Darkhouse (Experiment in Terror 1)

I was on cloud nine for the rest of the day. Literally. All the painkillers I was popping, plus the lack of shut-eye, made me feel like I was floating away to la la land.

My position started the next Monday, which meant all this week I had to train my replacement (turns out they had the temp who subbed for me last week in mind), which in turn meant a fairly easy week for me. I could just make the other person do all the work.

Easy is what I needed. With my brain and body all jumbled I needed things to go as smoothly as possible. I wanted to put the weekend behind me more than anything and start focusing on a new path. The longer I engaged in the everyday swing of “normal” life, the more absurd the idea of being a ghost blogger became.

Plus, I hadn’t heard from Dex. I know he said he’d call if he knew something, but still; I guess a part of me hoped he would call anyway.

Later that evening, I went onto my Facebook to check his profile like the snoop I am. I found no evidence he had logged on recently, but people had written on his wall during our absence. Some guys, some girls, mostly inside jokes and potential plans. It felt weird knowing Dex had a life outside of me and the lighthouse, as egotistical and stupid as that sounds.

It only hammered home that Dex was still just a man. A befuddling man but just a man in the end. A man with a hot Wine Babe for a girlfriend, an interesting and varied job, a nice voice, a social life and a sordid past. A handsome, beguiling man whose eyes read your very soul and whose smirk held you in contempt. A man I tried my hardest to not think about.

That was easier said than done. Ada kept bringing him up around the dinner table.

“I think he looks creepy,” Ada said haughtily between petite bites of her roast. “I was starting to doubt if you’d ever come back.”

“Thanks, Ada,” I muttered, glaring at her.

“Well it would have been nice if we had had a chance to meet him,” my mom complained wistfully, “instead of having to stare at him from a distance.”

“Yes, well, I thought maybe you’d embarrass me,” I replied truthfully.

“Oh, whatever, as you would say. Why would that matter?” my mom said, exchanging a look with my father, who was silent as he normally was whenever there was food in front of him.

“Because she has the hots for him,” Ada interjected.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. I just met the guy.”

She wagged her fork at me. “I saw the way you were ogling his Facebook pictures.”

She turned to my mother. “He has a girlfriend too.”

My mouth dropped. “How do you know that?”

“Maybe I know how to use a search engine better than you can,” she answered primly.

“Perry,” my mother teased, looking at me, “you do like this man!”

“No!” I exclaimed and nearly threw down my fork.

“The lady doth protest too much.” Ada smirked.

“You don’t even know what you’re quoting there, blondie,” I shot back.

“Girls,” my dad said sternly but gently. “Let’s let Perry relax a bit. It’s not every weekend that you blow up my brother’s lighthouse.”

I couldn’t tell if my dad was actually angry, as was usually the case with him. I had, after all, blown up his brother’s lighthouse, which couldn’t be taken lightly. Even though it wasn’t really my fault, it did look that way.

However, I picked up some compassion in his voice and gave him an apologetic face.

“We’re just glad you are OK, pumpkin.” He reached over and tapped my hand. “And proud too. Let’s toast your new job, cin cin.”

I beamed despite myself and we raised our glasses of wine. Ada raised her soda with a dry expression, though I could see the tiniest hint of sisterly affection.

After dinner and more small talk about my new position, I retired to my room ready to conk out. It was seven p.m., and somehow even getting twelve hours of sleep didn’t seem like it would be enough.

I packed some things into my purse when I heard the door shut behind me. Fearing the worst, I spun around in a panic.

It was just Ada staring at me in horror.

“What the fuck happened to your head?” she cried out, and raced over to inspect me.

I swatted her arms away and awkwardly felt my head. The cap had fallen off, leaving my snazzy Band-Aid exposed.

“It’s nothing, go away!” I glared at her.

She crossed her arms to indicate she wasn’t about to go anywhere. “What happened? Tell me or I’ll tell Mom. And Dad!”

I knew she would, too. I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t know what version. The official story or the truth?

Despite all our differences, though, Ada was my sister. Looking into her jaded eyes, impeccably done up with the best makeup, I knew she had some reserves of belief left for me.

“Do you want the truth or the official story?”

“What’s the story you’ll end up blogging about?” she asked smartly.

She had a point there. If we were in fact still doing this project—at the moment I didn’t know what Dex would salvage from his camera, let alone the fact the whole thing might get shot down—we would obviously show people the truth. That meant my parents, the authorities, Uncle Al, would all find out the truth was wildly different from anything they had heard.

