Don't Scream 2 Read online

  Then, when she was four-and-a-half, everything began to fall apart.

  I remember the day clearly. It's seared into my brain, as if pressed in with a hot iron. After I fed the cat, I walked over to the playroom to check on them. The boys were hitting each other with stuffed dinosaurs, and Charlotte was in the corner, playing with the Barbies in her dollhouse.

  “Are you having fun with your dolls, Charlotte?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “Can I play?”

  “Sure!”

  I crouched to her level—and froze.

  One Barbie’s head was thrust into the fireplace. Another was laying upside-down on the stairs. The Ken doll was dangling off the balcony. And the last one… its body was sitting in the armchair, and its head was on the dinner table.

  “Charlotte? What is this?” I said, trying to fake a smile. It can’t be what it looks like.

  “They’re dying.”

  “Charlotte! That… you can’t…” I faltered. “Ethan!”

  He came running in. His eyes widened as soon as he saw the dollhouse scene. And then, of course, the boys came over in a whir of blond hair and stuffed dinosaurs. “Woah! That one doesn’t have a head!” Davie said. “What’s happening to them?!” Johnny asked.

  Oh my gosh. This is a disaster.

  Ethan and I gave an impromptu talk about why it wasn’t a good idea to play out the dolls’ violent deaths. At the end of it, Charlotte promised she wouldn’t, and the boys were mischievously giggling.

  I hoped that would be the end of it.

  Unfortunately, it was just the beginning.

  A few days later, I found our cat dead. She was lying in the center of the backyard, gashes all over her body. The way they were placed suggested precision. Not the random claw marks of a frenzied animal.

  I showed Ethan after the kids were asleep. "I don't think an animal did this," I said, wincing as I dropped the stiff body in a shallow grave.

  He raised an eyebrow at me in the darkness. "What are you implying? That the cat was murdered?"

  "No. Just..." I trailed off. What was I implying? Even I didn't know.

  That night I barely slept a wink. Pieces were coming together in my mind, threatening to burst through the wall of my subconscious. I felt like I already knew, but I couldn't quite fit the pieces together, couldn't quite grasp what exactly it was.

  The next day, I decided to busy myself with cleaning. While the boys were at school and Charlotte was coloring in the family room, I got to work. I deposited the cars in several boxes, organized by brand (Hot Wheels in one, Cars cars in another.) Then I got to work on the doll house. Grabbing a damp rag, I began to wipe the plastic down.

  Something silver glinted back at me, nestled behind the plastic couches in the miniature family room. What is that? I reached my hand inside and slowly pulled it out.

  My heart dropped. Every muscle in my body froze.

  It was one of our steak knives.

  "Charlotte!" I yelled. I heard her footsteps patter slowly on the floor before she poked her head in.

  "Yes, Mommy?"

  "What is this doing in your dollhouse?"

  "I wanted the dolls to eat," she said, her blue eyes sparkling with innocence. "They couldn't cut their food."

  I narrowed my eyes at her, and walked back into the kitchen. "You're not supposed to play with knives. You know that!" I said, dropping the knife in the drawer with the other silverware. "Don't do it again, okay?"

  "Okay, Mommy." She looked at me with a pout. "Are you mad at me?"

  "No. Just... disappointed," I said. She smiled and ran off to finish coloring.

  I told Ethan as soon as he got home. "She had a knife," I whispered, pulling him aside.

  He shrugged. "So?"

  "What do you mean, so? I think—the cat—”

  "Are you implying she killed the cat?!"

  "Maybe.”

  “You think our four year old daughter murdered our cat?!” He shook his head. "Samantha, that's ridiculous."

  "Something isn't right with her. The way she set up those dolls—the way she looks at me—there's something wrong, and I—"

  "You what?"

  "I think this is our punishment. For choosing the gender of our child. I told you, I wanted to leave. I'd changed my mind. But you persuaded me to do it anyway. I know we only chose the gender, but still, the entire thing—"

  "Samantha." Ethan no longer looked angry. In fact, he looked guilty, with the way he averted my eyes. "We didn't... just... choose the gender."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I, uh... I added some choices. It was the same price, so—"

  My eyes locked on his. "What?!"

