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.
IT’S JUST AFTER DINNER, and while Shayla, Garth, and Frankie snoop around in the living room, I hang back in the doorway, staring at the phone on the desk.
“Come on,” Shayla calls out to Garth, pointing inside a media cabinet.
Meanwhile Frankie checks out a photo album. “Anyone want to see a picture of Blake at prom?”
They continue to look around. And then Shayla moves into the adjoining kitchen, where she lets out a screech.
Frankie drops the album to go see what happened. I move closer too, leaning over the kitchen island.
Shayla whimpers, like she’s injured. There’s something dark and hairy in her arms. Its body coils against her skin.
“I’m bleeding,” she whines.
“Help her!” I cry out.
Frankie tries to assess the situation, but Shayla’s crouched on the floor now, her body angled away from him. Garth steps closer and pushes Frankie out of the way. He grabs Shayla, pulls her up, spins her around, and finally we’re able to see.
A rat.
A huge, hairy rat.
Its teeth are crusted red. Its mouth opens and closes. “Eek!” it screeches. Or rather, Shayla screeches.
I realize then it’s a puppet—the most realistic rat puppet I’ve ever seen. Shayla’s hand is poked into the belly, making the mouth gape open.
“Are you kidding?” Garth laughs. “Where did you find that?”
“In the sink, next to the bloody rubber arm sticking out from the disposal. And, yes, obviously I am kidding—kidding you, that is.” Her eyes are teary with laughter.
“Payback,” Frankie declares. “That’s what this calls for, so you’d better watch your back.”
“I guess three summers at performing arts camp paid off,” she says.
Frankie grabs the rat and chases Shayla with it, making like it’s going to bite her. Garth joins in too. He plucks the bloody arm from the sink, following right after them—out of the kitchen and into another room.
Leaving me alone.
I look back at the phone, and then take a seat at the desk. I start to dial, feeling the urge to pull just a few hairs at the nape of my neck. But I push the last digit before I do.
The number connects. I listen to the phone ring, picturing the receiver on the night table in my parents’ room, sitting beneath my younger sister Margie’s oil painting of Mom. The painting was a surprise portrait, done from Mom’s high school graduation photo, and presented to my mother at the town art show, at which Margie won honorable mention and Mom dissolved into a puddle of jubilant tears.
The phone continues to ring. My head is about to explode. I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, making my temples throb.
Finally someone picks up. I hear a click. But no one says a word.
“Hello?” I say, gripping the phone tight. “Mom? Is that you? It’s me. Natalie.”
I can tell that someone’s there. I hear a sniff and then a sigh.
“Mom?” I ask again, figuring that it’s her, ever obedient, forever subservient. My name should really be Apple, and hers should be Tree.
“I’m in Minnesota,” I say into the receiver. “I took that trip …the contest one that I was telling you about…the one where I get to meet Justin Blake. Anyway, I know that you’re probably upset, but…” My voice trails off. I can’t finish the thought. Tears streak down my face.
“Just know that this trip—my going, I mean,” I continue, “has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I didn’t feel like I could give up this opportunity. Justin Blake has been a major part of my life, and I want to tell him—need to tell him, personally—how much his work has meant to me.”
The truth: it’s been my saving grace.
The first time my father told me that I was an accident, I wrote Harris’s name all over my body with a ball-point pen—311 times—convinced that his name would shield me from my father’s words.
I went out into the street like that, wearing shorts and a tank. The neighborhood kids didn’t know how to respond to me. Mrs. Watson asked if I was feeling all right.
“She’s feeling just fine,” my dad said, running out to get me. “Just kid stuff.” He rolled his eyes, as if she could identify with him. And then he yanked me inside, dragged me into the bathtub, started the water, and threw a bar of soap at my head. “You’re not worthy of having Harris’s name on you,” he said.
I was ten years old; it was the year I discovered the Nightmare Elf and Hotel 9 series.
A couple of years later, when I overheard my parents telling Margie how much they wished I was more like her, I found Halls of Horror and its prequel Forest of Fright.
Last summer, when the Riskins invited us to their daughter’s lavish graduation party, I overheard my mother telling Mrs. Riskin that we’d all love to go. “But Natalie won’t be able to make it,” she added. “She’ll be at sleepaway camp that weekend.”
I didn’t have sleepaway camp, but thank God I had the Night Terrors trilogy.
“Please, say something,” I plead. “Tell me that you don’t hate me.”
I wait for several seconds, but still no one speaks, which makes a bubble form in my throat. It bursts out through my mouth, and I let out a thirsting cry.
