Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume II Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Disney Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-1996-1

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Very Unhappy Returns

  Why Have You Come Back?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Please Remain Seated

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Blood Relatives

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Uncle Rory’s Late Show

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  The Roaches

  Chapter Twelve

  Hereafter Thoughts

  Biographies

  To the Thing under your bed

  —AA

  For Mom, always. For Michael, without whom…

  —JE

  For B. Wrightson…my captain

  —KJ

  This is no place for the living.

  Did I not warn you of the danger?

  Of the risks to your very soul?

  If this does not sound familiar, I assume you skipped volume one. But do not fret, foolish reader; your utter lack of judgment shan’t be held against you. Not yet, anyway.

  To the others, I’m most unhappy to see you again—not because you’ve decided to return. Your sort—the sort that breathe—are always welcome in the domain of the dead. I’m only saddened because you got away in the first place. Rest assured I will not make the same mistake twice. As our happy hangman often says, “If at first you don’t succeed, tie, tie again.”

  The book you now possess—or is it the other way around?—comes directly from the illustrious library of the haunted mansion, a repository of 999 chilling tales of mischief and the macabre. Every spirit has a story, you understand, some more terrifying than others, and I am the keeper of their tales.

  In volume one, we met the Fearsome Foursome, four kids whose hobby it was to create scary stories—until they became embroiled in some scary tales of their own. And what frightening fictions they were, too.

  For volume two, the mansion has opened its gates to a most unlikely visitor: a young man, still in the pink, as we say in the cemetery trade. His name is William, and he comes seeking an audience with Madame Leota, our “head” spiritualist.

  Perhaps he’s looking for a ghost. Or perchance he’s looking to become one…an undertaking we’re more than willing to facilitate.

  Poor, misguided William. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. Or ghouls. Or goblins.

  What about you, dear reader? Do you believe?

  You should.

  You will.

  It was an annual event. A yearly tradition. His yearly tradition. It was how William always spent his sister’s birthday, ever since she had died mysteriously in the night. This year, the festivities took place in a small cottage on a quiet street, thirteen miles off a forgotten highway. The porch was overrun by exotic plants, which roamed wild, as if they were children whose parents had abandoned them. This was the cottage where the weird old lady lived, the one the normal neighbors pointed fingers at behind her back because she was different. Because on Halloween she gave out live clown fish instead of candy corn. Because she had the guts to be different, and the rest of the world needed the weird ones to feel normal.

  But there were rumors. And strange colored lights that, on certain evenings, seeped through the cracks of her venetian blinds. It was the home of a woman who claimed she could speak to the dead.

  Within the walls of her modest parlor, stocked with the eccentricities of the trade—painted skulls, crystal balls, and beaded doorways—the middle-aged medium in the speckled bandana and matching peasant dress called forth spirits from the netherworld…or so she claimed. “Spirit, present thyself,” commanded Madame Harriet. What? You were expecting someone else? Patience, foolish reader. It’s not yet midnight.

  Mediums—or spiritualists, as they’re sometimes called—have been doing their thing since the 1800s, when the Fox sisters of New York first began channeling spirits for a fee. Séances quickly became a popular activity, even if 99 percent of these so-called spiritualists were frauds. But there’s always that other 1 percent—the 1 percent William was interested in.

  That was William Gaines, the up-and-coming writer. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He just got his first article published on The Unbeliever, a site dedicated to explaining the unexplainable; to defining the unimaginable; to, putting it bluntly, sucking the magic out of life. In the past several years, William had participated in every paranormal activity imaginable, from tarot readings to voodoo rituals, and still, he felt no closer to his goal. Because, ironically, William wanted to believe. He was majoring in paranormal science at college, and spent his free time as a debunker, pulling the beards off department store Santa Clauses. Yet his one true desire in life was to speak to the dead.

  Madame Harriet peered across the table, into William’s steel-blue eyes. If she was trying to guess his thoughts, she had chosen the wrong face. “Did you bring it?” she asked. “A personal item belonging to the deceased?” William nodded. “Present it now.”

  William slid his hand into the pocket of his corduroy blazer. The personal item was stashed by his heart, a wholly appropriate location for so precious an heirloom.

