was down in the basement and thought I heard someone call out my name.”
Parker points to the bogus message. “We wanted to show you something.”
A twinge of surprise forms on Midge’s face, but then her expression morphs into a
sheepish grin. “Beats me,” she says, reaching into the pocket of her apron. She pulls
out a handful of bloody fingers. They look eerily realistic, complete with dirty fingernails
and hairy knuckles. She holds them out for show and then pops them into her mouth.
This woman is my new idol.
Ivy lets out a gasp, covering her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Midge says. “How rude of me. Would anyone like a juicy thumb?”
“I would,” I tell her.
Midge fishes a hairless thumb from her pocket and hands it to me. I pop it into my
mouth. It’s bubble gum.
“Are you all hungry?” Midge asks. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Taylor to get back from her walk?” Ivy asks.
“Taylor phoned just a little while ago, while I was on another call,” Midge explains.
“She stopped at a diner on Highway 9.”
“Is Highway 9 far from here?” Ivy asks.
“ Everything is far from here.” Frankie laughs.
“We already have a car out looking for her,” Midge says. “So don’t worry. Just come
down to the dining room in fifteen minutes. I’ll have everything ready.”
“Sounds great.” I blow out a bubble and pop it with my ax, more than eager to get
this party started.
Once Midge and the others file out of the room, only Ivy and I remain. Ivy paces back
and forth, completely lost in her own little world, not even noticing the fact that
I’m lounging on her bed right now. Part of me almost feels sorry for her—I used to
get scared like that too.
I take a deep breath, thinking back to the day my dad pulled me aside and taught me
all about Leatherface. “Do you want me to teach you what I know?”
She looks at me, alarm on her face, as if surprised to find me still here.
“About the blood,” I explain.
Still no answer.
“Blink once for yes, twice for no,” I continue.
She blinks once—on purpose or by accident, I’m not quite sure—and so I get up and
stand in front of the closet. “See the glossy sheen?” I say, pointing to the individual
letters.
Ivy finally shows a pulse and comes over to join me.
“Now, get real close,” I tell her. “Do you smell the beeswax? I think there might
also be a hint of petroleum jelly.”
“Are you a bloodhound?”
“It’s my superpower,” I say, only half kidding. I may not be able to detect blood
type for real, but ever since I was little, I’ve had a keen sense of smell—sometimes so keen that it became somewhat of a handicap, forever distracting my attention. I failed
freshman Bio because Mr. Bing reeked of mothballs. “Do you smell the artificial ingredients?”
I ask her.
She shakes her head.
I lean in to sniff the letters again, and that’s when I notice it.
“What?” Ivy asks, able to spot the confusion on my face.
I look around the closet, searching for the source, spotting a palm-size smear of
blood in the corner, by the floor. I kneel down to check it out. It’s had time to
oxidize, but I can tell it’s still fresh.
“What?” Ivy repeats.
“Just more of the lip gloss,” I lie, sparing her the truth. It’s probably just a fluke
thing anyway.
T HE DINING ROOM OF THE Dark House is straight from a magazine: plum-purple walls, velvet drapes, gold-framed
paintings, and a mosaic-tiled floor. Parker’s filming the space, doing a close-up
of a portrait of a half woman/half feline dressed in a fur coat.
I sit with the others around a marble table lined with thick red candles. Parker takes
a seat beside me and bumps his shoulder against mine.
“Everything cool?” he asks, probably noticing that I’ve been mute for the past several
minutes.
Little does he know that there’s a ball of tension wedged beneath my ribs, making
it hard
Parker points to the bogus message. “We wanted to show you something.”
A twinge of surprise forms on Midge’s face, but then her expression morphs into a
sheepish grin. “Beats me,” she says, reaching into the pocket of her apron. She pulls
out a handful of bloody fingers. They look eerily realistic, complete with dirty fingernails
and hairy knuckles. She holds them out for show and then pops them into her mouth.
This woman is my new idol.
Ivy lets out a gasp, covering her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Midge says. “How rude of me. Would anyone like a juicy thumb?”
“I would,” I tell her.
Midge fishes a hairless thumb from her pocket and hands it to me. I pop it into my
mouth. It’s bubble gum.
“Are you all hungry?” Midge asks. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Taylor to get back from her walk?” Ivy asks.
“Taylor phoned just a little while ago, while I was on another call,” Midge explains.
“She stopped at a diner on Highway 9.”
“Is Highway 9 far from here?” Ivy asks.
“ Everything is far from here.” Frankie laughs.
“We already have a car out looking for her,” Midge says. “So don’t worry. Just come
down to the dining room in fifteen minutes. I’ll have everything ready.”
“Sounds great.” I blow out a bubble and pop it with my ax, more than eager to get
this party started.
Once Midge and the others file out of the room, only Ivy and I remain. Ivy paces back
and forth, completely lost in her own little world, not even noticing the fact that
I’m lounging on her bed right now. Part of me almost feels sorry for her—I used to
get scared like that too.
I take a deep breath, thinking back to the day my dad pulled me aside and taught me
all about Leatherface. “Do you want me to teach you what I know?”
She looks at me, alarm on her face, as if surprised to find me still here.
“About the blood,” I explain.
Still no answer.
“Blink once for yes, twice for no,” I continue.
She blinks once—on purpose or by accident, I’m not quite sure—and so I get up and
stand in front of the closet. “See the glossy sheen?” I say, pointing to the individual
letters.
Ivy finally shows a pulse and comes over to join me.
“Now, get real close,” I tell her. “Do you smell the beeswax? I think there might
also be a hint of petroleum jelly.”
“Are you a bloodhound?”
“It’s my superpower,” I say, only half kidding. I may not be able to detect blood
type for real, but ever since I was little, I’ve had a keen sense of smell—sometimes so keen that it became somewhat of a handicap, forever distracting my attention. I failed
freshman Bio because Mr. Bing reeked of mothballs. “Do you smell the artificial ingredients?”
I ask her.
She shakes her head.
I lean in to sniff the letters again, and that’s when I notice it.
“What?” Ivy asks, able to spot the confusion on my face.
I look around the closet, searching for the source, spotting a palm-size smear of
blood in the corner, by the floor. I kneel down to check it out. It’s had time to
oxidize, but I can tell it’s still fresh.
“What?” Ivy repeats.
“Just more of the lip gloss,” I lie, sparing her the truth. It’s probably just a fluke
thing anyway.
T HE DINING ROOM OF THE Dark House is straight from a magazine: plum-purple walls, velvet drapes, gold-framed
paintings, and a mosaic-tiled floor. Parker’s filming the space, doing a close-up
of a portrait of a half woman/half feline dressed in a fur coat.
I sit with the others around a marble table lined with thick red candles. Parker takes
a seat beside me and bumps his shoulder against mine.
“Everything cool?” he asks, probably noticing that I’ve been mute for the past several
minutes.
Little does he know that there’s a ball of tension wedged beneath my ribs, making
it hard
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