Welcome to the Dark House (2 page)

I
DON’T KNOW HOW
I became a subscriber to the Nightmare Elf’s e-Newsletter. I’m not a fan of the movies,
and there’s no chance that I’ll ever become one, but with a subject line that hints
at ridding my nightmares for good, I can’t resist rescuing it from my spam box.

TO:
IVY JENSEN

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: LAST CHANCE—NIGHTMARES BE GONE CONTEST ALERT

Nightmare Elf e-Newsletter—Issue #206

NIGHTMARES BE GONE CONTEST*

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO MEET LEGENDARY FILM DIRECTOR JUSTIN BLAKE AND GET A BEHIND-THE-SCENES
LOOK AT HIS CONFIDENTIAL NEW PROJECT

Dear Dark House Dreamers,

Greetings from the Nightmare Elf.

I’m sending this note to say,

If you tell me your worst nightmare,

I can make it go away.

Submit your bedtime horror

in a thousand words or less.

Then I’ll add it to my sack,

and you’ll enter my contest.

—The Nightmare Elf

Guidelines:
Describe your worst nightmare in a thousand words or less. E-mail it to: [email protected].

Prize:
An all-expenses-paid weekend, including an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the
never-before-seen companion film to the Nightmare Elf movie series, plus the opportunity
to meet Justin Blake.

Deadline:
October 31, midnight EDT

Click
HERE
for Justin Blake’s Web site

IN MY HEFTY ELF SACK, YOUR NIGHTMARES WILL KEEP.

BETTER THINK TWICE BEFORE FALLING ASLEEP.

*Must be 18 years or older to enter.

I click on the link for Justin Blake’s Web site. I’ve certainly heard his name before.
Most of his titles ring a bell from movie trailers I’ve seen on TV—those I’ve tried
to avoid with quick reflexes on the clicker.

There’s a drop-down menu that lists some of his films and characters:

I click on the first Nightmare Elf movie title and an elf pops up on the screen: a
blond-haired boy dressed in a red suit, a floppy hat, green gloves, and boots that
curl up at the toe. With his rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, he’s kind of cute on
first glance. But then you notice the way his ears spike up to look like devil horns
and the pointy sword that is his tail.

Below him, there’s a link with background information on the series’ legend. I click
on it.

THE LEGEND OF THE DARK HOUSE

One summer, many years ago, the Tucker family went on a camping trip. Deep in the
woods, they came across an abandoned cabin with dark clapboard shingles, nestled in
a grove of trees. A wooden plaque over the front door read
WELCOME TO THE DARK HOUSE
, written in red crayon.

The Tuckers decided to stay in the cabin instead of setting up camp. During their
stay, six-year-old Tommy began to hear a voice inside his head. He didn’t tell his
parents—the voice told him not to. Tommy became withdrawn and secretive, often sneaking
off into the woods to an old, abandoned storage shed. He called it the nightmare chamber.

“Make sure to visit the chamber three times a day,” the voice told him. “There, you
will do important work.”

The voice belonged to a ten-year-old boy named Carson. While staying at the Dark House
three months prior, Carson died from a seizure during a nightmare.

With his beloved elf doll in tow, Tommy would use a rock to scratch crude images into
the walls of the shed—images of people with missing eyes, bleeding mouths, and stakes
jammed through their hearts. The Tuckers grew concerned with Tommy’s behavior. At
the dinner table, he wouldn’t speak. He refused to engage in any camping activities,
like hiking, swimming, or sitting by the campfire.

One morning, Tommy’s father followed him to the abandoned shed and saw the walls.
“Explain yourself,” he demanded.

“Go to hell,” Tommy replied in a deep, slow, creaky voice, per Carson’s instructions.

After five days at the Dark House, Mrs. Tucker, so disturbed by her son’s worsening
behavior, announced that they were cutting their vacation three days short. That same
night, she dreamed about a thief in their apartment back home. Tommy had been experiencing
nightmares too—recurring visions of a pack of snarling wolves tracking him through
the woods.

Carson, still angry that he had died during a nightmare, wanted others to share his
fate. His spirit, unable to pass on, had become quite powerful. He could see into
the dreams of anyone who stayed at the Dark House—and make their nightmares come tragically
true.

Tommy was the first victim. He died before the Tuckers finished packing, mauled by
a wolf lurking near the nightmare chamber. Weeks later, Mrs. Tucker was killed by
an intruder in their home.

After the Tuckers left, only Tommy’s elf doll remained. Carson giggled at the sight
of it, delighted to have a souvenir. And so he decided to inhabit the doll, dubbing
himself the Nightmare Elf. Into his bright red sack Carson would collect the frightful
dreams of the Dark House’s guests, overjoyed to eventually release their nightmares
into reality, making room in his bag for more.

