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.
DR. DONNA: So, what do you think?
ME: What was the question?
DR. DONNA: It's been six years, Ivy.
ME: Six years and my parents are still dead, and I still feel like I'm rotting away in purgatory, waiting for a killer to determine my fate. Will he come back and kill me today? Or wait until tomorrow? Or will he put it off until next year? Or perhaps he'll surprise me on the ten-year anniversary?
DR. DONNA: And maybe he won't come back at all. You've changed your name. You've changed your address. You've even changed your family.
ME: What choice did I have with that last one?
DR. DONNA: My point is that maybe he's done.
ME: That depends. Do serial killers retire? I think he's waiting for the opportune moment, watching me, studying my habits. Sometimes when I'm shopping in town or walking home from school, I can feel his eyes on me.
DR. DONNA: Do you still think he's the one who sent you the gifts?
ME: I don't think; I know. He knows what I like. He knows where I live.
DR. DONNA: You're not into makeup, Ivy. So, how do you explain that elaborate cosmetic kit?
ME: And how do you explain the paisley-covered journal, the pink soccer jersey, and the Katrina Rowe CD? My love for those things was apparent from my bedroom that night.
DR. DONNA: A lot of people like Katrina Rowe's music, Ivy. And the color pink, paisley designs, and soccer...all of those things are popular too...as are stars . . . that star pendant that you received; it doesn't get much more generic than that. Anyway, my point is that perhaps a secret admirer sent you the gifts.
ME: Except I haven't played soccer in six years, nor have I listened to Katrina Rowe. And no one who knows me now has any reason to believe that I used to like either.
DR. DONNA: You haven't told a single person? Even in casual conversation?
ME: You still think I'm being paranoid, don't you?
DR. DONNA: I think you have a lot of fear, and I want to help you to defuse it. But I'm not sure what else we can do here. We've talked about that night. We've talked about your nightmares. We've gone over every possible scenario—good and bad—of what could happen in the future.
ME: I need to try something else—to learn to live with fear, rather than in fear. I mean, lots of people live with fear, right? They put down good money for it. They seek it out from the front row of movie theaters and on rollercoasters. They wait in long lines for ghost tours and to go inside haunted houses. They don't let it control their lives.
DR. DONNA: Interesting point. So, how do you propose we get there?
ME: I need to learn from those people. I need to see fear the way they do.
_________________________________
AUTUMN
IVY
I don't know how I became a subscriber to the Nightmare Elf's e-Newsletter. I'm not a fan of the movies, and there's no chance that I'll ever become one, but with a subject line that hints at ridding my nightmares for good, I can't resist rescuing it from my spam box.
TO: IVY JENSEN
FROM: thenightmare.elf@gmail.com
SUBJECT: LAST CHANCE—NIGHTMARES BE GONE CONTEST ALERT
Nightmare Elf e-Newsletter—Issue #206
NIGHTMARES BE GONE CONTEST*
ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO MEET LEGENDARY FILM DIRECTOR JUSTIN BLAKE
AND GET A BEHIND-THE-SCENES LOOK AT HIS CONFIDENTIAL NEW PROJECT
Dear Dark House Dreamers,
Greetings from the Nightmare Elf,
I'm sending this note to say,
If you tell me your worst nightmare,
I can make it go away.
Submit your bedtime horror
in a thousand words or less.
Then I'll add it to my sack,
and you'll enter my contest.
— The Nightmare Elf
Guidelines: Describe your worst nightmare in a thousand words or less.
E-mail it to: thenightmare.elf@gmail.com.
Prize: An all-expenses-paid weekend, including an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the never-before-seen companion film to the Nightmare Elf movie series, plus the opportunity to meet Justin Blake.
Deadline: October 31, midnight EDT Click HERE for Justin Blake's Web site
IN MY HEFTY ELF SACK, YOUR NIGHTMARES WILL KEEP.
BETTER THINK TWICE BEFORE FALLING ASLEEP.
