out completely.
Dearborn clicks on the YouTube subscriber’s profile. Movie Marvin’s account looks pretty well established, with dozens of movie clips as well as a handful of videos he’s made.
Squires clicks on a video entitled WELCOME .
“Hey, I’m Movie Marvin,” the boy on the screen says, “and I like to review indie films and make trailers, particularly in the horror or sci-fi genres. So, if you have
something you’d like me to look at or a project you need a trailer for, feel free to message me.”
“He can’t be more than sixteen,” Dearborn says.
“Could be another prank,” Squires adds.
“No, this one’s different,” I insist. “The e-mail address is the same. Plus, the newsletter’s issue number is 208. The last one I received was 206.”
“Meaning that whoever sent this flubbed up the numbers?” Squires asks.
“No,” I snap. “How did someone get so close to the actual number? I mean, off by just one digit?”
“First of all, after that weekend, the Nightmare Elf e-mail address was shut down,” Thomas says. “But once an account has been deactivated, someone can claim that username
under a new password. And, secondly, didn’t one of the Nightmare Elf’s e-newsletters appear on TV?”
He’s right. It did. Soon after the Dark House amusement park weekend, the authorities went through my computer and e-mail accounts. The next thing I knew, the Nightmare Elf’s
e-newsletter—the one with the contest guidelines—was on the evening news for the world to see.
“Okay, so then how did Natalie know about the story that Parker told me?” I ask. “About his
real
nightmare.” After Parker survived his nightmare ride—a tank
full of hungry eels, based on the fictional essay he wrote to win the Nightmare Elf’s contest—he told me that his real nightmare was based on an experience that happened when he was
little…when he got lost in a department store and thought his mother had left him behind.
“That actually isn’t clear.” Dearborn backtracks to the spot and hits replay, making us listen again. “All this person says is that he had a ‘worst-ever
nightmare,’” she says.
“Didn’t all of the winners have worst-ever nightmares?” Squires asks. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the contest?”
“Okay, but I
did
tell Parker I’d never leave him,” I argue. “How else would the person on the video have known that? Plus, she’s wearing the same
scarf,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Natalie gave me that scarf at the amusement park. It got left behind.”
“How can you tell it’s the same?” Thomas asks.
“The color’s the same. The fringe is too.” The individual fringe strands appear to be an inch thick. “It’s also big, like the one she gave me. I used it as a
blanket.”
“The Dark House weekend happened in July, didn’t it?” Dearborn asks. “Was it unseasonably cold that night?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Natalie gave me the scarf so that I could use it to hide from the cameras—so I could wear it to cover my face and head, that is. She knew that I
didn’t want to be videotaped; she could sense it.”
“Sense it?” Squires asks.
“I’m not sure if Natalie was some kind of psychic medium,” I attempt to explain, “or if she just had a special gift…but she could talk to her twin brother, Harris,
even though he died at birth. He would tell her things, like that I didn’t want to be recognized on film just in case my parents’ killer might see me.”
I swallow hard, knowing I sound crazy, able to feel the heat on my face. I venture to look at Thomas; he’s studying my every blink, breath, falter, and flinch. Is he trying to decide if
this is all a pile of BS? Or if I actually believe the BS? The thing is, I know he knows about Natalie’s psychic claims. After the Dark House weekend, rumors spread that she was crazy, that
she was never able to get over the death of her twin brother.
“Bottom line:
Dearborn clicks on the YouTube subscriber’s profile. Movie Marvin’s account looks pretty well established, with dozens of movie clips as well as a handful of videos he’s made.
Squires clicks on a video entitled WELCOME .
“Hey, I’m Movie Marvin,” the boy on the screen says, “and I like to review indie films and make trailers, particularly in the horror or sci-fi genres. So, if you have
something you’d like me to look at or a project you need a trailer for, feel free to message me.”
“He can’t be more than sixteen,” Dearborn says.
“Could be another prank,” Squires adds.
“No, this one’s different,” I insist. “The e-mail address is the same. Plus, the newsletter’s issue number is 208. The last one I received was 206.”
“Meaning that whoever sent this flubbed up the numbers?” Squires asks.
“No,” I snap. “How did someone get so close to the actual number? I mean, off by just one digit?”
“First of all, after that weekend, the Nightmare Elf e-mail address was shut down,” Thomas says. “But once an account has been deactivated, someone can claim that username
under a new password. And, secondly, didn’t one of the Nightmare Elf’s e-newsletters appear on TV?”
He’s right. It did. Soon after the Dark House amusement park weekend, the authorities went through my computer and e-mail accounts. The next thing I knew, the Nightmare Elf’s
e-newsletter—the one with the contest guidelines—was on the evening news for the world to see.
“Okay, so then how did Natalie know about the story that Parker told me?” I ask. “About his
real
nightmare.” After Parker survived his nightmare ride—a tank
full of hungry eels, based on the fictional essay he wrote to win the Nightmare Elf’s contest—he told me that his real nightmare was based on an experience that happened when he was
little…when he got lost in a department store and thought his mother had left him behind.
“That actually isn’t clear.” Dearborn backtracks to the spot and hits replay, making us listen again. “All this person says is that he had a ‘worst-ever
nightmare,’” she says.
“Didn’t all of the winners have worst-ever nightmares?” Squires asks. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the contest?”
“Okay, but I
did
tell Parker I’d never leave him,” I argue. “How else would the person on the video have known that? Plus, she’s wearing the same
scarf,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Natalie gave me that scarf at the amusement park. It got left behind.”
“How can you tell it’s the same?” Thomas asks.
“The color’s the same. The fringe is too.” The individual fringe strands appear to be an inch thick. “It’s also big, like the one she gave me. I used it as a
blanket.”
“The Dark House weekend happened in July, didn’t it?” Dearborn asks. “Was it unseasonably cold that night?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Natalie gave me the scarf so that I could use it to hide from the cameras—so I could wear it to cover my face and head, that is. She knew that I
didn’t want to be videotaped; she could sense it.”
“Sense it?” Squires asks.
“I’m not sure if Natalie was some kind of psychic medium,” I attempt to explain, “or if she just had a special gift…but she could talk to her twin brother, Harris,
even though he died at birth. He would tell her things, like that I didn’t want to be recognized on film just in case my parents’ killer might see me.”
I swallow hard, knowing I sound crazy, able to feel the heat on my face. I venture to look at Thomas; he’s studying my every blink, breath, falter, and flinch. Is he trying to decide if
this is all a pile of BS? Or if I actually believe the BS? The thing is, I know he knows about Natalie’s psychic claims. After the Dark House weekend, rumors spread that she was crazy, that
she was never able to get over the death of her twin brother.
“Bottom line:
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