Welcome to the Dark House (5 page)

“J
UST AROUND THIS BEND
,” the driver says. “You must be anxious to stretch your legs.”

I’m anxious, period.

We turn off the main road onto a long dirt path, and finally I’m able to see a house
in the distance. As we get closer, I spot a sign over the front door:
WELCOME TO THE DARK HOUSE
.

“Is this really the B and B?” I ask, feeling my stomach twist. There’s no parking
lot, not one other car. “Is anyone else staying here?”

He gives me a curious look. “Don’t you recognize this place from the Nightmare Elf
movies? This house was made to look like the real thing. Aren’t you a fan of Justin
Blake’s work?”

“Of course,” I lie, the light finally dawning. The accommodations are movie themed.

I retrieve my bags from the back of the hearse, picturing my parents’ caskets—the
cherry wood, the engraved crosses, the satin interior lining.

“Welcome to the Dark House!” a voice bellows, pulling me back to earth.

I turn to find a boy standing behind me. He’s probably my age, dressed in layers of
gray and black. His wavy dark hair is held back with a bandanna, and there are silver
hoops pierced through his eyebrow, nostril, and lip.

“Are you one of the winners?” I ask him.

“That depends…was Justin Blake born in Knoxville, Tennessee?”

“Maybe?”

“Errrh,”
the boy lets out a game-show buzzer sound, denoting my wrong answer. “The correct
response would’ve been yes. And if you were truly a Justin Blake fan you’d have known
where he was born, as well as which schools he attended, and where he now lives. I’m
Garth, by the way.” He extends his hand for a shake. His fingers are loaded with more
sterling silver jewelry than I’ve ever seen in one place.

“I’m Ivy.” I shake his hand, fully aware that my palms are cold and clammy. “I guess
you could say that I’m a fairly new fan of Blake’s.”

Garth closes the rear door of the hearse before moving around to the driver’s side
window. “I can take things from here,” he tells the driver.

As if I couldn’t feel more uneasy.

Still, bags in hand, I follow him inside, relieved that it’s not creepy like the exterior.
A wide open space is furnished with an L-shaped sofa, velvety chairs, and eclectic
antiques—an artful blending of color, texture, and style. There’s a workstation by
the far wall. Beyond it is a set of stairs, and rooms to the right and left. A large
granite island separates the living room space from a state-of-the art kitchen so
similar to the Spicy Italian Chef’s that I almost have to pinch myself. “Is that a
real Pompeii oven?” I ask, pointing at it.

Garth sniffs in my direction, evidentally too distracted by my smell—the scent of
my essential oils maybe—to answer.

“Has anyone else arrived yet?” I ask, my anxiety mounting by the moment.

“Two chicks I’ve yet to see—one went for a walk, so says Midge, resident watchdog;
the other won’t open her door…at least not for me.” He grins, as if the idea of that
makes him proud. He leans forward to sniff the side of my face. “Is that A-positive
I smell on you?”

“A-positive?” I ask, wondering if that’s the name of a new perfume.

“Your blood,” he attempts to explain. “It’s type A, right?”

I don’t know how to respond—or if he’s even being serious.

“I’ll bet you clot really well, don’t you?” He winks. “No coagulation problems for
you.”

“Welcome!” a woman says, coming down the stairs. She’s wearing a maid’s uniform—a
black dress with a frilly bib apron over it—and there are little-girl ribbons in her
hair. “You must be Ivy,” she says with a smile. “I was just turning down your bed.
I know it’s a little early, but I figured you all might be tired. I see that you’ve
met Garth.”

Garth appears distracted again. He moves away, down the hall, into another room, slamming
the door behind him. The noise makes my insides jump.

“Everything okay?” the woman asks me. Her shimmery white hair matches her pearly teeth
and the shadow on her lids. She reminds me of Southern Sally Cooks from the Food Channel.

I manage to nod, trying to get a grip.

“I’m Midge.” She smiles wider, exposing a shiny gold tooth. “You need anything, you
just call on me. So what do you say…Are you ready to check out your room?”

We go upstairs and down a long hallway. The floorboards creak beneath my step. “Here
we are,” she says, opening the door to room number two.

It’s larger than I expected, with two full beds. A giant, life-size cardboard cutout
of Julia Child is positioned at the foot of one of them. “Wow,” I say, startled by
the sight of Julia holding a raw chicken up by its legs.

“I take it that someone’s a cooking fan,” Midge says.

It’s true. I’ve been cooking pretty intensely since my parents were murdered. Not
only is it a distraction, but it also makes me feel in control—wielding knives; the
excuse to cut, slice, grate, chop.

