Welcome to the Dark House (24 page)

“Come play with us,” their voices said.

I ran into one of the hotel rooms, locked the door, and hid beneath the bed. That’s
when I completely lost it—right there in the middle of my dream, I pissed on the sofa.

I used to get a variation of that nightmare a few times a week. Sometimes Pudgy the
Clown would show up with his chain saw; other times, it’d be Sidney Scarcella wearing
his butler’s apron, or Sebastian Slayer in that scene where he plays the piano in
the middle of the forest with severed body parts strewn about.

It was on my seventh birthday that I first saw the original
Nightmare Elf
movie. My dad had dared me, saying that it was the only way I could prove I wasn’t
still a baby. Pretty screwed up, I know. But that’s my dad for you.

He and my brothers had watched a bunch more of your films that night. And me, being
too chickenshit to go up to my room after seeing
Nightmare Elf
, I brought a sleeping bag into the TV room so I wouldn’t have to be alone.

Keeping my head beneath the covers, I tried not to peek at the screen, even when my
dad bribed me with money, candy, and days off from school.

But I also didn’t want to be a baby. I wanted to make him proud—to this day, I’ve
yet to succeed.

For a while, I was sleeping under my bed, paranoid that the Nightmare Elf would take
my dreams and make them come true.

The more fearful I became, the worse things got at home. My dad would call me pansy,
pretty girl, baby, and sweet pea. He’d give me a baby cup at dinner and point me toward
the girls’ room when we were out in public. Finally, when I couldn’t take his teasing
anymore, I started watching more horror flicks—as many as I could get my hands
on.

In the end, I grew to love horror just as much as my dad, probably even more because
it became a part of my identity. Incidentally, in case you hadn’t already noticed,
I was named after my dad’s all-time favorite villain—with one obvious adjustment,
that is. He would’ve gone full out and named me Darth, but luckily my mom won that
coin toss.

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

By Natalie Sorrento

I have nightmares about my reflection—about seeing myself, that is. They started two
years ago, after my sister Margie caught me with my pants down—literally—after I’d
just come out of the shower.

Standing naked, I was about to look at myself in the full-length mirror on the back
of the door, but the steam from the shower had fogged up the glass. So I gazed downward
at my thighs—at my very first tattoos. They were newly done and deliciously red and
sting-y.

A moment later, the bathroom door whipped open. “Gross,” Margie said, shielding her
eyes from the sight of me. But still she was able to find my newly inked tattoos through
the spaces between her chocolate-stained fingers. “What are those?” A megawatt grin
formed on her face, like she’d just struck the blackmailing lottery. If only she’d
wanted to blackmail me.

Instead, she went straight to my parents and pulled them into the bathroom. I’d managed
to grab a towel, but my dad ripped it out of my hands. And they all stared, open mouthed.
At me. Naked. At my paunchy gut, my cottage-cheese legs, and the bloody tattoos on
my thighs: Lizzy Greer’s ax on one thigh, and the infamous door-with-a-peephole from
Hotel 9
on the other.

I tried to cover up as best I could, cupping my hands over my boobs and crotch, while
holding back hot, bubbling tears. But it wasn’t nearly enough. And their expressions
confirmed what I already knew. I was undeniably hideous. Deplorable. Hopeless. Regrettable.

Mom: “How did this happen?”

Dad: “If only
…
”

Ever since that day, I’ve avoided mirrors. I keep a desk blotter over the vanity in
my bedroom. I close my eyes as I wash my hands in bathrooms. I never stand or walk
too close to windows or glass doors, for fear of seeing a reflection. And I’m careful
not to go into places that are known to have mirrors, e.g., hair salons, dressing
rooms, department stores, and gyms.

I also avoid having my picture taken, including for class photos. I’ve ditched school
on picture day for the past several years. Nobody’s ever questioned it—nobody gives
a shit that I’m not standing with my classmates, a fake smile across my zit-covered
face.

