Sneak Peek Pages from Welcome to the Dark House

An Excerpt from WELCOME TO THE DARK HOUSE

By Laurie Faria Stolarz

The full novel will be available on July 22nd, 2014, wherever books are sold.

www.lauriestolarz.com

Ivy Jensen

I wake with a gasp, covered in my own blood. It's everywhere. Soaking into the bed covers, splattered against the wall, running through the cracks in the hardwood floor, and dripping over my fingers and hands.

I touch my stomach, searching for a stab wound. My chest heaves in and out. I'm breathing so hard that it hurts—so hard that I wish for my lungs to collapse and my heart to stop.

I wish that he'd killed me along with them.

The moonlight shines in through the open window, enabling me to see.

I'm in my present-day bedroom.

It's six years later.

I'm seventy miles away from the crime scene.


There is no blood, only sweat. There are no hardwood floors, either.

A shag carpet covers unfinished plywood. I reach down and run my fingers over the thick wool threads, just to be sure. Then I check and recheck my comforter, looking at it from different angles. It isn't pink paisley, like the one I had when I was twelve. This one's dark, dark blue. And there are pale green walls. And angled ceilings. And there's an armoire in place of a vanity. There are no music posters on the wall, nor is there a single reference to the soccer I used to play.

I'm seventy miles away. It's six years later. This isn't the same room. There is no blood. This was obviously another nightmare.

Still, I make sure of everything by switching on my night table light. I make sure of everything by going through these rituals one more time: by saying the alphabet forward and backward one more time, by touching the pendant around my neck—an aromatherapy necklace that was supposed to be a gift for my mother—one more time.

I'm eighteen years old, not twelve.

I dreamed about him again, because I fear that he'll come back for me one day and do to me what he did to my parents.

Six years ago now.


In a room unlike this one.

Seventy miles away.

 ________________________________

SUMMER

IVY

It's Saturday afternoon, and I'm sitting In Dr. Donna's office. I've been sitting here, on this same leather chair, surrounded by these same four walls.

On the same day.

At the same hour.


For the same reason.


For the past six years.


I'm not sure if it helps, but I never skip a session, because coming here gives me hope that one day I'll no longer live in fear.

Dr. Donna sits across from me. Her legs are crossed at the knee, as usual. Her beige leather clog bops up and down to the ticking of her mantel clock as she waits for me to say something. But coming here—doing this—is starting to feel like watching a rerun. It's the same episode on the same channel, with the same actors, saying the same dialogue. Again and again. And again.