The ground feels suddenly colder. I must be getting closer. A door hinge WHINES somewhere. There are other sounds too: CLANKING, BANGING, CLAMORING, the RUSTLING of bags.
I keep moving forward, unable to see a thing. I should’ve grabbed a candle. It’s too late to turn back now.
I hit a dead end—a dirt wall. I move in the opposite direction. Another dead end. The FOOTSTEPS move in my direction. I don’t know where to go. I back up against the wall, praying that he won’t find me.
I RUN ACROSS THE FIELD and climb back over the rock wall, wondering how much time has passed since I left Parker. It has to be well over two hours (no less than forty-five minutes in the woods with the killer; another ninety minutes, at least, getting to the street with Natalie; and now an additional hour to get back). There’s a cramp in my side. It bites below my ribs, nagging me to stop.
Finally I get to the lake, but the boat has floated away. I can see it in the distance—too far to swim. The oar has floated off as well—in the opposite direction than the boat.
I kick off my shoes, not knowing what to do with my flashlight. I search inside my bag, pulling out the Ziploc I use to store my mix of tea leaves. I dump the tea onto the ground and then slip the flashlight inside the bag. It doesn’t fit. The handle’s about two inches too long. I zip the bag up as best I can and fasten a rubber band around it. Then, I toss my shoulder bag to the side.
Keeping hold of the flashlight, I dive in. The water chills me to the bone, shocks my entire body. I begin my way across, trying to swim as fast as I can without making too much of a splash, but the other side of the lake looks so far away. My stomach aches. There’s a gnawing sensation in my shoulder.
Treading water, I pause a moment to catch my breath, angling my flashlight at the other side of the lake. I’m only about halfway there.
I continue to paddle for several more minutes. My body feels like lead. My fingers are numb. I struggle through the water—flailing, kicking, swiping—trying to move as fast as I can while keeping the flashlight up. But for all the work, I can’t get there quickly enough. I’m making too much of a splash. And my flashlight’s getting wet.
A few strokes later, something stops me in my path. A thick, slimy substance. I try to get through it, but it’s all around me, weighing me down, twisting around my ankles—ribbons of something slippery—pulling at my feet.
I struggle forward, flashing back to Parker’s nightmare—the eels that swarmed him. But whatever this is, it doesn’t seem like it’s alive. Could it be algae? Do lakes have their own form of seaweed? Did the killer dump something into the water?
I fall beneath the surface, still struggling to hold the flashlight upward. Water fills my nose, my ears; it leaks between my teeth. Something gritty slides down the back of my tongue. I make my way upward, able to see something floating all around me; it catches in the light. Thick bands of something dark.
I splash forward, concentrating on the muscles in my legs, channeling more mantras from self-defense: I’m stronger than what weighs me down. I can get past that which tries to anchor me. I thwart the slime to the side. It catches on my arm. I shine my flashlight over it. A dark olive goop. It doesn’t look real.
The other side of the lake is still several yards away. I continue to paddle toward it, finally free of the muck. At last I reach the bankside. Breathing hard, I climb out, collapsing to the ground. My wounded knee stings.
My flashlight blinks. The inside must’ve gotten wet. Angling it outward, I get up and run down the path that cuts through the woods, my bare feet trampling over dirt and rocks. Branches and brush cut into my face, pull at my hair. I’m shivering. My teeth chatter. The flashlight continues to blink.
I trip and fall forward again. My cheek lands against something sharp. I touch the spot. The wound is open. I can feel a gash in my skin. Blood comes away on my hand.
I go to rip a piece of fabric from the scarf on my knee, noticing the blood that’s seeped through the fabric. It’s sopping wet.
Meanwhile, blood runs down my neck. My fingers quiver over the spot. A whimper escapes out my mouth.
I bring the collar of my sweatshirt upward to catch the blood. Then I continue to move forward again. The school must be close.
I wind through the maze of bushes, panting the whole way. Is the killer still in these woods? Is he watching me? Did he go back inside? Am I already too late?
I stumble forward, over a rock, but catch myself before I fall. Still, I step down on something pointed. A ripping, burning pain sears my skin and radiates up my calf.
Wind whirs through the trees, rustles the branches. Sticks break somewhere behind me. I turn the flashlight off, squat down, and wait, and listen.
“Ivy?” a male voice whispers.
I grab a sharp stick and try my best to stand. My foot aches. My knee stings. My head feels dizzy as I struggle to my feet. I grip the stick hard, confident that his voice is coming from an area to my left.
I click on my flashlight, ready to strike out. The beam blinks a couple times before I’m able to see.
His eyes stare back at me in the light, taking my breath.
He’s lying on the ground. Blood runs from his forehead.
Parker.
I race to him. His face looks pale. He’s shivering uncontrollably. “Just hold on,” I tell him, using the hem of my shirt to blot his wound. “Do you think you can walk?”
“My leg,” he croaks out. “I can’t move it.”