*Must be 18 years or older to enter.
I click on the link for Justin Blake's Web site. I've certainly heard his name before. Most of his titles ring a bell from movie trailers I've seen on TV—those I've tried to avoid with quick reflexes on the clicker.
There's a drop-down menu that lists some of his films and characters:
NOTABLE FILMS & STARRING CHARACTERS
Nightmare Elf: Eureka Dash, Pudgy the Clown, Piper Rizzo, Jason Macomber
Nightmare Elf II: Carson's Return: Farrah Noyes, Danny & Donnie Decker, Meg Beasley, Candy Lane
Nightmare Elf III: Lights Out: Susan Franklin, Max Tarple, the Kramer family (Steven, Lara, Montana, Blakely)
Nightmare Elf IV: Don't Fall Asleep: Eureka Dash, Pudgy the Clown, Janson Dailey, Jed Clive, Betsy Wakefield
Forest of Fright: Sebastian Slayer, the Targo triplets (Ted, Mario, Selena), Joseph Newburger, Frederick Linko
Halls of Horror: Lizzy Greer, the Targo triplets (Ted, Mario, Selena), Glenn Sullivan, Ava Murray
Night Terrors: Little Sally Jacobs, the Baker family (Josie, Carl, Diana), the Robinson family (June, Joyce, Daniella)
Night Terrors II: Little Sally Jacobs, Peg & Jessie Miller, the Ernesto family (Thomas, Juanita, Paulina, Kai)
Night Terrors III: Little Sally Jacobs, Jonathan Sumner, Felicia Thomas, Jake Willoby, Reva Foster
Hotel 9: The Scarcella family (Sidney, Darcie, Phillip, Jocelyn), Paige Rossi, Matthew Julian
Hotel 9: Blocked Rooms: Sidney Scarcella, Darcie Scarcella, Midge Sarko, Dorothy Teetlebaum, Carmen Roberge
Hotel 9: Enjoy Your Stay: Sidney Scarcella, Robert Scarcella, Midge Sarko, Emma Corwin, Enrique Batista
I click on the first Nightmare Elf movie title and an elf pops up on the screen: a blond-haired boy dressed in a red suit, a floppy hat, green gloves, and boots that curl up at the toe. With his rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, he's kind of cute on first glance. But then you notice the way his ears spike up to look like devil horns and the pointy sword that is his tail.
Below him, there's a link with background information on the series' legend. I click on it.
THE LEGEND OF THE DARK HOUSE
One summer, many years ago, the Tucker family went on a camping trip. Deep in the woods, they came across an abandoned cabin with dark clapboard shingles, nestled in a grove of trees. A wooden plaque over the front door read Welcome to the Dark house, written in red crayon.
The Tuckers decided to stay in the cabin instead of setting up camp. During their stay, six-year-old Tommy began to hear a voice inside his head. He didn't tell his parents—the voice told him not to. Tommy became withdrawn and secretive, often sneaking off into the woods to an old, abandoned storage shed. He called it the nightmare chamber.
"Make sure to come to the chamber at least three times a day," the voice told him. "There, you will do important work."
The voice belonged to a ten-year-old boy named Carson. While staying at the Dark House three months prior, Carson died from a seizure during a nightmare.
With his beloved elf doll in tow, Tommy would use a rock to scratch crude images into the walls of the shed—images of people with missing eyes, bleeding mouths, and stakes jammed through their hearts. The Tuckers grew concerned with Tommy's behavior. At the dinner table, he wouldn't speak. He refused to engage in any camping activities, like hiking, swimming, or sitting by the campfire.
One morning, Tommy's father followed him to the abandoned shed and saw the walls. "Explain yourself," he demanded.
"Go to hell," Tommy replied in a deep, slow, creaky voice, per Carson's instructions.