“Natalie?” Ivy asks.
She’s standing in the doorway. I wonder how long she’s been there and how much she alr
eady heard.
“What happened?” she asks.
I close my eyes, picturing myself like a piece of paper inside a fire, getting lapped up by the flames, melted away in the heat. But then I realize: the phone’s still pressed against my ear. The line’s still connected. I never hung up.
Ivy comes and sits beside me. She takes the receiver and places it up to her ear. “Hello?” she asks. “Is someone there?”
Her face furrows, like she doesn’t quite understand.
“What?” I ask, desperate to know if it’s really my mom.
“They hung up,” she whispers. “I heard the phone go click. That doesn’t make any sense.”
It actually makes perfect sense to me. What I’ve done—coming here against my parents’ wishes—is unforgiveable to them. As angry as they’ve ever been at me, they’ve never completely shut me out. “I wish I could talk to Harris.”
“And Harris is…”
“Huh?” I say, suddenly realizing that I said the thought aloud. I’m aching to pull out a couple of hairs by my temple, where there’s an inch and a half of fresh growth. I’ve been resisting the spot for months. “Harris is my brother.”
A bell rings somewhere. If only this were ancient times and the ringing signified my death.
“That must be Midge,” Ivy says.
I venture to touch the area by my temple; it’s on the opposite side from where Ivy’s sitting.
“I think we’re supposed to be meeting in the theater,” she says.
I poke my fingers beneath the wig, able to get a solid grip on a few strands in the time that it takes her to blink. I give them a light tug—not too strong, just enough to feel a tiny jolt. “Go ahead,” I say, nodding toward the door. “The others will be waiting.”
“What are you thinking?” she asks, placing a hand on my back.
I stop. My heart hammers. I release the grip on my hair, unsure if I’ve been caught.
“You think I’m just going to leave you here?” She grins. “No way. I’m not going anywhere without you.” Her words make me tear up again. I’m not used to showing emotion in front of anyone, and the fact that I am—and that she genuinely seems to give a shit—only makes the tears flow more.
SHAYLA IS SUCH A TEASE, but she’s also really cute, so it’s hard to get her out of my head. I chase her into a theater room with Garth close at our heels.
The room is huge. A large screen hangs down, covering one wall, and there are four rows of movie seats, complete with cup holders and chairs that tilt back. I sit down in one of the seats. Shayla sits down too. But she picks the front row, away from me. And Garth parks his ass down beside her.
I can’t tell if he’s into her too. Or who she might be digging. She seems to be in love with just about everyone and everything, which in one way is totally annoying. But in another way it’s kind of cool. I mean, it beats being around a bunch of oil-skinned cynics who think they got a raw deal in life.
Midge comes into the room. “Everyone take a seat. I’ve got a special surprise.” She jingles her bell, commanding our attention.
But then Ivy busts in, snagging it away. “I found Taylor’s cell phone,” she says, holding it up.
Natalie and Parker file in behind her.
“Wait, she doesn’t have her phone with her?” Shayla asks.
“Taylor used a pay phone to call me,” Midge says. “Now…can we get back to business?”
Surprisingly—because she seems completely neurotic—Ivy backs right down. While she, Parker, and Natalie take seats in the back row, I move to the seat beside Shayla, hoping she’s glad that I did (and hoping even more that Garth can take the hint). Shayla smiles at me, and I don’t know what it is—how cute she is or her constant cheery disposition—but I can’t help smiling back, even though I know I should be playing it cool.
“So, let’s get started,” Midge says, a syrupy-sweet smile on her round, puffy face. “You may have noticed some sticky-wicky things happening here at the Dark House. I don’t want to give too much away—that’d be like finding out what’s wrapped beneath the Christmas tree before it’s time to open the gifts. But, mark my words, there’s more to come.”
“Meaning that we can sit back, relax, and enjoy the show, so to speak?” Parker asks.
“Enjoy it all!” She extends her arms outward like she’s one of the models on a game show, presenting a brand new car. “Welcome to the Dark House, where you’ve come to stay, and we hope you’ll play!” She bares her teeth like a rabid dog. Her eyes look freakishly wild, like they might even be dilated—like she’s about to hack off all our fingers.
Midge points at the movie screen behind her, the lights go out, and music begins to play. It sounds like an old-fashioned merry-go-round—that sort of orchestral tune that’s supposed to sound happy, only it’s creepy and warped, and the beat’s forever changing, one second too fast, the next second way too slow.
