Welcome to the Dark House (4 page)

F
INALLY I GET OFF THE PLANE
, but I’m so full of negative energy that I can’t even stand myself. I’m starving.
My muscles ache. The woman sitting next to me in coach wouldn’t stop coughing toward
the side of my face. Plus, she smelled like bacon, and not the hickory-smoked country
kind, more like the kind that’s micro-ready in thirty seconds. And, as repulsive as
that is, the smell only made me hungrier.

Admittedly, I’d wanted to upgrade to first class, but primo seats are slim to none
when you’re traveling to East Bum Suck, Minnesota, population: twelve.

I know; I sound disgusting. And I know; I shouldn’t complain. I mean, this is a new
adventure with new people and new opportunities…right? Plus no one twisted my arm
to come here. I’m here of my own free will, as part of the Shayla Belmont “make the
most of every moment” mission to have a fun and fulfilling life.

This airport is minuscule. People from my flight disperse like ants from repellent.
Do they know something I don’t? Did I miss the memo on fleeing creepy airports at
the proverbial speed of light?

A woman rushes by me, nearly knocking me over.

“Excuse
me
,” I call out, suddenly noticing that her pants are way too short, exposing her socks—purple
ones with bright pink hearts, just like my best friend Dara’s socks. The coincidence
gives me a chill.

I gaze toward the windows, but they’re blacked out so I can’t see. I look around for
a security officer or for someone who might be awaiting my arrival, but unfortunately
I find neither.

A gnawing sensation eats away at my gut, making me question whether I should turn
back around and go home. Still, I grab my bag and head up to the car rental counter.
An attendant stands there, but it appears as though things could shut down at any
second.

“Can I help you?” the attendant asks. She’s at least seventy years old with long white
hair and the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. She keeps her focus toward the crown
of my head, rather than looking me in the eye.

I run my hand over my hair, wondering if she’s admiring my new do. I got my hair straightened
at a salon in Chelsea, a place that actually knows how to work with black-girl tresses
rather than frying them as crisp as the aforementioned bacon.

“Good afternoon,” I say, putting on my best smile. “Someone’s supposed to be picking
me up, but I’m wondering if there’s another level to this airport. Is there a separate
waiting area?” I look around some more, but I don’t see any stairs, or an escalator.

“Would you like to rent a car?” she asks. “I have midsize sedans or minivans.”

“I don’t actually need a car.” I let out a nervous giggle.

“Are you sure? Because there’s a free box of wild rice with every rental.” She places
a box of rice on the counter and grins at me like it’s Christmas, exposing a bright
blue tongue and teeth that have browned with age. “This particular grain is native
to this area.”

I take a deep and mindful breath, as would Shine, my current yoga master, who believes
in practicing compassion and kindness rather than succumbing to frustration, judgment,
and blame (a practice that proves particularly helpful while riding the New York subway).
“Is it always this quiet here?” I ask, attempting to switch gears.

“Quiet?” Her eyes are still fixed on my forehead. Maybe she’s blind or has an aversion
to making eye contact.

I glance over my shoulder. Aside from the two of us, the airport looks pretty desolate.
“Are things more bustling earlier in the day?”

She laughs and snorts at the same time. A spittle of blue drool rolls down her chin.
“Have you forgotten where you are? Do you need me to show you a map? US maps also
come free with your car rental.”

“Wait,
what
?” I ask, utterly confused.

She continues to laugh at me; her eyes roll up farther—I can barely even see them
now. There’s just a bulging mass of glossy whiteness that reminds me of hard-boiled
eggs.

My cell phone rings in my pocket. I fumble for it, but it falls from my grip and clanks
to the floor. I pick it up, hoping it didn’t break. “Hello?” I answer.

“Hey,” Mom says. “You landed.”

I move away from the woman, accidentally bumping into a post from behind. There’s
a phone attached, with a piece of mangled wire dangling out from the bottom, reminding
me once again of Dara.

I try to push the wire back inside a hole in the post, but there’s too much of it—at
least four feet—and it won’t all go in.

“Shayla?” Mom asks.

I gaze upward at a support beam. There’s a hook sticking out, where one could attach
the wire. I picture Dara hanging there, her feet dangling, those heart-patterned socks.
Her eyes snap open and stare down at me. Her dark blue finger points in my direction.

“Shayla…” Mom calls again.

“Hey,” I say, my heart pumping hard. I look away and blink a couple of times. “I’m
not so sure about this place.”

“Not so sure about Minnesota?” Mom laughs. “You’ve been to India and Ethiopia, for
goodness’ sake.”

“I know. It’s just…” I move toward the exit sign at the opposite end of the room.
What once appeared like a teensy airport now feels like a major shopping mall. “It’s
different here.”

“Well, of course it’s different. You just left the city,
girl
.”

I hate it when my mom goes all homegirl on me. “That’s not what I mean.” I peer back
at the support beam. Thankfully, Dara’s no longer there.

“Then what?” Mom asks, finally sensing my unease. “Do you want to come home? Just
say the word and I’ll have something arranged in a matter of minutes.”

“Hold on.” I move through the exit doors. A shiny black hearse is parked right outside.
The driver’s-side door opens and a hot-looking guy steps out: midtwenties, airbrushed
tan, and dressed in Armani.

“Shayla Belmont?” he asks, holding up my picture—the one I e-mailed with my contest
forms. His smile is totally killer.

“Yes,” I say. “Are you…?”

“Stefan. And your chariot for the evening, compliments of Justin Blake and Townsend
Studios.” He opens the door to the backseat. “I hope you’ll find things comfortable.”

“In a hearse? Are you kidding?”

“I never joke about transporting dead people.”

“Except last I checked I was still alive.”