  "I chose her eye color. Blue. And her IQ. 155. And her personality—very creative, innovative. Those were the only things, I swea—"

  "I can't believe you!" I screamed. I ran up the stairs, leaving him alone with the kids.

  I didn't go out. I couldn't face him. I heard him singing songs and reading books as he put the kids to bed. Soon after that, I finally fell asleep, too tired to be angry anymore.

  I woke up with a jolt at 2:31 AM.

  As I faded into consciousness, I became aware of a sound. A voice, coming from downstairs.

  I opened the door and crept down the stairs. The glow of a lamp fell over the carpet, spilling out from the open playroom door. I walked over and pushed the door open.

  Charlotte was sitting on the floor beside her dollhouse.

  In front of her, there were four dolls lined up on the carpet. A Barbie doll with black hair like mine, a Ken, and two blonde Barbies she’d chopped the hair of.

  Humming to herself, she raised the same kitchen knife I'd taken back from her earlier. Snap! She brought it down on the neck of the first doll. The head popped off, rolled across the floor. "Mommy," she whispered under her breath.

  Then she resumed humming—and raised the knife over the next doll.

  THE BIRDS

  My new house is surrounded by birds.

  They all perch on the oak tree right outside my bedroom window. About a dozen of them, watching me with those mean little black eyes.

  "Hey birdies!" I've said to them, many times, waving my arms.

  But they never move. They just sit and watch me.

  I eventually decided to accept them. I mean, I'm a single girl living alone; I could use some company. As a peace offering, I hauled my butt to the store and bought them a bird feeder.

  They never ate from it.

  After that, I forgot about them for a while. Sometimes I'd hear their song out my window—the very same tune, at eight AM sharp. Chip chip chipchip cheeeeeeeeeep. But for the most part, they were just... there.

  It all went to shit when I got a cat.

  Cat and birds don't mix. You probably know this, but me—as a first-time cat owner—didn't really think it through. As soon as I brought her home, she permanently stationed herself in my bedroom window.

  I expected them to fly away. But the birds just stared back at her.

  The first night, Butters stayed up far past bedtime, stationed at the window. "Come on. Let's go to sleep," I groaned, joining her at the window. "What are you even looking at? All the birds have gone to sleep."

  I froze.

  The birds were there. Perched in the branches. Black eyes glittering in the darkness.

  Why are they still up?

  I pulled the curtains closed and brought Butters to her bed. "No more birdies. Sleep, now."

  She mewled in protest.

  The next day, I let her out in the yard. I meant to watch her explore her new surroundings, but then I got a call from my mom.

  "How's the cat?"

  "She's great," I said, walking back into the house. "She loves watching the birds out my window." I glanced out the door to see Butters sitting under the tree, staring up at the birds as we spoke.

  "Oh, how sweet."

  We talked for several minutes. When I hung up and walked to the b
ack door, Butters was no longer at the tree.

  "Butters! Where are you?"

  She came bounding out of the bushes on my right.

  With one of the birds in her teeth.

  "Butters! No!" I shouted. The cat proudly dumped the carcass at my feet. A sad clump of ruffled gray feathers.

  Looking awfully proud of herself, she strutted back inside.

  "Eugh," I muttered. I couldn't exactly leave the thing on my patio, though. I had to get rid of it. I followed her in and put on some gloves. Then, with a sigh, I bent over to pick up the bird.

  It was heavier than I expected it to be. Much heavier. I brought it up to my face to get a closer look.

  That's when I noticed the wire.

  A twisted red wire, jutting out from its broken neck. What the hell? I pulled back the feathers to get a closer look.

  I froze.

  Its body was filled with metal. Wires. Green circuitry.

  And its eyes... were two tiny cameras.

  THE HAUNTING OF ROOM 812

  by Blair Daniels & Craig Groshek

  It was the most haunted room in all of South Dakota. Haunted by the lady in white – a bride who was left at the altar, and jumped from the window to her death.