“Ivy?” she asks.

I go to take a breath, but the air gets stuck in my chest, deep in my lungs. I sit
down on the edge of the bed and silently count to ten, wondering what the hell I’m
doing here and what I was even thinking. I touch the aromatherapy pendant around my
neck, telling myself to relax. I unplug the cork and close my eyes, breathing in the
cedarwood oil, reminding myself of its ability to induce tranquility.

“Do you need some water? Are you not feeling well?”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, finally able to catch my breath.

“Well, as you can probably guess, the winners’ rooms are tailored to each of your
individual tastes and interests, based on the personality profiles that you filled
out.”

I gaze over at the other side of the room. It’s Barbie pink and suited for a dancer,
with a ballet bar and a rack of dance shoes. A cursive sign over the mirror reads
Dance with Me
. “Is someone else sharing this room?” I ask, spotting a leopard-print suitcase at
the foot of the other bed.

“Yes. Taylor. You’ll be meeting her soon. She just went out for a walk. It’s such
a glorious day, isn’t it?” Midge opens the drapes wide, letting in the light. It’s
late afternoon, and the sun’s orange glow sinks down through the tree limbs, casting
a strip of light over my bed, illuminating a copy of Deena Diddem’s latest book,
Dare to Diddem.
(Note: in Deena-speak,
diddem
means to throw together random ingredients from your fridge and pantry and end up
with a tasty new dish.)

“Just a little gift from Mr. Blake,” Midge says. “I assume you’re familiar with Deena’s
work?”

Deena Diddem, thirty-three years old, born in Toronto, the only child of Chuck and
Nancy, climbed the culinary ladder, starting her career in the prepared foods section
of her local supermarket. She’s now the Food Channel’s number one–rated chef.

I take the book and open to a flagged page. Not only has Deena signed the copy, but
she’s also written me a note.

Dear Ivy,

A little bird told me that you’re a big fan of my show. I’m so flattered. Thank you
so much!

I also heard that you love to cook. Who knows, maybe one day our paths will cross.
In the meantime, keep on diddeming! Best of luck!

Love,

Deena

I run my fingers over her words.

“You like?” Midge asks.

“More like
love
.”

“Great.” She smiles. “Now if you don’t need anything else, I’ll leave you to settle
in. You’ll notice the itinerary for the weekend on the night table.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching to take it, more excited about this weekend than I ever
thought possible and more hopeful than ever before.

INT. ENTRYWAY, DARK HOUSE
—
DAY

ANGLE ON

WOMAN, 50-something, dressed up as Midge Sarko, one of Justin Blake’s most villainous
characters; a chambermaid from
Hotel 9
, who kills her guests with household items (a turkey timer, a toilet bowl plunger,
soap scum remover).

MIDGE SARKO

Welcome, you must be Parker.

ME

And you’re obviously Midge. Anyone ever tell you that you look just like Tina Maitland,
the actor who played Midge in the movie?

I move CLOSER on the POCKETS OF HER APRON. The curly handle of Midge’s signature paring
knife sticks out
—
always ready to slice off a souvenir finger for her collection.

MIDGE SARKO

(winking)

Tina’s just an actor. I’m the real McCoy.

I lower my camera to shake her hand.

MIDGE SARKO

Sorry about your flight delay.

ME

What’s an extra two and a half hours on the tarmac, right?

MIDGE SARKO

Well, if it’s any consolation, it was an extra two and a half hours for your driver
too. He was already on his way to get you by the time he learned of the delay.

ME

Bummer for him.

MIDGE SARKO

But lucky for us, because you’re here now. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.

I follow Midge through the house, filming the whole way, as the infamous swish-swish
sound of her ass fills the loud silence.

“Excited?” she asks.

“Are you kidding? I can hardly believe this is real.” I found out about this contest
totally by chance doing research for my film class; it was posted on a fan site for
Justin Blake, notable horror director/producer/screenwriter. The site was littered
with photos of Blake, favorite movie clips, and tons of Nightmare Elf–inspired fan
fiction. I’d forgotten what a cult following Blake has. I used to be a fan too, back
when I first discovered horror and didn’t know much about the genre.

Someone had posted an entry that read: “Want to meet Justin Blake and get a behind-the-scenes
look at his new confidential film project? E-mail me:
[email protected].”

I sent an e-mail, figuring I wouldn’t hear back. But ten minutes later the contest
guidelines appeared in my inbox. And eight months later, here I am.

Midge stops in front of the door at the very end of the hall. “This is it.”

I point my camera into the room just before mine, wondering where the other winners
are, looking for something else interesting to shoot.

