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Dylan ran, his thoughts and memories as blurred

as the shadows that kept pace with him. His twin brother’s

voice rang out behind him, but it only made him run faster.

He ran, choked with fear, desperate to escape every thing he’d

just been through.

Although, in a way, he hadn’t been through anything.

Dylan was dead.

He skidded around a corner and slipped on the runner

that had suddenly appeared in this stretch of hallway, pin-

wheeling his arms to try to stop but slamming into a wall

anyway. That was Larkspur House for you, changing with

no warning, and always trying to trip you up. There was no

getting used to this nightmare.

Chapter 1

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Dylan leaned against the door, panting from his sprint, and

put a hand to his chest. His heart pounded against his palm,

and his pulse fluttered in his neck. His cheeks were hot, and

he wiped sweat from his forehead with the side of his arm.

He felt real. He felt alive.

Only now he remembered— the prank his twin brother,

Dash, had played on him. Dash’s face lit up with glee, and then

a split second later contorted in a scream. The blast of white,

the blood in his mouth, pain everywhere. Stillness. He gave

himself a shake, as if he could chase it all away.

But he couldn’t. No one can chase away death; death

chases you.

Somewhere deep in his mind, a thought wriggled like a

worm. Had Dash meant to do it? His brother had always been

the good twin, his mother’s little angel, and the pet of every

director they’d worked with over the years in LA. Dylan was

the bad one, the hassle. The reason the scripts stopped com-

ing. Did some part of Dash want Dylan gone?

Dylan closed his eyes. He missed LA— he’d give anything

to go home, to get away from this haunted place.

He laughed, and the sound crackled down the corridor.

He was one of the ghosts haunting Larkspur now.

Dylan forced himself to open his eyes and look around.

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He was in a hallway he hadn’t seen before. The wooden floor

and paneled walls were nearly black. A dim glow came from

above, and he could see the ceiling was angled like a rib cage.

A latch clicked, and somewhere a door opened.

He shrank from the sound of squeaking hinges and

hunched his shoulders as if he could make himself dis appear.

But couldn’t he? He was dead, after all.

Footsteps echoed into the hallway, and a tall silhouette

disturbed the glow up ahead. Dylan pressed himself against

the nearest wall. But the stranger approached quickly— too

quickly for Dylan to hide.

A familiar tingle settled onto his scalp, like a cap made of

needles, and Dylan watched as the hallway tilted.

Flash.

The dressing room. The bucket of water above the door, a

classic trick.

Flash.

Cold, wet, reaching for the lamp. The shock, the blinding

white. Electrocution.

Flash.

The funeral.

Flash.

Dash’s room in the psychiatric hospital.

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Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

A voice called out to him, but he couldn’t stop himself

from crumbling to the ground. And then every thing went black.

“Dylan?” someone said from the darkness. “Dylan?”

Dylan’s eyelids fluttered open. He was lying down. There

was a wooden ceiling above him and a plush carpet beneath

him. Sitting beside him was a man he’d never seen before. The

silhouette from the hallway? He was broad- shouldered and

had a bushy beard, and wore a red- and- black plaid shirt and

dark-blue jeans. He looked like he might be a lumberjack, or at

least someone who lived in one of the cool neighborhoods in

LA. The man’s hand rested on Dylan’s shoulder. Dark hair hung

just past his thick eyebrows, slightly obscuring his glistening,

golden- hued eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I- I don’t know,” Dylan answered. “What happened?”

“We were running your lines and you fainted. Your eyes

rolled back and then, blam! You hit the floor.”

“My lines?”

“Man, you must have really smacked your head hard. My

assistant is getting some water for you. She’ll be back shortly.

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Just rest.” Dylan tried to wiggle out from under the man’s

hand, but it was wide and heavy. “ Don’t move. You’ll be fine.”

“What lines are you talking about?” Dylan asked, shivering,

worried that his voice was rising, revealing his alarm. “Who are

you again?”

The man smiled, then seemed to catch himself, furrowing

his brow. He unbuttoned his plaid shirt, revealing a white

T- shirt under neath. He slipped the plaid shirt off, draping it

over Dylan like a blanket. “Del Larkspur? I’m the producer of

The Gathering. You’re one of my leads. The big bad villain.” He

paused, examining Dylan’s confused expression. “ You’re here,

with your brother, shooting a horror movie. Do I need to go on?”

“The Gathering?”

Del ran his hand through his hair as if trying to hide grow-

ing frustration.

Dylan felt a hole open in his mind, sucking away memo-

ries of what must have been a horrible dream. A dream that

had felt entirely real.

A neat pile of papers was on the rug to his left. It looked

like a script. At the top of the opened page, the name of a

character was written in black pen: The Trickster. “The film,” he

said. “Of course.” Some details were starting to come back.

There were creepy masks. And ghosts. And a great big mansion

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to play in. But wait, it wasn’t a movie. It was real. He’d just

found out he was . . . Dylan’s brain refused to go on.

“We met you this morning?” Dylan asked. Del nodded.

“And Dash is . . . where?”

“With the director, Cyrus Caldwell,” said Del. “ They’re fin-

ishing prep with the other kids in the cast for the big shoot

to night.”

“Can I see my brother?”

“Why?”

“I- I just want to ask him some questions.”

Still squatting by Dylan’s side, Del rocked back on his

heels. The lines around his mouth tightened. “I thought you

two were doing your own things here. Separate roles now.

Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

Dylan sat up fully. Crowded bookshelves filled the walls.

A fire was burning in a fireplace, flicking orange light into the

room’s nooks and crevices. “ You’re right,” he said quickly, not

wanting to annoy the man any further. “I’ll catch up with

Dash  after the shoot.”

“Good,” said Del, warmth returning to his face. “I really

need you with me on this. Put on that shirt. It can get drafty

in here.”

Del’s smile made Dylan feel happy. Like he was wanted.

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Appreciated. The bad dream was fading, and relief heated

Dylan’s veins. Dylan inhaled a deep breath. He slipped his

arms into the sleeves of Del’s button- down and then grabbed

the script from the floor, holding it in his lap, plucking at

the brass clips that bound the pages together. “I’m sorry,”

said Dylan. “I’m not sure what happened to me before, with

the fainting and all that, but you can count on me. I

promise.”

“Good,” said Del, standing and heading toward the fire-

place. “ Because I wouldn’t want to have to replace you.” Dylan

felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Del went on, “I’ve got

something else that’ll help you get back into character.” He

grabbed an object from the mantel. “It came from the props

department.” Turning, Del held it out. It was a face.

A mask.

Wide, empty holes stared up at Dylan. Exaggerated eye-

brows arched in pointed peaks. A bulbous red nose pro-

truded from the center of the face, and ruby lips were smeared

in a sad frown. Painted tears tumbled down the cheeks.

Dylan’s stomach writhed as he took the mask from Del.

“This is who I’m supposed to be?” he asked. “A clown?”

Del nodded, his amber eyes gleaming in the fire. “Put on

that mask, and you’ll know exactly what I need you to do.”

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Dylan’s pulse beat a warning, but he slipped the strap over

his head. The mask hugged his face tightly. He’d expected it

would be difficult to see through the eyeholes, but to his sur-

prise, for the first time since waking from his faint, he could

see every thing clearly.

“Our Trickster,” Del whispered, his tone somehow deeper

now, raspy. “It’s time to get to work.”

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