After five days at the Dark House, Mrs. Tucker, so disturbed by her son's worsening behavior, announced that they were cutting their vacation three days short. That same night, she dreamed about a thief in their apartment back home. Tommy had been experiencing nightmares too—recurring visions of a pack of snarling wolves tracking him through the woods.
Carson, still angry that he had died during a nightmare, wanted others to share his fate. His spirit, unable to pass on, had become quite powerful. He could see into the dreams of anyone who stayed at the Dark House—and make their nightmares come tragically true.
Tommy was the first victim. He died before the Tuckers finished packing, mauled by a wolf lurking near the nightmare chamber. Weeks later, Mrs. Tucker was killed by an intruder in their home.
After the Tuckers left, only Tommy's elf doll remained. Carson giggled at the sight of it, delighted to have a souvenir doll. And so he decided to inhabit the doll, dubbing himself the Nightmare Elf. Into his bright red sack Carson would collect the frightful dreams of the Dark House's guests, overjoyed to eventually release their nightmares into reality, making room in his bag for more.
So let this be a warning to all you campers: if you happen across the Dark House in the middle of the night, feel free to stop inside, but do remember this: IN HIS HEFTY ELF SACK, YOUR NIGHTMARES WILL KEEP. BETTER THINK TWICE BEFORE FALLING ASLEEP.
TO: thenightmare.elf@gmail.com
FROM: IVY JENSEN
SUBJECT: Re: LAST CHANCE—NIGHTMARES BE GONE CONTEST ALERT
In a thousand words or less, describe your worst nightmare.
Dear Nightmare Elf,
For the record, I'm not one of your Dark House Dreamers, nor have I seen even one Nightmare Elf movie—or any of Justin Blake's films for that matter—but I've been receiving your e-newsletters for years now, and this last one caught my eye.
I guess you could say that you found me in a weak moment, because the idea of telling an elf my nightmare, and having him magically take it away, sounds pretty amazing right now, especially at four in the morning . . . not that I actually believe a word of your BS. But, at the very least, maybe writing about my nightmare and sending it off into the black hole of cyberspace will trick me into believing that it'll never come back.
So, here goes.
For the past six years I've dreamed that my parents are being murdered in their bedroom across the hall. I'm haunted by this vision because it happened. In real life.
I was in my room, sleeping soundly—until I heard it. A thrashing sound across the hall.
I sat up, able to hear more noises: a gasp, a sputter, an agonizing moan. Then silence, broken by an unfamiliar male voice: "And now it's your turn. You won't feel a thing."
My mother screamed. "Please, no," she begged. "Don't do this. I have a—"
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't try to guess at her missing words:
"I have an idea"?
"I have something to tell you"?
"I have a daughter"?
"I have a wallet full of cash"?
I'll never know for sure. Her voice was cut short with a thwack.
Then music began to play. String instruments. An eerie blend of violin and viola that reverberated in my heart.
I grabbed the phone on my night table and dialed 9-1-1. "I think someone just killed my parents," I told the operator, hearing a hitch in my throat, hearing words come out of my mouth that no one should ever have to say.
"Where are you?" the operator asked.
"In my room, across the hall."
"Is the person still in the house?"
"I don't know," I replied, keeping my voice low. "I mean, I think so. In my parents' room."
"Okay, I have your address. I'm sending help right over. Can you tell me your name?"
My name? My mind scrambled. My pulse quickened. And suddenly I couldn't get enough air.
"Hello?"
"Ivy," I choked out. "Jensen. My name, that is."
"Okay, Ivy. Listen to me carefully now. Is there a lock on your bedroom door?"
I looked toward the door, no longer able to hear my parents.
"Ivy?" the operator asked. "Are you on the first floor? Is there a window?"
I couldn't answer, couldn't think straight. Meanwhile, my hands were trembling so furiously, but still I told myself that I wouldn't drop the phone; I'd keep it firmly gripped in my hands.
But then I saw it happen.
In slow motion.
Falling from my fingers.
Bouncing off the bed.
Landing against the hardwood floor.
