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 necklace pendant 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 roller coasters. 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.
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:
[email protected]
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:
[email protected].
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, Roger, 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 visit the chamber 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. 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:
[email protected]
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. 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, tied back in a low ponytail. 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.
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 and the long brick walkway—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 be all over.
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 knives and the precision of an Iron Chef.
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 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 an. . .
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