The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,562

feels naked without it. And . . . a treasure hunt. For whatever reason, I’ve always been freakishly good at treasure hunts. I have this challenge in the bag.

And I do have it in the bag—for a while, anyway. Mads and Char first send me to crash a wedding performed by Elvis in the Little White Chapel, which I do with panache. Elvis hands me the next clue, which sends me to the Adélie penguin exhibit, where I have to reach into the tank to grab my next mission. I catch sight of Laurel creeping into the penguin habitat just as I am leaving, and I resist the urge to gloat. Good luck, I think. You’ll need it.

Then I look at the next clue. Boo! it says. That’s it. I unfold the map again. Huh. Maybe they mean the haunted house.

I follow the map to the Mansion of the Macabre. It’s in the under-construction part of the park at the absolute farthest corner of the compound, lit only by a single flickering fluorescent lamp that buzzes like an active hornet’s nest.

The steps to the mansion are covered in soot and old, discarded ride tickets. Its arched windows are cracked, cloudy, and in some places, completely boarded over. This particular attraction doesn’t look closed for renovations so much as it looks like it’s been full-on condemned. Okaay.

I take a deep breath. This is your reputation at stake, Sutton. This is the Lying Game. I can’t let Laurel take this from me.

I grit my teeth and make my way up the steps. The heavy oak double doors of the mansion are splintering, and when I rap on them softly, they swing open. I step inside through fine, sticky threads of cobwebs.

“Gross,” I whisper, dusting off my shoulders, where they’ve lodged themselves.

The house smells dank and oily, like must and wet soil. The doors swing shut behind me. With so many of the windows covered up, it’s pitch-black in here. I can’t tell how big the place is . . . or what lurks behind the corners. Something skitters above, and I flinch. Then I hear a creak. A rattle. A dry cough of something—or someone—lingering close.

Calm down, Sutton, I chide myself. It’s only a game. But when I reach to test the doorknob I’ve just closed, it doesn’t budge.

“Hello?” I call out, pulling at it. It doesn’t turn. “Hello?” I scream louder. But my voice just echoes uselessly. Something flaps above me. Something else creaks. I swallow hard, realizing what’s going on.

They’ve locked me inside.

12

FEAR, ITSELF

“Hello?” I call out again into the abyss that is the haunted house. I fumble around, but it’s so dark I can’t see my fingers in front of my face. No surprise, no one answers. I take a step into the room, and the floor seems to buckle under me. I scream and jump back, my heart pounding hard.

The world goes silent again. I run my fingers down my face, willing my heart to slow down. “Nice work, guys,” I call out, knowing they must be listening. “The door’s locked. Ooh, scary.” My voice echoes. “Is this the best you could do?”

There’s silence, followed by a muffled giggle and footsteps. Thankfully, they’re too loud to be mice. A person, then.

“Char? Mads?” My voice is thin and high-pitched.

They don’t answer. A horrible thought strikes me: What if it isn’t them?

Of course it is, I tell myself. Who else could it be?

I fish my cell phone out of my hoodie pocket and flip the flashlight app on.

It’s weak, but better than nothing. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dim glow. I run the narrow spotlight over the room. There’s a wall, then a window, and then . . . an eye? I try not to scream, letting the flashlight linger there. It’s only a fake eye, a costume. And there’s an arm, a tattered black cape. This is what haunted houses are all about, after all: immobile, animatronic ghouls and monsters on motorized tracks. Nothing more.

Outside, a loose shutter bangs against the house’s wooden frame, and I jump.

The giggling comes from behind me again. I sense movement in the corner of the room, and suddenly something sways past me, brushing against my shoulder. I swing the flashlight around and see a bat descending into darkness. It’s fake, the rational part of me whispers. But I shriek anyway, unnerved by the darkness. The bat twists crookedly on its trip wire at the end of the room.

“Focus,” I whisper to myself,