It made a loud, hard knock. I felt it in my chest. It stopped my breath, stunned my heart, shot an arrow through my brain.
My bedroom light was off, but with the door cracked open, the hallway light leaked into my room and he was able to see me.
"Good evening, Princess," he whispered.
His hair was long and silver. His face was covered with stubble. He cocked his head and smiled at me; his lips peeled open, exposing a pointy tongue and crooked teeth.
We both froze, just watching each other, awaiting the other's move—like two wild animals in the night. His eyes were unmistakable: tiny, dark gray, and rimmed with amber- brown. They reminded me of a bird's eyes, and now they're what I see each night when I close my eyes for sleep.
His gaze wandered around my room—my walls, my floor, my bed, my dresser—as if taking everything in. The paisley bed linens, the soccer banners, my fuzzy beanbag chair, all the Katrina Rowe posters hanging above my bed.
A few seconds later, his eyes fixed back on mine, and he smiled wider. "It's very nice to meet you," he said, overemphasizing every word.
I wanted to throw up. Chills ran down my spine.
Sirens blared in the distance then. He remained in the doorway a few more moments before backing away slowly and fleeing our little yellow house with the white picket fence—the place that I'd always called home.
But I knew that wouldn't be the end.
It's now six years later. Those eyes are still out there. And I live in constant fear that the killer will come back for me one day.
In my dreams, he plunges a knife deep into my gut before I can rouse myself. My eyes flutter open, and I'm able to see him. Those birdlike eyes.
His lips peel open and he smiles at me, his pointed tongue edging out over his jagged, yellow teeth. "You knew I'd come back, didn't you?"
He twists the knife—two full turns—before pulling it out to examine the blade. I touch my stomach, smearing blood on my palms.
That's when I finally wake up. I haven't told anyone this, but sometimes I wish that he would come back, once and for all. At least then it would all be over.
Spring
Ivy
I push the tip of the blade into the skin and make one solid cut. The onion falls in halves. I rip the skin off one of the halves and make a series of cuts, trying to get the layers as thin as possible—a technique only attainable with the sharpest of blades.
I toss the onion shreds into my bowl and look up, nearly awestruck by Enrique's Italian sausage. It's perfectly plump and juicy, slathered in a red chili glaze and stuffed with paprika and oregano.
"Ivy!" my sister Rosie shouts. She jumps in front of the TV screen, distracting me from Enrique's stuffing technique. Rosie is eight years old and in love with SpongeBob. "What are you doing?"
I'm elbow deep in ground pork shoulder and shredded onion. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
She peeks at the TV screen, where Enrique, also dubbed the Spicy Italian Chef (even though he's from Argentina), is dressed in a bib-apron and a pair of heart-patterned boxer shorts (his usual TV attire). Though I'm fairly certain his tanned, rippling muscles are part of the ensemble as well. Enrique's explaining the merits of a chunkier sausage over a lengthier one (something about moisture retention), but I'm pretty sure the vast majority of female viewers—not to mention his growing number of male admirers—could care less.
"He's hot," Rosie says. "But shouldn't you be using a fork to mix that stuff?" She points her glue-encrusted fingers into my bowl, coming way too close for my culinary comfort.
"Get out." I swat at her. "Have you been eating glue again?" There are suspicious-looking globules stuck in the corners of her mouth.
"I want a snack," she says, avoiding my question. "And I also want you to read my tea leaves." She takes a jar of dried mint from the spice rack and smacks it down on the counter.
"I'm saving that for Willow's stomach."
"Willow can spend the night doubled over in pain for all I care. She refuses to let me borrow her blush." Rosie's big brown eyes bulge out in annoyance—a teenager stuck in an eight-year-old's body, Elmer's glue included.
"You're too young for makeup. Go find something productive to do." I flash her my porkified palms in an effort to repulse her. But unfortunately, the porkiness doesn't seem to bother her one bit.