Lastly, I keep myself covered—tattoos, wigs, sunglasses, layers of clothing—so that
no one has to see me. And so that I, in turn, never have to see the reflection of
myself in anyone else’s eyes.

But at night, I can’t escape my reflection. I have nightmares about being trapped
inside a maze of mirrors, unable to find my way out. With each corner I turn, my image
gets uglier and more distorted—one moment short and bulging, the next stretched out
and warped.

The images accentuate what’s wrong with me: face too long, eyes too big, hair too
frizzy, crooked nose, fishlike lips, hips too wide, waist too thick, chunky knees,
pasty skin. In my dream, I try to run away from the images, but they’re everywhere,
chasing me, laughing at me. I move to the side—into yet another mirror—as if that
one will make a difference. And it does. It’s the worst image yet. It’s the real me,
in a real mirror—far worse than any distortion.

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

By Parker Bradley

Its teeth sank into my leg—a tearing, mind-blowing pain. Despite not being in the
ocean, I thought it was a shark. But then its body crested the surface of the water,
and I saw what it really was.

An eel—at least six feet long and five inches wide.

Its mouth arched open—dozens of razor-sharp teeth snapped at my ribs. I tried to get
away, but it was too big, too fast. The next thing I knew, I was underwater.

In my mind, I screamed for help. In reality, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.
Somehow I managed to paddle upward, and the eel lost its grip on my side. I started
to move away. But then it bit my thigh—deep into the flesh—pulling me back under.

My mouth filled up with water. Everything around me turned red. Out of the corner
of my eye, I saw something move over the surface of the water. An oil spill? A liquid
of some sort? It was spreading like lava.

I broke through the surface again, able to see just what it was—not a liquid at all.

A steel cover extended over the entire width of the pond. The cover was moving closer,
forming a lid over the water’s surface. If I didn’t get out, I’d be trapped underneath
it.

More eels came, at least twenty of them, swarming me, tearing into my back, my chest,
my legs, my feet. They pulled me under once more.

I looked up. The cover was above my head. I tried to push on it, but it wouldn’t budge.

I paddled fast, chasing the edge of the cover, scrambling to get in front of it. But
it was too late. The pond was completely sealed now.

I screamed beneath the surface of the water, this time able to hear my voice—a sharp,
piercing wail that woke me
up.

I was in the hospital, lying in bed, having a nightmare about something that had happened
the day before. My legs were covered in bite marks.

A nurse was sitting beside me. “You had another one, huh?” she asked.

I nodded. It was my third nightmare that night.

“Those nasty dreams will fade with time.”

If only that were true.

I had nearly drowned. It happened at summer camp, when I was ten years old, after
most of the other campers had already been picked up for the day. I was left waiting
for my ride.

It was hot out, but since I didn’t know how to swim, the counselors had forbidden
me from going into the water. Even earlier in the day, when all of my fellow campers
had free swim, I’d been given a squirt gun and a bucket of water, and told to keep
cool.

But being the end of the day, the counselors had gone back to the office to clean
up. So, I jumped right into the pond, and started paddling around. But no sooner did
I get out chest-deep than I felt that first rip.

It took my brain a beat to catch up to the sensation. And when it did, I heard a yell,
realizing it was mine. My voice. My panic. Like an out-of-body experience.

Water was splashing all around me—I was doing that, too—trying to get out, to get
away.

But something still had my calf.

And clouds of red colored the water.

Eventually people came. There were sirens and flashing lights. Arms were reaching,
pulling, tugging, twisting. Voices were shouting directives. All the fight I had was
gone.

Months later, I did a report on eels in school. I learned that it’s only in extreme
situations that eels attack humans. Like, if the eels are feeding and someone gets
caught up in the midst, or if the eels are caged and starved. Though somewhat reassuring,
I haven’t entered the water since. And I know I never will.

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

By Shayla Belmont

I was the one who found Dara’s body. She’d hung herself in the closet, in her dorm
room, at our boarding school—the same boarding school I’d convinced her to transfer
to with the promise of cute boys, weekends in the city, and pizza-and-Chinese-food-flavored
cram sessions.