I touch right above his knee. His leg twitches in response. I do the same to the other one, but nothing happens. “Is that the one he injected?” I ask, putting the pieces together.
I blanket myself over him, placing my hand over his heart. I can’t feel a beat, but his breath is at my neck. “We’re going to get through this.” I kiss his cheek. His skin is cold. I look in the direction of the school. It must be so close now. “I should go back for the others too.”
“There aren’t any others.” His eyes close.
The flashlight goes out completely.
“Just hold on,” I tell him, my mind scrambling, trying to decide what to do. Go back to look for Taylor? Run to get help?
I take his hand to feel his pulse. At the same moment, sirens sound in the distance, giving me breath. I collapse onto his chest, praying that by some miracle Taylor will be okay.
ONE DAY LATER
FADE IN:
INT. HOSPITAL—THE FOLLOWING DAY
A typical hospital room with stark white walls and a TV that hangs from the ceiling.
ANGLE ON ME
I lie in bed, attached to all sorts of machines and monitors that ensure everyone that I’m okay. There are stitches in my head and bandages all over my body. A bag of fluid is being fed to me intravenously.
I look like shit—sallow from lack of sunlight and thirty pounds skinnier than I used to be, pre–Dark House weekend.
PULL BACK TO REVEAL IVY
She sits by my side, resting her head down on my chest. I squeeze her hand to let her know that I’m awake.
She looks up. She’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair’s pulled back in a long ponytail. She looks unbelievably amazing.
IVY
How are you feeling?
ME
I could ask you the same.
She’s a patient here too, and has been bandaged up accordingly—knee, foot, shoulder, chin. And while I’m pretty sure visitation for me only includes family, the rules have been bent for those who risk their lives to save people they barely know.
IVY
As well as can be expected, I guess. Without Taylor. Without the others.
ME
You saved my life. You saved Natalie’s too. You brought the police closer to finding the killer.
She nods, listening to the words, but I’m not sure she truly hears them. There’s a sadness in her eyes, an absence in her whole demeanor.
IVY
Apple slept by my bed last night. Your parents are on their w
ay too. Someone said the plane landed about an hour ago. It must be pretty surreal...the idea of seeing them after all this time.
ME
The whole thing’s surreal.
IVY
You still haven’t told me how you managed to get out of the basement.
ME
With only one working leg? Imagine a snake with elbows.
IVY
Through the front door?
I shake my head.
ME
Through a side door he liked to use—sort of like a bulkhead. I used to sit in my cell, tensing when I heard the bolts unlatch on his way in. And then I’d hold my breath, waiting to hear him lock back up: the cold, hard clank of metal against metal.
(looking away)
I don’t really want to think about it.
My heart monitor speeds up. I take a deep breath, trying to put stuff out of my mind.
IVY
The police will be asking you.
ME
Someone was in already. They said I’ll be getting released soon. I can hardly wait to fly back home, see the rest of my family, my friends...
IVY
(faking a smile)
That’s great.
ME
But I’m coming back, Ivy. That’s my promise to you. I want us to begin again.
IVY
You don’t have to promise anything right now.
ME
I want to. The time we’ve spent together...I know it hasn’t been much, but I feel you know me in a way that no one else ever could.
IVY
I suppose I do.
ME
So, then will you let me come back? You don’t have to say anything right now. Because I know you’ve probably moved on, met new people, got your life back on—
Before I can finish babbling, Ivy leans forward and shushes me with a kiss. My heart monitor speeds up again. But instead of trying to tame it, I pull her closer, confident that I’ll never let go.
CUT TO:
MY PARENTS SHAKE THEIR HEADS at the sight of me, lying in my hospital bed, in my hospital gown and bandages. I feel like I’ve been away for years, traveled over a million miles, and yet they still look at me as they always did—like I’m their biggest disappointment.
“I told you that contest was a bad idea,” my father says, standing at the foot of the bed. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”
My mother props an extra pillow behind my head. Her eyes linger on my patchwork scalp. I want to pull out more hair, but I hold in the impulse by taking a deep breath and focusing on a blotch on the ceiling.
“It must’ve been so scary for you,” she says.
“It was, but I had Harris to keep me company. I would never have survived without him.”
“Harris is dead,” my father barks. “His body was buried inside the ground.”
“No, he’s alive.” I shake my head. “His soul is cradled inside my heart.”
Dad turns his back, unable to look at me now. Meanwhile, Mom remains on the sidelines—mute, pretty, obedient—in her pale blue dress, with the matching bag. But still her eyes look swollen, like she hasn’t slept. And I’ll bet those are unspoken words on her parted lips.
“You haven’t learned anything, have you?” Dad asks me.
“I’ve learned that I don’t need others to believe me—to validate what I know in my heart to be true.” I take another big breath, focusing again on the blotch, breathing through the impulse to pull.
“I wish you really believed that,” Harris says. “Hopefully, in time you will.”
Mom opens a bag she’s brought along. Butternut squash soup, my sister Margie’s favorite, which means that I must like it too.
“Where’s Margie?” I ask.