Rosie starts singing extra loud—"tra la la"—and flailing her arms, trying to block the TV screen. Meanwhile, Willow, my twelve-year-old sister, comes rushing into the kitchen, saying there's something in the living room that I just have to see.
"I'm busy," I tell her.
"Well, get unbusy," Willow says. "Because Rain and Storm are at it again."
Rain and Storm are my ten-year-old twin brothers, and the reason that people take birth control. I can hear Rain's menacing giggle from the living room. Meanwhile, it seems I've missed at least three of Enrique's steps. He's pouring a cup of red wine vinegar into a separate bowl, but I have absolutely no idea why.
"Come on!" Willow shouts. "They're going to mess up the drapes."
I grab a rag to wipe my hands, moving from behind the island. In doing so, I accidentally bump my bowl. It drops to the floor. Ground pork shoulder falls against the tile with a slimy thud.
"Ewww," Rosie squeals, nibbling glue residue from her fingers. "I'm not eating that."
I hurry into the living room, where Storm and Rain stand with their backs toward me, facing the bay window. "Prepare!" Storm orders.
I hear an all-too-familiar zipping sound.
"Aim!" Storm calls out.
"Fire!" they both shout.
It takes me a second to realize what they're doing. Pee shoots out, hitting the two potted plants in the window, splashing against the soil, and spraying all over the window screens.
"Go to your room!" I shout.
"Well, you did tell us to water the plants . . ." Storm argues, still giggling.
"Now!" My tone must scare them, because they do as they're told.
"Enrique's all done," Rosie says, from the kitchen. I can already hear the theme song to SpongeBob. "Now can you get me a snack and read my tea leaves?"
Most other eighteen-year-olds would probably hate my life. But I honestly don't know what I'd do if it weren't for the distraction of this household. I was placed with this family by protective services after my parents were murdered. My foster parents, Apple and Core (self-renamed from Gail and Steve) were a stark contrast to that darkness. Once hippy environmentalists, who named all their children after something in nature, they now need to make a decent living. So, while they go off to work, I stay at home playing full-time nanny for zero-time pay as the eldest of their five kids. School is my only time off, but it's April vacation, and everyone's home.
And speaking of April . . . that's my real name, my birth name I should say. But my foster parents changed it to Ivy. We had a renaming ceremony, complete with floral head wreaths, a dip in the lake, and dancing around a fire. I can't say I minded. I wanted to be someone else. I prayed to be someone else. Except for my name, so far my prayers have gone unanswered.
Ivy
My cell phone chirps, announcing that I have an e-mail. I pull it from my pocket to check. It's a message from the Nightmare Elf, only this time it didn't go into my spam box. I click on it, remembering the nightmare contest I entered months ago.
TO: IVY JENSEN
FR: thenightmare.elf@gmail.com
SUBJECT: YOU'VE BEEN CHOSEN. . .
2 ATTACHMENTS
Dear Lucky Dark House Dreamers,
In my hefty elf sack, your nightmares now keep.
Better think twice before falling asleep.
- the Nightmare Elf
YOU'VE BEEN CHOSEN . . .
What: To attend an all-expenses-paid weekend, including an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at director Justin Blake's confidential new project: a never-before-seen companion film to his Nightmare Elf movie series, as well as the opportunity to meet Blake himself. Congratulations. Your entry was one of the seven chosen from over twenty thousand applicants.
Where: Stratten, MN, home of Stratten University. You will stay for two nights at a bed & breakfast, chosen specifically by the Nightmare Elf, with the other contest winners.
When: July 17–19
Transportation: Once we have confirmed your attendance with receipt of your registration packet and release form (see attached documents), air and local transportation arrangements will be provided.
RSVP: To reserve your spot, please be sure complete the attached forms and return ASAP. Space is limited.
NOW, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
PACK YOUR BAGS . . . AND PREPARE FOR THE SCARE OF YOUR LIFE.
