nothing more.
Outside, a loose shutter bangs against the house’s wooden frame, and I jump.
The giggling comes from behind me again. I sense movement in the corner of the room, and suddenly something sways past me, brushing against my shoulder. I swing the flashlight around and see a bat descending into darkness. It’s fake, the rational part of me whispers. But I shriek anyway, unnerved by the darkness. The bat twists crookedly on its trip wire at the end of the room.
“Focus,” I whisper to myself, getting back to the task at hand. I need to look for my locket. That’s why I’m here.
I run my flashlight over the room once more, but I don’t see that familiar gold glint. I steel myself and begin to move forward. I grope past a shattered mirror framed in chipping gold gilt that’s propped up against a fog machine covered in a thick layer of dust. The hallway yawning before me is narrow, and the end feels farther away the closer to it I walk. I reach out one arm to steady myself, cringing as my fingers skate along the stained shreds of crumbling wallpaper.
Then I hear a thump behind me and freeze. Is that Laurel? Has she caught up?
I stumble on a loose floorboard and find myself in a small room furnished with a bare bed frame and a rickety folding table. A filthy teddy bear lies discarded in the corner, clouds of stuffing pouring from a tear in the seams of his stomach.
“Ew. ” I move backward, brushing against the table and knocking something from its surface. It hits the floor with a metallic-sounding clang. I run my flashlight over the space, and gold glints up at me. But it’s not my locket: it’s Laurel’s charm bracelet, the one Thayer gave her. This was the prized possession they took from her.
I gasp and snatch it, feeling a flurry of triumph. And that’s the game! Now I have Laurel’s prize; there is no way she can win this challenge. Mission complete.
But I don’t stop there—those bitches took my locket from me, and I want it back. Besides, if I don’t find it, they’d probably call the game a draw. So I move down the hallway with renewed energy. What I hope are fake bloodstains streak the walls, but they no longer seem so sinister. And when I hear another thump, I just shrug. Even if it is Laurel, she’s not going to win.
I enter the next room and wait for my eyes to adjust. Moth-eaten ghosts sway from the ceiling. I wave the flashlight here and there, and yet another piece of gold glints at me. My heart lifts. I run forward and grab the locket from one of the ghosts at the back. “Thanks, Casper!” I trill, clasping it. I can’t believe it. I’ve done it! I’ve won!
I fasten the locket around my neck, give the ghost a friendly pat, then back out of the room. An EXIT sign looms bright red in the distance, and I fumble toward it. But inches away from the emergency exit, I hear yet another thud. I stop, listening. Then comes a wail. I cock my head, recognizing the voice. Laurel?
“My ankle!” she cries out. I hear her breathing, shallow and quick.
I freeze, my fingers brushing against the door.
Laurel sniffles again, more desperately this time. Is she really hurt?
I wait for Mads and Char to emerge from the shadows and help her, but they don’t. I glance at the EXIT sign, then back into the darkness, everyone’s words and the guilt and anger and frustration I’ve felt in the past two days forming a thick stew in my head. Maybe I don’t want Laurel sharing my friends, but I don’t hate her. I definitely can’t leave her hurt, stranded, in a creepy, broken-down haunted house.
“Laurel?” I call out.
She answers with another cry. I pivot and backtrack, making my way toward the increasingly loud sobs. A few rooms later, I find Laurel splayed next to an open closet door, a deadfall of plastic skeleton bones spilling out beside her. She’s leaning over her ankle, massaging it vigorously.
She glances up as I approach. “What are you doing here?” she snaps.
I kneel down next to her, swallowing down all my nastiness when I notice how pale she is in the dim light. “Are you okay?”
Laurel licks her lips, wincing in pain. Then she notices the locket around my neck. A split second later, she spies her own charm bracelet on my wrist. Her face falls. “Look
s like you won, huh?” she says woodenly.
“Seriously,” I say, not really caring about that right now. “What happened? Can you walk?”
“Probably,” Laurel mumbles. She sighs and shifts, trying to get to her feet. But her face pinches in pain, and she slumps back again, her shoulders shaking.
“Hey,” I say softly, gingerly placing my hand on her back. “It’s okay. If anything, it’s probably a sprained ankle or something. We’ll get you out of here. No biggie. ”
Laurel looks up at me. I can’t really see her expression, but I can tell by the tear-clogged sniff that she’s really crying hard. “I don’t care about my stupid ankle!” she exclaims suddenly. “Don’t you realize, Sutton? I have no friends. The boy I love is missing, maybe dead in a ditch somewhere, and now I can’t even be in the Lying Game. ” She chokes back a sob, leaning against the dusty, cracked plaster of the wall. “Everything in my life is terrible right now. So excuse me if I cry about it for a few minutes. Excuse me if I’m human. ”
I shut my eyes, not wanting to see her in such pain. Once again, I hate that I’ve kept Thayer’s calls a secret. I wish I could tell Laurel what I know. Right then, watching her shoulders rack with sobs, I wish I could tell her anything that would make her feel better.
I smooth her hair back from her forehead. Then I hug her, breathing in the smell of her lilac body wash. It’s mine, actually; she pinched it from my toiletries case. “I’ve been a bitch,” I hear myself say, surprising myself.
She looks away from me, tears still shining in her eyes. “I don’t blame you,” she says hoarsely. “I’ve been a bitch, too—and a lame one at that. No wonder everyone likes you better . . . the kids at school, Mads and Char . . . Thayer. ”
I flinch with surprise, wondering exactly what she’s saying. “Laurel, that’s not true,” I protest. Not anymore at least.
“Yes, it is!” Laurel cries. She scoots away from me, burying her head in her hands and crying harder. She tightens herself into a ball, arms wrapped around her legs and forehead resting on her knees. “Sometimes I don’t know why I bother at all. Everyone would probably be happier if I just disappeared, too. ”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I never realized Laurel was taking things this hard. I never knew she felt this lonely. Would I rather leave her out of the Lying Game? Yes. But how guilty would I feel for weeks—months—years—if I did? Was it worth it?
A memory washes over me: Laurel and I are in my bedroom, making up a dance we were going to put on for our parents. I can’t remember all the steps, but I remember both of us laughing hysterically at a move where we pretended we were cowgirls twirling invisible lassos. That night, like almost every night when we were that age, Laurel had curled up in my bed beside me, her hand tucked in mine.
And suddenly, I realize that I miss Laurel, too. What changed? Where did it go wrong? Why did it all far apart? In that moment, sitting in the dark with my crying sister, I feel as though I’ve lost something huge, something way more important than my locket. And I don’t even know how to get it back.