“She couldn’t get away,” Mom says. “Too busy with her studies. She made highest honors this term.”
Dad sighs. Because I never made honors? Because my being here means he had to take time off from work, and pay for airfare and a hotel? “How long do they want you in here?” he asks.
His question makes my eyes fill. He doesn’t seem happy to see me. And I can’t live in this hospital forever, where the nurses call me a hero. I’ll be released in only a couple of days.
Mom takes the cover off the soup and sets it down on a tray. “Eat this,” she says, as if it could possibly make everything better.
There’s a rap on the door. A woman with dark purple hair appears. “Natalie?” she asks, glancing at both of my parents, silently asking permission to come in. “I’m probably breaking the visitation rules, but...my name is Apple. I’m Ivy’s mother.” She bypasses my parents when they don’t respond, and sits down on the chair beside my bed. “You must be thrilled to see your daughter,” she says to them.
Mom musters a polite smile, as if this moment is at all smile-worthy, while Dad merely clears his throat.
“Mom and Dad love you,” Harris says. “They just don’t know how to show it.”
Apple takes my hand. Her fingers are warm. She smells like oranges. “You saved my daughter’s life. Ivy tells me that if it weren’t for you, she’d have never made it out of there.” Her eyes locked on mine, tears of gratitude trickle down her cheeks. She leans in to kiss my forehead. Her palm glides over the crown of my head. “Thank you,” she says, without a second glance to my hair.
I want to tell her how strong Ivy is; that if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here either. But I’m crying too hard to speak. Her kindness is too much to bear.
I peer over her shoulder at my parents. My tears have made everything blurry, but somehow, despite the blur, things are starting to look a whole lot clearer.
TWO WEEKS LATER
THE DOORBELL RINGS. IT’S APPLE and core, bringing me bags full of groceries. They’ve been stopping by at least a couple of times a day to check on me. I can’t really say I blame them. My apartment is under twenty-four-hour surveillance, because I saw the killer’s face—again.
I’ve been racking my brain as to why he might’ve revealed it. Was it because he thought he’d won—because he was convinced he was going to kill me? Or maybe it was his twisted way of trying to reward me for a job well done.
Whatever the reason, I don’t think he’s going to come after me—at least not for a while anyway. The killer spent years of his life studying me—my choices, my psychology. But I’m no longer the same person. These past several months have changed me. If he wanted to come after me again, he’d need to discover this new person I’ve become.
“How are you doing today?” Apple asks, sitting across from me on the sofa. Her crumpled expression tells me that she already knows the answer.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “I want to go back to work.”
“Are you sure?” Her dark eyes narrow. “Maybe it’s best to wait a few more weeks.”
“I’m ready.” I need the money. I need to appear normal. I need to show the killer that he didn’t get the best of me.
“Miko’s been asking about you.” She runs her hand over her freshly cut hair spikes. She recently hacked off more than ten inches for Locks of Love. “I think he might have a crush.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Most people are calling me crazy for going after a killer with little more than a knife. Others are calling me selfish—myself included—for getting Taylor involved. I’m not sure how I’ll ever forgive myself for letting her come along.
“I wouldn’t be so unsure either.” Apple winks.
I love Apple, and I know she means well, but the fact that she thinks I can move on after everything that’s happened just distances us more.
After Parker and I were saved, the police scoped out the August Prep building, but they couldn’t find any traces of Shayla, Frankie, or Garth—aside from the items left in the trunk. The blood I saw seeping through the door crack in the basement indeed belonged to Taylor, but, like the others, she was nowhere to be found.
What they were able to find? A bunch of the audio and video equ
ipment, but none of the footage from that day. The killer had obviously been in a rush, but he knew just what to take. And, in the end, he got what he wanted—his sequel, right down to the final chase scene where the heroine faced her opponent.
The school’s become a crime scene, not to mention a hot spot for Dark House series fans seeking a little thrill, eager to learn more about the legend of Ricky Slater. The good news: Though they won’t reveal his identity, the police assure me that they know who the killer is. Now it’s just a matter of finding him.
The police also have Natalie’s testimony—for whatever it’s worth. She claims that Parker was the only other survivor she saw during her time in captivity, and that, according to Harris, the bodies of Frankie, Shayla, and Garth are buried in a sinkhole somewhere in South Dakota. “Taylor’s body will be dumped too,” she told police. “That is if you don’t find it first; Harris doesn’t think you will.”
Even though, so far, Harris has proven correct on pretty much all accounts, I’m still holding on to hope, praying that the others are somewhere out there still.
Core lifts a pot of something heavy onto the stove. “Apple and I stopped by the diner earlier,” he says. “Miko made you a batch of his famous chicken gumbo soup.”
“I’ll have to call him to say thank-you.” I force a smile—and not because I don’t think the gesture was incredibly sweet. I’m just not sure I’m capable of spontaneous smiles anymore.
“Dr. Donna called the house earlier,” Apple says. “She’d love to start seeing you again.”