  Or, if you asked some... a woman who was brutally murdered by her husband-to-be.

  "Are you picking up anything?" Darren asked, staring at his K2 meter.

  "Nope," I replied. "No activity so far."

  "How about you?"

  Darren turned to Annabelle, the red-headed woman holding the camcorder. "No," she said, looking at the screen. "Nothing."

  "Let's go in, then, and see if we get anything."

  I pulled out my keycard and shoved it into the door. The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open.

  The room was dark. And cold. My hand skimmed the wall, searching for a light switch. Even as a "ghost hunter," I didn't like walking into totally dark, strange rooms.

  The lights flicked on and we found ourselves in what appeared to be a normal room. Perfectly-made bed, small windows, cream-colored walls.

  We all stared at our meters, and cameras, for a good hour. Unfortunately, not so much as a glowing speck of dust made its appearance. Darren was the first to give up – he groaned in disappointment and flopped onto the bed. "Man, we're not getting any breaks here, are we?"

  "Nope, and I was sure we'd catch something," I grumbled. "This stinks."

  My thoughts weren't on spooky ghosts, but our dwindling YouTube ad revenue. Every ghost-hunting video we posted garnered fewer views. We needed this. One blurry silhouette, one bout of flickering lights, one chair moving on its own accord. Something.

  "Maybe it's time we hire a video editor," Darren said, staring blankly at the meter. "I mean, all the other channels do it. Add a little blur, some glowing orbs—"

  "No! Our whole thing is that our videos are real. We don't Photoshop. We don't edit. We post real stuff only." I crossed my arms and glared at him. "You want to sell out? Resort to forgeries?"

  "I want to be able to pay my rent," he said into the pillow. "And eat something other than ramen."

  "Guys. Ssshhh."

  Annabelle brought a finger to her lips. The tinny ding of the elevator pierced the silence, followed by heavy footfalls outside.

  "Someone's coming off the elevator," Darren said. "What's the big deal?"

  "It's 1 AM," Annabelle whispered. "Who'd be up this late on a Tuesday night?"

  The three of us swarmed the peephole. From what I could see, the elevator doors were open. And I heard faint footsteps.

  But no one was there.

  "Probably just some guy going down to get a snack," Darren said.

  "Looks like this place really is just a tourist trap," I said, spinning the hotel pen between my fingers. "Just like most 'haunted places' are."

  "The night's not over yet, boys," Annabelle said. But her tone wasn't very convincing.

  We returned to our stations around the room. Annabelle set her camera on a tripod and remained filming, but pulled out a tabloid magazine and turned her attention to that instead. Darren played games on his phone. I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  The hours ticked by. Around 3 AM, Annabelle caught a glowing orb on film. But, upon closer inspection, we realized it was just a mosquito flying near the lens. "We've gotten better footage in the Wal-Mart parking lot," Darren complained. "This blows."

  It was around 4 AM that things started to get interesting.

  At exactly 4:11, the familiar 'ding' of the elevator sounded again, followed by the same heavy footsteps. Annabelle leapt up and pressed her eye against the peephole.

  "Guys! Guys, come here!"

  We crowded around. The elevator and the hallway were both empty. The footsteps, however, sounded like they were inches from our door.

  She flung the door open. We walked out, cameras out and recording. As soon as we did, the footsteps ceased. But, strangely, the elevator doors remained open.

  Annabelle ran inside and motioned for us to follow. "Keep recording!" she said, breathlessly. "I feel like there's something... here."

  My gaze fell on the elevator buttons.

  The buttons for the third, fifth, and seventh floors suddenly lit up at once. Without being pressed.

  "Did you see that?!" I cried.

  Darren and Annabelle nodded.

  "A haunted elevator, huh. That wasn't in our research."

  "Of course not," Annabelle said, as the elevator slid to a halt at the seventh floor. The doors opened with a whoosh, and the empty hallway presented itself. "The Alex Johnson Hotel wants tourists to get creeped out and buy their spooky little ghost package. They don't want tourists to hurt themselves communing with an actual spirit." Her eyes met mine. "Or worse."

