Welcome to the Dark House Read Free Page A

after my parents were murdered. My foster parents,
     Apple and Core (self-renamed from Gail and Steve) were a stark contrast to that darkness.
     Once hippie environmentalists, who named all their children after something in nature,
     they now need to make a decent living. So, while they go off to work, I stay at home
     playing full-time nanny for zero-time pay as the eldest of their five kids. School
     is my only time off, but it’s April vacation, and everyone’s home.
    And speaking of April…that’s my real name, my birth name I should say. But my foster parents changed
     it to Ivy. We had a renaming ceremony, complete with floral head wreaths, a dip in
     the lake, and dancing around a fire. I can’t say I minded. I wanted to be someone
     else. I prayed to be someone else. Except for my name, so far my prayers have gone
     unanswered.

M Y CELL PHONE CHIRPS , announcing that I have an e-mail. I pull it from my pocket to check. It’s a message from the Nightmare
     Elf, only this time it didn’t go into my spam box. I click on it, remembering the
     nightmare contest I entered months ago.
     
    TO: IVY JENSEN
    FR: [email protected]
    SUBJECT: YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN
    2 ATTACHMENTS
     
    Dear Lucky Dark House Dreamer,
     
    In my hefty elf sack, your nightmares now keep.
    Better think twice before falling asleep.
     
    —The Nightmare Elf
     
    YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN

    What: To attend an all-expenses-paid weekend, including an exclusive look at director Justin
     Blake’s never-before-seen companion film to the Nightmare Elf movie series, plus the
     chance to meet Blake himself. Congratulations. Your entry was one of seven selected
     from over twenty thousand applicants.
     
    Where: Stratten, MN, home of Stratten University. Winners will stay for two nights at a bed
     & breakfast, chosen specifically by the Nightmare Elf.
     
    When: July 17–19
     
    Transportation: Once your attendance is confirmed with receipt of your registration packet and release
     form (see attached documents), air and local transportation arrangements will be provided.
     
    RSVP: To reserve your spot, complete the attached forms and return ASAP. Space is limited.
     
    NOW, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
    PACK YOUR BAGS … AND PREPARE FOR THE SCARE OF YOUR LIFE.

“T HIS DISCUSSION IS OVER ,” my mother says in her 1950s cardigan with an angel pin poked through the fabric.
    Did a discussion ever start? There’s a smug smile on her face because she thinks she’s
     putting her foot down, but the fact is that her foot—as well as her entire body—has
     been under my dad’s thumb ever since I can remember. My mother doesn’t have a single
     thought that she can actually call her own.
    We’re sitting at the dining room table. A vase full of tea roses separates us, marking
     our opposing territories: me against them, thorns against roses.
    “You need to think seriously about your future,” Dad says. Before retirement, he worked
     at a plastics factory making BPA-infested food containers. He knocked my mother up
     when he was in his late fifties—when he was married to someone else, too—and when
     my mother was twenty-year-old eye candy, working as a teller at the bank. “Do something
     meaningful with your life,” Dad says, as if I could ever compete with Harris.
    My brother Harris and I were the product of said affair—twins, born less than sixty
     seconds apart. Even then we didn’t want to leave each other’s side.
    “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” I tell them. “My essay stood out over
     all the other entries.”
    “Exactly,” Dad snaps. “You have potential, but instead you hide it beneath that costume
     of yours.”
    “You wouldn’t forbid Harris to go,” I say; the words come out shaky.
    Dad’s face blows up like a balloon with too much air. He hates it when I bring up
     Harris. He hates it when I talk, period.
    Before he explodes entirely, I storm to my room, locking the door behind me. The e-mail
     announcing