“For now, anyway.” He winks. “We’re waiting for one more person who was on your flight.”

I peek inside the hearse, spotting an ice bucket with an array of beverages inside
it. There’s also a basket of cinema snacks (movie popcorn, Jujyfruits, Sno-Caps, and
sourdough pretzels). “Thanks,” I say, suddenly remembering my mother on the phone.
“I think I’m all set,” I tell her as soon as Stefan steps away to load my bags into
the back.

“Are you sure? Where are you anyway?”

“I’m just getting picked up from the airport.”

“Okay, well call me as soon as you get to the B and B.”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Love you too, Shay-Shay.”

After we hang up, I take a seat inside the car, noticing a movie ticket stub with
my name on it. I pick it up to take a closer look. It’s actually a welcome note, congratulating
me once again on winning, and signed by Justin Blake.

Stefan closes the door behind me and already any reluctance has melted away, replaced
with an overwhelming sense of excitement for what’s soon to come.

“H
OLY FREAKING SHIT
!” I shout, able to see the house in the distance.

The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Is everything okay, Mr. Vader?”

Okay?
I’m practically drooling. “This seriously can’t be real.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

The house looks just like the one from the movie: the dark shingled exterior, the
shutter-covered windows, the plaque over the door affirming what I already know.

“Welcome to the Dark House,” the driver says.

Goose bumps rip up my arms. It’s all I can do not to bust out of the car while it’s
still in motion. A dilapidated shed—no doubt Tommy Tucker’s nightmare chamber—stands
in the distance. “Was this place built just for us?” I know for a fact that the movie
was originally shot in Hampstead, New Hampshire.

“The house was already here, from what I understand, but it was recently remodeled
for your arrival. You’ll find that everything about this weekend has been created
specifically for this occasion…specifically for you winners.”

“Wow,” I say. “It’s definitely the perfect spot.” In the middle of nowhere, surrounded
by forest. On the annoyingly long ride over from the airport, I think we might’ve
passed three gas stations and two convenience stores, tops.

I grab my bags from the back of the hearse and walk around to the front of the house.
The plaque is in direct view now. It’s an exact replica of the one from the movie,
written in red crayon by Carson, the Nightmare Elf.

“Pretty remarkable, isn’t it, Mr. Vader?”

I think the look on my face is agreement enough. I mean, where do I even begin?

All dressed up in his little suit and his little tie, the driver ushers me inside.
Here’s where things differ from the movie. It’s like walking onto the set of
The Real World
, the Dark House edition. The walls are paneled with wood, giving the place the illusion
of a cabin, but the furnishings are anything but camplike. There’s a huge room with
high ceilings. A wide-screen TV hangs on the wall, as does a life-size photo of the
mastermind himself. “This is incredible,” I say, thinking aloud, noticing how the
carpet looks to be at least five inches thick.

There’s a plateful of Nightmare Elf cookies on a table in the center of the room.
I palm five of them and then look around for a check-in desk, stoked when I don’t
see one, psyched that this doesn’t appear to be a B and B, after all. “Are we alone?”
I ask.

“Two others have also arrived—Taylor and Natalie, according to my notes, but we can
double-check with Midge.”

“Midge?”

“Midge Sarko from
Hotel 9
.” He looks around, as if trying to find her, peeking down a hallway, and looking
into another room. “She’ll be looking after all of you this weekend.”

I feel the smile on my face widen. Midge is the psycho chambermaid who collects her
victims’ fingers in the pockets of her apron.

“I’m not sure where she is, so why don’t I show you to your room.” He pulls a notepad
from his pocket. “You’re in room nine.”

“Sweet deal,” I say, grabbing a couple more cookies.

He leads us through the living room, past a screwed-up ceramic rooster sitting by
the fireplace. Its bright yellow eyes must be connected to a motion detector because
it crows as I walk by,
almost
making me jump. We head upstairs to room number nine. I step inside, completely jazzed
by what I see. There’s a drafting table in the corner with an art caddy stocked with
pencils, charcoals, and painting stuff. Lining the walls are illustrations from some
of my favorite artists, like Haig Demarjian and Virgil Finlay, as well as a few pieces
I don’t recognize. A poster of Captain Death Row, my favorite band, hangs over the
bed. It’s an illustration of Captain Death—his smiling skull with a gap between his
two front teeth—sporting a bandanna and sunglasses.

There are two beds in the room. I’m tempted to push them together so I can be like
Bloody Bathrow, the lead guitarist of the Masochistic Underbellies. I saw Bloody’s
place on a show called
Crash Pads
. He’s got a custom twenty-foot wide bed that he calls his kitty ride.

Beyond the beds, on the far wall, are a bunch of high-end guitars—a couple of them
with metallic red and gold paint jobs. I’ve never tried to play, but maybe Blake thinks
that I should. “There’s no way you’re getting rid of me after just two nights,” I
say, thinking how jealous my dad would be.

“Shall I leave you to arrange your things?” the driver asks.

I’ve yet to catch his name and at this point it feels weird to ask. “Solid.” I flash
him the peace sign and stick out my tongue, Gene Simmons–style. If only it were covered
in faux blood.

Once he leaves, I set my sketchbook down on the table and flop back onto my new bed.
It’s bigger than my naked mattress at home. Our whole apartment could probably fit
into the living room and entryway of this place alone.

I stuff a couple of cookies into my mouth and look up at the ceiling. Another of Haig’s
illustrations stares back down at me. It’s done in dark pastels: cherublike children
sleeping peacefully in bed while a sharp-toothed demon with bleeding eyes hovers inches
away. It’s way cool. And these cookies are way delicious. I think I’ve died and gone
to Dark House heaven.