Read Return to the Dark House for Free Online Page B

And then I go back to my room and cry myself to
sleep.

A FEW DAYS LATER , C HANTEL shows up on my doorstep, asking me to move out of my room. “We were able to get you in even
earlier than expected!” she announces, twirling a strand of hair. “Are your bags all packed?” There’s a big, bubbly smile across her spray-tanned face, as if she’s
doing me a colossal favor.
    “Oh,” I say, for lack of intelligent words. “I’m actually in the middle of a Shakespeare assignment right now.” I glance over my shoulder at the
unopened books on my desk. “And I wouldn’t feel right neglecting Romeo, considering how sucky his love life is. Can’t moving day wait until the weekend?”
    “I can help you,” she suggests. “With moving, that is.” She smiles wider. “The R.D. really wants this loose end tied up by dinnertime tonight,” she says,
looking past me, toward my side of the room—at all of my scream queen posters from
Scream
,
Halloween
,
A Nightmare on Elm Street
, and
The Shining
. Each poster
features an exceptionally talented lead actress in the midst of a heart-pounding scene.
    “I’ve been meaning to take them down,” I say, with a nod to Neve Campbell. I don’t know why I haven’t already. “I used to be a little obsessed with strong
female characters in cult-followed horror flicks.”
    “
Used to be?
”
    “Yeah, you know, as in the past tense of the verb
be
.”
    Her face goes graveyard-serious, but I’m not sure she gets the dig. “No, I mean, has something changed since the start of the semester?”
    Okay, um,
seriously
? “Just about
everything’s
changed since the start of the semester.” She knows that, so why is she asking?
    “Someone said that you were a theater major.”
    “Dance and theater, actually. I love the idea of combining the two.” At least, I used to love it.
    “Like a musical version of
Psycho
? Norman Bates waltzing across the living room with his mother’s cadaver.”
    “Talk about getting a stiffy,” I joke. But I’m not sure Chantel gets that either, because she doesn’t so much as grin.
    “So, shall we get started?” she asks. “I’ll bet between the two of us, we can get you moved in no time.”
    A group of girls on the floor lingers in the hallway, eavesdropping on our conversation. To them, I’m the girl who ran away and never looked back. The girl who’s perfectly fine
walking over dead bodies if it serves her in the end.
    No one wants me here. I’m starting to not want it either.
    A few more days pass, I have my new single room (down the hall, sequestered from everyone else), and people on the floor are buzzing about a mixer that’s happening
tonight at a fraternity house across the street from our dorm. Apparently, it’s a big deal, with a live band
and
a DJ. And, P.S., you have to wear all blue. It’s something about
a blue moon tradition.
    Girls in the dorm traipse around, trading blue clothing and borrowing one another’s blue accessories. Once again, I’m sitting (lurking) in the lobby, by the soda machine, like a
dirty old man in a lingerie shop. It’s become my go-to spot, because at least while I’m here, though alone, I can still be surrounded by people.
    A group of girls with blue wigs and Smurf-colored faces rushes by me. I’m pretty sure they’re from the east wing, but it’s super hard to recognize them, which sparks an
idea.
    I head upstairs and into the common bathroom. Just as I’d hoped, a bunch of blue stuff’s been left behind—makeup, hair-spray, body paint, glitter. I spend the next hour
shrouding myself in shades of blue—my face, my hair, any visible shred of skin—until I can barely even recognize myself. The pièce de résistance: a tiara atop my head,
only after just a few seconds of wearing it, I’m reminded of Sarah Michelle Gellar from
I Know What You Did Last Summer
(in the Fourth of July parade scene, just minutes before
she’s slaughtered by Susie’s dad/the psycho fisherman),