The movie screen lights up. The merry-go-round music stops, and the room goes morgue silent. Shayla grabs my arm in anticipation.
“What’s happening?” I hear Ivy whisper.
The number ten appears on the movie screen, accompanied by a loud, piercing blare that hurts my ears. The noise is followed by a male voice—one that sounds old-fashioned too, like the voice-over from an old black-and-white TV commercial: “This is a test of the emergency Dark House system,” the voice says. “The coordinators of your stay here, in voluntary cooperation with the Nightmare Elf, have developed this system…to scare you out of your mind. But this is not an emergency. It is a test. And if you are to survive, you need to pass it. To pass it. To pass it, to pass it, topassittopassittopassit.”
The words repeat over and over, faster and faster. On the screen, the number ten starts flashing. It looks three-dimensional. It’s almost too bright to look at, and my eyes start to water. The ten switches to a nine. Then an eight. And then the numbers count all the way down to one.
The voice stops. It’s replaced by music. I recognize the tune from my dad’s collection. I can’t help but sing the first line in my head: “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.” I haven’t heard the song in years—since my dad stopped allowing tunes in the garage, saying they were a distraction, the cause of all our screwups. Listening to Harry Nilsson belt out the lyrics reminds me of how eerie the song is. The melody is haunting. This whole scene is fantastically creepy.
Garth is giggling like a schoolgirl. I peer behind me to look at the others. Ivy’s digging her fingernails into the headrest in front of her. Parker’s got his hand on her back. And Natalie’s sitting on the edge of her seat, winding a strand of her straw-like hair around her finger.
The number one flashes on the screen. I close my eyes, but still I can see it inside my head, pressed against my optic nerves.
Shayla’s grip on my forearm tightens. “Someone make it stop,” she whispers.
I find her hand in the darkness and weave my fingers through hers. Part of me wants—just for her sake—for this whole head-trippy thing to stop. But another part wants it to keep on going, so I don’t ever have to let go.
I clench my teeth, anticipating a crash. It comes in the form of a scream—a heart-ripping wail that sends chills straight down my spine.
The scream is followed by a heavy thud at the back of the room, like someone or something fell.
Shayla stands from her seat, letting go of my hand. The music shuts off. The lights come on. It takes a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust—for the orbs and color splotches to fade away. Once they do, I look around, making sure that everyone’s okay and accounted for.
Everyone is. Except for Midge. She’s nowhere in sight.
In her place, seated on a chair at the front of the room, is a Midge doll: round face, happy smile, fluffy white hair held back with ribbons, and a maid’s unif
orm with tiny fake fingers sticking out from the pockets.
Garth jumps out of his seat to grab it.
“Was that Midge who screamed?” I ask.
“I think so,” Ivy says. Her face is as pale as my white Irish ass. “I mean, it sort of sounded like her.”
“I really hope so,” Natalie mutters. But she isn’t talking to us. She remains seated, staring down into her lap, having a full-on conversation by herself.
“Lookie, lookie,” Garth sings, showing off his find: a cord attached to the back of the doll. He pulls it and Midge’s all-too-familiar voice chirps out: “Cakes, cookies, and pies supreme, eat up well and get ready to dream. The Nightmare Elf would like to see what we fear and then make it be.”
“Make it be?” Ivy asks.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Natalie pipes up, apparently done talking to herself. “We’ve already submitted our worst nightmares, so why would we need to re-dream them?”
“It’s not exactly Steinbeck, Scarecrow,” Garth says, wrapping the cord around the doll’s neck. “I wouldn’t take it literally.” He punts the doll. The head slams against the far wall. Fake fingers go flying. The guy has absolutely no respect.
“Don’t you think we should go look for Midge?” Ivy asks.
“Not before dessert,” Garth says. “A little finger-collecting bird told me that it involves maggots and a bloody fountain.”
“Happy yum-ness.” Shayla hooks her arm with his, totally leaving me hanging.
IVY’S INCESSANT NAGGING MEANS WE end up passing on the dessert table to do a superficial search for Midge. We call out her name, head off in various directions, and check out all the rooms.
In the kitchen, I open the pantry closet and pull a chain that turns on an overhead light.
Holy creep-fest.
Facing me is a man’s head, on a platter, with an apple wedged into its mouth. It looks completely real: gray skin, bloodshot eyes, five o’clock shadow, and bluish lips. A trickle of something orange drools out of its mouth, pooling under its chin. Ew. Icky. Blech. I move closer to get a better look, just as the door slams behind me. The overhead bulb goes out, replaced by two beams of bright red light, coming from the eyes of the head.