hoping to psych
him out. “If this were real blood there would be droplets all over the floor. Plus, if it’s been at least an
hour since this was written—and I’m assuming it has—the blood would’ve had time to
oxidize.”
“Meaning?” Parker asks.
“Meaning, it would’ve browned by now. It’s got to be paint or marker, or something
else—a nifty corn syrup concoction, maybe.” I lean in to give the writing a sniff,
noticing a slightly glossy sheen. “It’s still wet.”
“So, I guess that rules out the theory that it was done by a former guest,” Shayla
says.
It’s lip gloss. I’m sure of it. I can tell from the beeswax scent. I reach out to
touch the stain. “On second thought, maybe it is blood,” I lie, pretending to lick the smear from my finger.
Ivy lets out a shriek. She’s way too easy to disturb. My dad would be all over her
paranoid ass, injecting fake blood into her toothpaste tube, and other “fun” stuff
like that.
“Oh my God! Remember that scene in Hotel 9: Enjoy Your Stay ?” Shayla asks. “When Emma Corwin commits suicide out of self defense?”
“So that the killer won’t get her.” Frankie nods.
“After Emma slits her wrist, she dips her fingers into her own blood and starts to
write the word help on the window glass,” I continue.
“Only she doesn’t get past the letter L ,” Shayla says, finishing my thought. Her amber eyes grow wide. There’s a certain
smart-girl sexiness about her. Maybe it’s the square black glasses. Or maybe it’s
the curvy situation she’s got going on beneath that ridiculous housewife tracksuit.
“What if Taylor left us that message?” Ivy asks, still freaking out.
“You seriously need to be medicated,” I say. “I mean, think about it: a bunch of Justin
Blake horror junkies travel from all over the country to partake in a scary weekend.
This sort of stuff is to be expected.”
“Okay, but if it was only done in fun, then why hide it in a closet?” Ivy nags. “Why
not put it out in the open? This message was done in secret. Maybe Taylor was hiding
when she did it.”
“Or maybe Taylor doesn’t even exist,” Frankie says. “What if this whole scenario was
created just for our entertainment?”
“There’s a movie like that,” I say. “Name that film: a group of seemingly random kids
gets invited to spend the night in a mansion that’s rumored to be haunted, only, in
the end, there’s nothing random about how the kids were chosen. They were all handpicked
according to their personality profiles—sort of like the personality profile that
we all had to submit for this contest—and the entire evening of horrors was orchestrated
by the hosts.”
Despite the accurate description, their faces remain blank.
“It came out in 1997,” I continue, giving them a hint. “It bombed at the box office
during its debut weekend, but then hit a grand slam in video. Jeffrey Salter was the
executive producer, two no-name actors played the leads, and the director was…” I
hum out the theme song to Jeopardy , waiting for someone to reply.
“Errrh,” I say, sounding the buzzer.
“Are you talking about House of Red ?” Parker asks. “Because that actually came out in ninety-six, not ninety-seven. And
it was directed by Henri Maltide and co- produced by Salter. Maltide was also listed as a producer.”
“Okay, but Salter did all the work,” I say, correcting him. “Including writing the
screenplay, so let’s give credit where credit is due, shall we? Oh, and PS, Taylor is real, or at least according to Midge she is. She was supposed to be on my connecting
flight, along with Natalie, but I got bumped thanks to my pet, Squirrely.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” Parker says, grabbing his cell phone. He takes a few
pictures of the writing.
“Peek-a-boo,” Midge sings, poking her head inside the room. “Was someone looking for me a few minutes
ago? I
him out. “If this were real blood there would be droplets all over the floor. Plus, if it’s been at least an
hour since this was written—and I’m assuming it has—the blood would’ve had time to
oxidize.”
“Meaning?” Parker asks.
“Meaning, it would’ve browned by now. It’s got to be paint or marker, or something
else—a nifty corn syrup concoction, maybe.” I lean in to give the writing a sniff,
noticing a slightly glossy sheen. “It’s still wet.”
“So, I guess that rules out the theory that it was done by a former guest,” Shayla
says.
It’s lip gloss. I’m sure of it. I can tell from the beeswax scent. I reach out to
touch the stain. “On second thought, maybe it is blood,” I lie, pretending to lick the smear from my finger.
Ivy lets out a shriek. She’s way too easy to disturb. My dad would be all over her
paranoid ass, injecting fake blood into her toothpaste tube, and other “fun” stuff
like that.
“Oh my God! Remember that scene in Hotel 9: Enjoy Your Stay ?” Shayla asks. “When Emma Corwin commits suicide out of self defense?”
“So that the killer won’t get her.” Frankie nods.
“After Emma slits her wrist, she dips her fingers into her own blood and starts to
write the word help on the window glass,” I continue.
“Only she doesn’t get past the letter L ,” Shayla says, finishing my thought. Her amber eyes grow wide. There’s a certain
smart-girl sexiness about her. Maybe it’s the square black glasses. Or maybe it’s
the curvy situation she’s got going on beneath that ridiculous housewife tracksuit.
“What if Taylor left us that message?” Ivy asks, still freaking out.
“You seriously need to be medicated,” I say. “I mean, think about it: a bunch of Justin
Blake horror junkies travel from all over the country to partake in a scary weekend.
This sort of stuff is to be expected.”
“Okay, but if it was only done in fun, then why hide it in a closet?” Ivy nags. “Why
not put it out in the open? This message was done in secret. Maybe Taylor was hiding
when she did it.”
“Or maybe Taylor doesn’t even exist,” Frankie says. “What if this whole scenario was
created just for our entertainment?”
“There’s a movie like that,” I say. “Name that film: a group of seemingly random kids
gets invited to spend the night in a mansion that’s rumored to be haunted, only, in
the end, there’s nothing random about how the kids were chosen. They were all handpicked
according to their personality profiles—sort of like the personality profile that
we all had to submit for this contest—and the entire evening of horrors was orchestrated
by the hosts.”
Despite the accurate description, their faces remain blank.
“It came out in 1997,” I continue, giving them a hint. “It bombed at the box office
during its debut weekend, but then hit a grand slam in video. Jeffrey Salter was the
executive producer, two no-name actors played the leads, and the director was…” I
hum out the theme song to Jeopardy , waiting for someone to reply.
“Errrh,” I say, sounding the buzzer.
“Are you talking about House of Red ?” Parker asks. “Because that actually came out in ninety-six, not ninety-seven. And
it was directed by Henri Maltide and co- produced by Salter. Maltide was also listed as a producer.”
“Okay, but Salter did all the work,” I say, correcting him. “Including writing the
screenplay, so let’s give credit where credit is due, shall we? Oh, and PS, Taylor is real, or at least according to Midge she is. She was supposed to be on my connecting
flight, along with Natalie, but I got bumped thanks to my pet, Squirrely.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” Parker says, grabbing his cell phone. He takes a few
pictures of the writing.
“Peek-a-boo,” Midge sings, poking her head inside the room. “Was someone looking for me a few minutes
ago? I
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