door with her knuckles hard enough to make them red; then she slapped the door with her palm.
Scott placed a hand on her shoulder. “Babe, what are you doing?”
“I don’t like this,” she said flatly. “I don’t like being locked in.”
“Why not?”
“It––” Penny stopped talking and looked Scott in the eye. She was going to say it frightened her. But wasn’t that the point, to be frightened?
“Are you scared?”
Penny laughed in spite of herself. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Should I remind you that––”
“I know,” Penny interrupted. “That’s the whole idea, to be scared. But I expected paintings and sculptures, not to be taken prisoner.”
“Prisoner! We’re not prisoners!”
“They didn’t answer the door.”
“He didn’t,” Scott corrected. “It’s just one guy.”
“What about the ticket lady?”
“What about her?”
Penny wrapped her arms around Scott’s body and kissed his cheek. “Just don’t try any funny stuff, mister,” she said. “I mean it. This stupid event is going to freak me out enough without you shouting ‘BOO’ in my ear.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Penny, I love you. And at two hundred bucks a pop, I shouldn’t have to shout ‘BOO’ in your ear.”
“That’s true.”
“Actually, you know what I heard? I heard that tickets for this thing were going for ten thousand.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and we paid two hundred.”
“Not just us,” Penny said. “I heard other people in line saying the same thing. Two hundred bucks.”
“Huh.”
After considering Scott’s words Penny said, “Ten grand is bullshit, babe. Either someone lied or they were talking about a different show.
Scott nodded. “I guess. Ready to move on?”
Penny looked at the room. “Is this it?”
“Looks that way.”
“Well… this is dumb.”
Scott made a face that suggested she was right. “There goes two hundred dollars.”
“Each,” Penny said with a smile, but she didn’t care.
Her folks were rich.
* * *
Lawrence Whitely and his wife Elizabeth sat in the back of the car, listening to Mozart. When the car stopped the driver turned off the music, stepped out, opened the back door, and held out his gloved hand gracefully. The driver’s name was Nathaniel Lewis; he was dressed in a pristine black suit and had been driving for Mr. and Mrs. Whitley for eleven years.
Elizabeth took Nat’s hand and was assisted onto the carpeted sidewalk. “Thank you,” she said, shuffling from the car.
“I’m fine, Nathaniel,” Lawrence interjected. “No need to help. This old coupé is still running smooth, thank you very much.”
“No problem sir,” Nathaniel said, tipping his hat with his fingers. He wasn’t surprised; Lawrence never wanted help, even when he needed it.
Lawrence grinned. “I’ll call you around ten-thirty, maybe eleven. You can pick us up then.”
“Very good sir.”
Lawrence and Elizabeth walked up the carpet. A young man in a burgundy suit opened a door. A man in a black tuxedo asked if he could be of assistance. His nametag said Donnie Polanski.
“We’re here for the Horror Show,” Lawrence said.
“Ah… very good, sir. The party is being held in the President’s Conference Suite. Right this way.”
Don Polanski led Mr. and Mrs. Whitely through luxurious hallways. When they arrived at their destination Lawrence handed the man a fifty-dollar tip.
“Thank you sir,” Don said, and he tucked the fifty into his breast pocket just as neat as he pleased. “Have a good evening.”
Inside the room, a man in a grey suit approached. “Good evening sir. Good evening my lady. Here for the show?”
“Why, yes.”
“Excellent. May I see your tickets please?”
Lawrence reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two tickets. They were small and elegant, with stylish gold letters written in script. There was no photograph on the tickets, but in the bottom left hand corner it said: $10,000.00 – one night only, limited to twenty tickets.
“Very good,” the man said with a brown-toothed grin. “A car is waiting.”
* * *
Scott and Penny Beach stepped inside the next room, the door closed behind them. They heard the CLICK of the lock, and with that the music began––though ‘music’ may have been the wrong word. It was a note, a low and hauntingly steady note; the type often heard in horror movies when things turned tense.
Scott smiled; he liked it.
Penny didn’t.
The room was twice the size of the first. Like the other room, it was painted black with a single light hanging from the ceiling.
On the left side of the room, three photographs had been pinned to the wall. Each photograph, taken with a Polaroid, was placed five feet away from the next. Above each photograph a small reading light illuminated the image.
They approached the first picture.
It was the image of a dog,