So let this be a warning to all you campers: if you happen across the Dark House in
the middle of the night, feel free to stop inside, but do remember this:
IN HIS HEFTY ELF SACK, YOUR NIGHTMARES WILL KEEP. BETTER THINK TWICE BEFORE FALLING
ASLEEP.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: IVY JENSEN

SUBJECT: Re: LAST CHANCE—NIGHTMARES BE GONE CONTEST ALERT

In a thousand words or less, describe your worst nightmare.

Dear Nightmare Elf,

For the record, I’m not one of your Dark House Dreamers, nor have I seen even one
Nightmare Elf movie—or any of Justin Blake’s films for that matter—but I’ve been receiving
your e-newsletters for years now, and this last one caught my eye.

I guess you could say that you found me in a weak moment, because the idea of telling
an elf my nightmare, and having him magically take it away, sounds pretty amazing
right now, especially at four in the morning
…
not that I actually believe a word of your BS. But, at the very least, maybe writing
about my nightmare and sending it off into the black hole of cyberspace will trick
me into believing that it’ll never come back.

So, here goes.

For the past six years I’ve dreamed that my parents are being murdered in their bedroom
across the hall. I’m haunted by this vision because it happened, in real life. I was
in my room, sleeping soundly—until I heard it. A thrashing sound across the hall.

I sat up, able to hear more noises: a gasp, a sputter, an agonizing moan. Then silence,
broken by an unfamiliar male voice: “And now it’s your turn. You won’t feel a thing.”

My mother screamed. “Please, no,” she begged. “Don’t do this. I have a—”

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t try to guess at her missing words:
“
I have an idea
”? “
I have something to tell you
”? “
I have a daughter
”? “
I have a wallet full of cash
”? I’ll never know for sure. Her voice was cut short with a thwack. Then music began
to play. String instruments. An eerie blend of violin and viola that reverberated
in my heart.

I grabbed the phone on my night table and dialed 9-1-1. “I think someone just killed
my parents,” I told the operator, hearing a hitch in my throat, hearing words come
out of my mouth that no one should ever have to say.

“Where are you?” the operator asked.

“In my room, across the hall.”

“Is the person still in the house?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “I mean, I think so. In my parents’
room.”

“Okay, I have your address. I’m sending help right over. Can you tell me your name?”

My name? My mind scrambled. My pulse quickened. And suddenly I couldn’t get enough
air.

“Hello?”

“Ivy,” I choked out. “Jensen. My name, that is.”

“Okay, Ivy. Listen to me carefully now. Is there a lock on your bedroom door?”

I looked toward the door, no longer able to hear my parents.

“Ivy?” the operator asked. “Are you on the first floor? Is there a window?”

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t think straight. My hands were trembling so furiously,
but still I told myself that I wouldn’t drop the phone; I’d keep it firmly gripped
in my hands.

But then I saw it happen.

In slow motion.

Falling from my fingers.

Bouncing off the bed.

Landing against the hardwood floor.

It made a loud, hard knock. I felt it in my chest. It stopped my breath, stunned my
heart, shot an arrow through my brain.

My bedroom light was off, but with the door cracked open, the hallway light leaked
into my room and he was able to see me.

“Good evening, Princess,” he whispered.

His hair was long and silver, tied back in a low ponytail. His face was covered with
stubble. He cocked his head and smiled at me; his lips peeled open, exposing a pointy
tongue and crooked teeth.

We both froze, just watching each other, awaiting the other’s move—like two wild animals
in the night. His eyes were unmistakable: tiny, dark gray, and rimmed with amber-brown.
They reminded me of a bird’s eyes.

His gaze wandered around my room—my walls, my floor, my bed, my dresser—as if taking
everything in. The paisley bed linens, the soccer banners, my fuzzy beanbag chair,
all the Katrina Rowe posters hanging above my bed.

A few seconds later, his eyes fixed back on mine, and he smiled wider. “It’s very
nice to meet you,” he said, overemphasizing every word.

I wanted to throw up. Chills ran down my spine.

Sirens blared in the distance then. He remained in the doorway a few more moments
before backing away slowly and fleeing our little yellow house with the white picket
fence and the long brick walkway—the place that I’d always called home.

But I knew that wouldn’t be the end.

It’s now six years later. Those eyes are still out there. And I live in constant fear
that the killer will come back for me one day.

In my dreams, he plunges a knife deep into my gut before I can rouse myself. My eyes
flutter open, and I’m able to see him. Those birdlike eyes.

His lips peel open and he smiles at me, his pointed tongue edging out over his jagged,
yellow teeth. “You knew I’d come back, didn’t you?”

He twists the knife—two full turns—before pulling it out to examine the blade. I touch
my stomach, smearing blood on my palms.

That’s when I finally wake up.

I haven’t told anyone this, but sometimes I wish that he would come back, once and
for all. At least then it would be all over.