  "Why's it only stopping at odd-numbered floors? The third floor is where Alex Johnson lived... but why the fifth? Why the seventh?"

  Annabelle shook her head. "I have no idea."

  "Or, this whole elevator business is the result of a technical malfunction, and the floors are chosen at random."

  "Shut up, Darren!" Annabelle said, rolling her eyes. "The elevator is haunted. I can feel it."

  We came to a stop at the fifth floor. The doors parted, revealing an empty hallway that looked exactly like the hallway on the seventh and eighth floors. Then they quietly slid shut, and the elevator descended. This time, it seemed to go twice as fast as before. I gripped the bar, steadying myself.

  Another high-pitched 'ding' signaled our arrival, and the doors slid open.

  "What the hell?"

  The third floor was dark.

  Not completely, I'll admit. There was a dim light coming from somewhere—but it was much darker than any other floor we'd stopped on. I could barely make out the beige carpeting, the cream walls, and the doors extending into the distance.

  "Holy crap!" Darren said in disbelief. "Are you getting this?"

  I peered at my camera's viewfinder. In it, the floor was fully-lit, and identical to every other floor we'd stopped on. "No, that's impossible," I said, my mouth growing dry. "I, uh... there's something wrong. It looks normal on the screen..."

  I looked back up, and nearly had a heart attack.

  A figure stood, barely visible, at the end of the hallway, its head canted to the side, as if out of curiosity. It was unsettling, how perfectly it blended into the shadows.

  "There's... there's someone out there!" I whispered hoarsely. Instinctively, my hand reached for the 'Close Doors' button on the elevator.

  The doors didn't close. The elevator didn't respond at all.

  The specter continued to stare at us, its head cocked at an unnatural angle. It was too dark to make out anything else about them. Their hair, their clothes, their gender... it was impossible to tell.

  I only knew one thing.

  They were getting closer.

  I reached for the elevator button. My fingers touched the plastic.

  And then I flew forward.

/>   I crashed hard into the carpet, the air rushing from my lungs. I sucked in a choking breath, and tried to regain my composure.

  The elevator doors were closing. And in the quickly-narrowing gap, I saw Annabelle and Darren's faces, staring back at me with an odd combination of horror and satisfaction.

  "Wait!" I screamed, frantically clambering to my feet.

  I was too late. My hands fell on closed doors. I pounded my fists against them – they didn't budge.

  I was trapped.

  I whipped around, my heart pounding. The wraith was gone.

  "Okay..." I reasoned aloud, "Just call back the elevator, and everything will be fine." I turned back to the elevator.

  The call button was gone.

  Where it had once been, a blank wall surrounded the doors.

  "What the hell is going on?!" I shouted.

  My only option was to make my way back to our room the old-fashioned way. The stairs.

  With a nervous gulp, I traversed the dimly-lit hallway, half-expecting the closed doors flanking me on either side to burst open at any moment. An odd static buzzing came from behind some of them, like the sound of thousands of flies struggling against their restraints.

  As I passed one of the doors, I heard the muffled voice of a man. Maybe he knew where I could find a working elevator. I wasn't looking forward to walking up five flights of stairs.

  "I've been tryin'!" I overheard them say. "I've been tryin' to leave for three days, and I –"

  I raised my fist and knocked. As soon as I did, the voice abruptly cut off. I waited, staring at the door.

  That's when I noticed the numbers hanging on his door – 308 – were upside-down.

  The door cracked open, revealing the sliver of a wild eye glaring back at me. It was that of an old man, from what I could tell. The deep wrinkles of his face were bathed in shadow, making it look as if he'd been carved from wood.

  "You're not one of them," he growled, as if it were some sort of shocking revelation.

  "Uh... no? Listen, I came down the elevator but there doesn't seem to be a call button down here. Do you know if there's another elevator?" I glanced around, at the dark hallway. "And why are the lights so dim on this floor?"

  He stared at me for a moment.