Her feet dangled above the floor. She was wearing her heart-patterned socks—the same
ones that we both owned from a trip to the mall months before when we’d bought matching
pairs. Standing there, I had to wonder if she’d worn those socks on purpose, if she’d
banked on me being the one to find her. Was that her way of forcing me to remember
the way things used to be?

Her face was bluish gray. Her eyes were open, focused upward. The telephone wire wrapped
around her neck had cut into her throat. I reached out to touch her hand, noticing
that the blood from her arms had drained down to her fingertips.

That’s when I knew for sure. It’s when I felt my legs give way beneath me. My best
friend Dara was dead.

I was nine years old when we met. It was at yoga camp in the Berkshires and we got
partnered up by Saffron, the yoga master who insisted that Dara and I had the same
karmic energy and were destined to be best friends. Little did I know that Saffron
would be right. Little did I know that seven years of best friendship later, Dara
would end up taking her own life. Where was her karmic energy then?

I’ve heard stories that your life flashes before you in those fleeting seconds before
death. I wasn’t physically dying in that moment, but emotionally I guess I was. Images
of Dara and me raced across my mind: at thirteen years old, dyeing our hair green
for St. Patrick’s Day; dance parties in her basement; mini-makeovers in my bedroom;
hot-fudge-sundae-with-whipped-cream pacts that we’d always be there for each other,
no matter what.

I looked up at her face again. Her lips were chalky white, parted open, exposing the
familiar gap in her front teeth, where she’d once stuck a Cheez-It to be funny. Her
long orange hair was in a sideways braid.

The nightmares that I have about Dara are always the same—always me, searching for
her. There’s always a long, dark hallway, like in the resident dorm at night. I go
to her room and open the closet.

And there’s her body. Those heart-patterned socks.

Though, in the dream, her eyes are closed. And instead of fond memories flashing before
my eyes, I’m haunted by those moments when I could’ve been a better friend. Like the
time I left her teary eyed on my doorstep because I had dinner plans with Miranda
and Gigi.

And the time I told her I was too sick to spend the weekend watching movies and giving
each other mani-pedicures, as planned, because I’d been invited up to Bunny’s ski
house.

And then, just when things can’t get any more hideous—and I’m unable to force myself
to wake up—her eyelids snap open and she stares back at me.

“I thought we were supposed to be friends,” she whispers, tears dripping down her
face.

I open my mouth to tell her that we are friends, that she’ll always be my best friend,
but the words won’t come out; they remain stuck inside my head.

Her arm raises up then, and she points in my direction with her dark blue finger.
Her lips are pursed; her eyes are wide and teary. She’s angry and sad at the same
time. “You weren’t there for me,” she says. “You broke your promise. And now you’ll
pay.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A
VERY SPECIAL THANK-YOU
to Christian Trimmer, my brilliantly talented editor of five years. I’m so grateful
to have worked with you. Thank you for acquiring this project and beginning its editorial
journey with me.

Huge thanks to Tracey Keevan, who continued with me on that journey, working round
the clock, cheering me on, and pushing me harder—my very own literary personal trainer.
This book is so much stronger because of you.

Thanks to Kathryn Green, agent extraordinaire. I’m so grateful to have you in my corner.
A million thanks for all you do.

Special thanks to music guru Frankie Price for answering all of my guitar- and music-related
questions. Any related errors found within this novel are mine and mine alone.

Thank you to all of the friends and family members who offer to read drafts of my
work and who give me time to write as well as cups of fresh coffee (black, no sugar).

And lastly, a very special thank-you to my readers, who continue to support my work
and cheer me on. You guys are the absolute best.

LAURIE FARIA STOLARZ
is the author of the Touch series, as well as
Project 17
;
Bleed
; and the highly popular
Blue Is for Nightmares
,
White Is for Magic
,
Silver Is for Secrets
,
Red Is for Remembrance
, and
Black Is for Beginnings
. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and
received an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in Boston. For more information,
please visit her Web site at
www.lauriestolarz.com
.