Natalie Sorrento
"This discussion is over," my mother says in her 1950s cardigan with an angel pin poked through the fabric.
Did a discussion ever start? There's a smug smile on her face because she thinks she's putting her foot down, but the fact is that her foot—as well as her entire body—has been under my dad's thumb ever since I can remember. My mother doesn't have a single thought that she can actually call her own.
We're sitting at the dining room table. A vase full of tea roses separates us, marking our opposing territories: me against them, thorns against roses.
"You need to think seriously about your future," Dad says. "Do something meaningful with your life." As if I'd ever take advice from him. Before retirement, he worked at a plastics factory making BPA-infested food containers. He knocked my mother up when he was in his late fifties—when he was married to someone else, too—and when my mother was twenty-year-old eye candy, working as a teller at the bank. Even their affair sounds boring.
My brother Harris and I were the product of said affair—twins, born less than sixty seconds apart. Even then we didn't want to leave each other's side.
"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity," I tell them. "My entry stood out over twenty thousand entries."
"Exactly," Dad snaps. "You have potential, but instead you hide it beneath that costume of yours."
"You wouldn't forbid Harris to go," I say; the words come out shaky.
Dad's face blows up like a balloon with too much air. He hates it when I bring up Harris. He hates it when I talk, period.
Before he explodes entirely, I storm to my room, locking the door behind me. The e-mail announcing that I'm one of the winners is still open on my computer. I read it again, making sure that it's real—that it still says what I think it does. My parents can never take that away.
I gaze over at my bookcase, the shelves of which are filled with all of Justin Blake's work, including a copy of My Nightmare, his autobiography, in which he talks about feeling like a constant disappointment to his parents. I know that feeling all too well.
I move over to my dresser mirror. There's a desk blotter covering the glass. I take it down, careful where to look, because I don't want to see my whole reflection right away. My pulse racing, I pull off my sweatshirt, trying to focus on just the Nightmare Elf tattooed on my belly. When I went to the tattoo parlor, I told the artist to make an extra bulge in the elf's sack for my nightmare—the biggest one of the bunch.
I grab an eyeliner pen off my dresser and, across my belly, beside the elf, I go to write the words In his hefty elf sack, my nightmare now keeps, but there isn't enough room. The letters are squished.
I turn sideways to scope out the space on my back. Justin Blake's birth date is tattooed at the very bottom, right in the middle of my underwear line, right below Pudgy the Clown's chain saw.
Harris thinks it was psycho of me to get another man's birthday permanently inked on my skin. But at the time that I got it—just after my mom and sister had girls' night out and "forgot" to invite me—it made perfect sense, because I couldn't thank God enough for placing Justin Blake on this earth.
I angle my back a little more toward the mirror and pull down my underwear to see the couple of tattoos on my ass cheeks: Little Sally Jacobs' skeleton keys and part of the Nightmare Elf's infamous catch phrase, "Better think twice before falling asleep."
Looking at all these tattoos now, I want to tell myself how ballsy I am—how ballsy I was to have gotten them in the first place. But the truth is, they were done in fear and therefore strategically placed. I could never have gotten them where my parents would see, just like I could never go against their wishes and accept Blake's generous offer.
Shayla Belmont
Finally 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 miniscule. 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 speed of proverbial light?
A woman rushes by me, nearly knocking me over.
"Excuse me," I call out, suddenly noticing that her pants are way too short. They expose her socks—purple ones with bright pink stars, just like my best friend Dara's. 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 shouldn't 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 female attendant asks. At least seventy years old with long white hair, she has the palest blue eyes I've ever seen, but she keeps them fixed 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 it 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, nor an escalator.
"Would you like to rent a car?" she asks. "I have midsize sedans or minivans."
"I don't actually need a car." .
"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 toward my forehead area. 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 rolled 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 star-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 ."
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: , 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." He flips the trunk open. "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." He winks.
"Accept last I checked I was still alive."
"For now, anyway," he jokes. "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 trunk.
"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.