ANGLE ON GIRL

GIRL, 18-ish, sits on her bed, looking down at her hands. There’s a tiny bottle between
her fingers, hanging from a silver chain.

CLOSER ON GIRL’S FACE

Brown eyes, heart-shaped face, long dark hair. She’s way too beautiful to be real.

The girl looks back at me and I’m totally caught.

“Hey,” I say, lowering my camera, suddenly feeling like a creep. “I was just shooting
my arrival.”

My explanation sucks, and she knows it too. Her forehead furrows as she looks toward
my camera; it’s half-tucked behind my back, as if I could possibly hide it now.

“Coming?” Midge asks me.

I give the girl an awkward wave and then proceed to my room. A king-size bed greets
me, the cover of which has dozens of hungry, open-mouthed eels scattered across the
blue fabric.

“I guess somebody has a sick sense of humor,” I say, zooming in with my camera, remembering
the essay I submitted for the contest.

“How’s that?” Midge asks, evidently clueless.

A laptop station sits beyond the bed with one of those ergonomic chairs—one that probably
cost more than my car.

“Nice,” I say, moving farther inside.

As if on cue, music starts to play. An old black-and-white movie cranks to life on
a projector screen on the far wall. The quality of the film is grainy, but I’d recognize
this scene anywhere: it’s nighttime, there’s a storm outside, and an unsuspecting
couple falls victim to the classic stranded-car-by-the-side-of-the-road routine.
“The Old Dark House,”
I say. Circa 1932, if I’m remembering correctly from my History of Film course. “How
fitting for the weekend.”

“Should I assume that things are to your liking?” Midge asks.

“Definitely.” I aim my camera at the bookshelves lining the room. They’re jammed with
screenplays—what has to be at least five hundred of them.

“You’ll notice that some of them have been signed,” Midge says, following my gaze.

“Signed by whom?” I ask, noticing a copy of
Citizen Kane
, one of my favorite films of all time.

“It varies.” She grabs a copy of
The Shawshank Redemption
off the shelf. “Sometimes the writer, sometimes the director. This one’s been signed
by Morgan Freeman.”

“No way.” I set my camera down to take a peek.

“Mr. Blake keeps quite a collection.” She smiles wide, exposing a shiny gold tooth.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some dinner preparations to attend to.”

Once she leaves, I continue to check out the screenplays. Cameron Crowe. Alfred Hitchcock.
Stanley Kubrick. John Hughes. It’s too good to be real. They don’t even know me here,
so how can they trust that I won’t steal a few?

I grab the script for
The Silence of the Lambs
and then turn to sit on my bed, startled to find that I’m not alone. The girl from
next door is standing in my doorway.

“I’m sorry to bother you.” Her eyes search my face, as if checking to make sure that
I’m okay with her being here.

“No bother at all.” I mean, seriously? Holy shit.

“I’m Ivy.” Her straight dark hair hangs past her shoulders, over a long purple sundress
that stretches to the floor.

“Parker,” I say, trying my best not to stare.

But she’s not even looking at me now. Her eyes are fixed on the projector screen—on
the group of people taking refuge from the storm. They’re sitting around the dinner
table at the Femm family estate. There’s a pounding on the door.

Ivy’s eyes widen.

“This is actually a pretty safe scene in the film,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says, even though she’s totally
not
okay. Her face is completely flushed.

I go to shake her hand, but she’s holding her cell phone and we end up making a weird
cell phone–hand sandwich.

“Sorry,” she says. There’s an awkward smile on her face. “I need to call home, but
I can’t get reception, and I’m hoping it’s just my phone’s issue.”

“Not just your issue. There’s no reception here, at least that’s what the hearse guy
said, but he also mentioned something about a landline in the living room downstairs.”

“Thanks.” She smiles. There’s an irresistible spray of freckles across her nose and
cheeks. “I promised I’d call home when I arrived.”

“Where’s home?”

“Boston, just north of it. And you?”

“San Diego, just south of it.”

“Wow,” she says. “We couldn’t be farther away from one another.”

“Not for the next forty-eight hours we’re not.” It takes me a beat to realize what
I’ve said—how cheesy it sounds—and my face flashes a thousand degrees of hotness.

Ivy notices, and her smile shifts to a smirk. She must find my embarrassment amusing.

“The last hearse is pulling up,” Midge calls. “It must be Shayla and Frankie, the
final two Dark House Dreamers.”

“Do you want to go down to meet them?” Ivy asks.

Not especially, I think, wondering if she has a boyfriend. But I tell her I’d like
to, anyway.