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.
Laurie Faria Stolarz, Welcome to the Dark House
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