That said, I also knew they wouldn’t believe it anyway. No matter what kind of proof we provided, no matter how well I wrote about the experience, they would assume I made it up. Well, let them.

“So?” she said impatiently. “What is it? What happened? For real.”

“OK,” I said hesitantly.“For real? You better sit down. And check your cynicism at the door.”

She sighed and flopped down on my bed, all gangly limbs and rolling eyes.

I started from the beginning but left out the part about the Creepy Clown Lady because that would just open another can of worms. By the time I finished, I could see Ada was struggling with it.

She chewed thoughtfully on her nails and watched me closely. “So...that’s the real story?”

“Yes. Believe it or not, I don’t care, but you wanted the truth and you got the truth. Dex can confirm what I said.”

“But you said Dex never saw this Rodney guy.”

“Roddy. And he did, he just wasn’t....manhandled by him.”

“I...I don’t know what to say,” she got up and started pacing.

“Well, you don’t have to say anything.”

She appeared to think that over for a few beats before a curious look came across her face.

She asked, “Do you remember when we were really young, or I was really young, anyway, and you were like ten or something, and we would go to the ski cottage every winter?”

I did, vaguely. There were a few years where we went skiing in the mountains every winter, though I didn’t know what that had to do with anything.

“Do you remember the room we slept in?”

Again, vaguely. A small, stereotypical cabin room with bunk beds and its own ensuite. I remembered the smell of the fireplace at night and the smell of melting snow on the windowsill come morning but nothing else.

“Kind of,” I said slowly.

“Do you remember some boy you called Sam who would come and visit you?”

The name rang a bell. I tried to think back but was bombarded with images from a million vacations, and a million boys who could have been called Sam. I had one image, though, of a young boy white as the snow outside the window, but it was so hazy and fleeting that it could have been a dream.

“Sam,” she continued, “would come every night and knock on our window. I would wake up and find you at the window trying to open it. I remember I would ask you what you were doing and you would say, ‘Sam’s here. I have to let him inside; he’s cold.’ ”

The memories started to pour back into my eyes. I saw Sam’s sweet, impish face at the window, looking so small and so cold. He must have been around eight years old but tiny for his age. I remembered I would open the window and invite him inside, but he would never come. He said he had to stay outside because his mother was mad at him. I remembered it now, the sharp cold as it came through the window and kissed my feet, the frost that gathered on his eyelashes like fairy dust.

“Yes, I remember,” I told her. Her face grew grim which quickened my pulse instinctively. “What about it?”

“I never saw Sam,” she said carefully. “And I was on the top bunk too. And I remember you would get up every night, always at one a.m., and you would creep over to the window and open it. You would talk to yourself for who knows how long. Then you would close the window, look up at me and say ‘Sam had to leave.’ But there was never anyone there, Perry.”

I stared at her dumbly while processing this insane piece of information. I had a bad memory and that happened a long time ago, but now that she brought it up I remembered it all as clear as day. I mean, I knew I had imaginary friends when I was wee, but there clearly was a boy named Sam. Right?

“Was I sleepwalking?” I asked. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing.

“I don’t think so,” Ada said. “You often talked about him in the day, too, wondering why his mother would lock him out of the cabin. You even told mom once that you wanted to invite him over for dinner one time. They said sure, thinking he was just some kid who hung around. But I never saw him come over for dinner. And I never saw him at your window.”

“How do you remember all of this? You must have been like five years old!”

“I remember it because it scared me, Perry. You scared me. I started thinking my older sister was crazy.”

“Crazy,” I repeated. I closed my eyes and pressed my hands against my temple. I was too tired to deal with this. This was just an extra scooping of ridiculous on top of a growing pile of insanity.

Ada put her hand on my arm. “You’re not crazy.”

“Right,” I muttered and sat down at my desk. I feared this would make me rethink everything.

“I mean it, for reals. I think you saw Sam, even if I didn’t see him. And I think you saw this Old Roddy guy too. I believe you, Perry.”

I gave her a half-hearted smile.

“I’m serious. Maybe you could appreciate that,” she snarled.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “I do appreciate it, Ada, calm down. This is just a lot to take. I mean, what does it all mean?”

“It means maybe you’re meant to see these things. Maybe if you think back over the years, you’ll remember some of the other stuff too.”

That didn’t sound like a very good idea at all. “Other stuff? Was there something else?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe. You acted weird pretty much throughout all of high school.”

“That was the drugs,” I told her bitterly.

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. You know it wasn’t very fun for me growing up. Having you as a sister.”

Ouch.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping she would see how much I meant it. “I’m so happy you didn’t turn out like me.”