  The medium extended her left hand, palm up. “Hand me the item.” William hesitated. Could she be trusted? Once a mischievous dreamer, William hadn’t trusted anyone since the tragedy, not even his own parents. Death had taken his sister without warning, stolen her before her prime without a good-bye. The things left unsaid would haunt William’s days and wreak havoc on his nights. Oh, the nights. The endless evenings that had cost him more than he’d care to admit. But all that torment might be forgiven if he could just talk to her one last time.

  Madame Harriet spoke to the inanimate item in her palm. “Spirit, present thyself!” The table rattled. Had a spirit received her sympathetic vibrations? “Spirit, are you with us?”

  In response, the table began to rise, one, two, three inches off the parlor floor. But William wasn’t impressed. He’d seen every trick in the proverbial book.

  Madame Harriet was watching with one eye open. She couldn’t afford the negative feedback. Upping the ante, she began convulsing with violent spasms, at the same time emitting a long, drawn-out moan, the kind you’d have to practice to get right. William approved. That was impressive. Could she be the one?

  Madame Harriet raised the personal item over her head, to the heavens, as it were. “The deceased is here with us now. Your loved one is…” She closed her eyes, as if to seal the deal. “Female.”

  William nodded. “Yes.”

  Madame Harriet continued. “She comes to me in song. Music. She enjoyed music.” Again, William gestured in the affirmative. “And dancing. She liked to dance.”

  “Yes.”

  “She also loved to laugh, did she not? I hear laughter.”

  “Of course.” William shifted in his chair, and the medium sensed his impertinence. He recognized what she was doing: a cold reading, no more than a series of educated guesses
based on the evidence presented. The personal item was a girl’s bracelet, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to refer to the deceased as female. And most people like music, and where there’s music, there’s dancing. Nothing paranormal about that. And what kid didn’t like to laugh?

  Still, William would give her the benefit of the doubt. Because as cynical as he had become, there was that tiny part of him, buried alongside the boyish pranks and magic tricks of youth, that desperately wanted to believe. That needed to believe.

  “Your doubts are clouding the session,” warned Madame Harriet. “Do you wish to continue?”

  “With apologies, I do.”

  “As you wish.” Madame Harriet closed her eyes, awaiting the next message from “the beyond.” “Your spirit, she had pets?”

  William nodded, straining to hold his tongue. Of course she had pets!

  Again, the medium needed to ramp up the action. She slipped her hand under the table, discreetly pressing a button. Her chair bucked violently and there came about a series of lightning flashes, followed by a powerful wind. The French doors blasted open; the chandelier swayed wildly from the ceiling. “You have unleashed her wrath!” reported Madame Harriet. “The spirit is annoyed, Billy!”

  William gasped, sitting up at full attention. Finally, the medium had gotten something right. His sister had always been annoyed about something when she was alive. But how did Madame Harriet know she called him Billy? A dose of emotion, as much as he’d allow, was starting to brew.

  “Are you there, Sis? It’s me. The little jerkoid. Say something if you’re there.”

  Madame Harriet’s left eye opened halfway. The “jerkoid” in her midst certainly wasn’t little. William stood six foot two, with a slender physique and a mop of dirty-blond hair, like his sister. One might consider him a decent-looking fellow. Others had. If only he could remember how to smile…

  “I am here, mine brother,” responded Madame Harriet, channeling the deceased. “Mine.” The dead are oh so formal. “Ask of me what you will, dear brother. Ask of me what you will!”

  William had prepared his first question. “Are you—” As he began to speak, the wind died out, along with the lightning, as if God had pulled the plug. The chandelier steadied itself, and the table lost its buoyancy, dropping to the floor with a thump. Something had gone wrong. Had the dead broken contact? Or were there simpler and far more natural forces at work?

  A middle-aged man with a potbelly draped over his belt strolled in through the French doors. “Apologies all around. We blew a fuse, sweetie. I’ll check the breaker box.” He was Madame Harriet’s husband, Harry, on his way to the garage.

  “Do not turn on the lights!” shouted Madame Harriet. “The spirits like it dark,” she added for William’s sake. But it was too late. Harry had located the breaker box. The power came on, juicing up the room. Once again, the French doors opened. But this time, the swaying chandelier brought an unwelcome light into the parlor. William could see everything. A giant fan was being used to blow open the doors; wires were swaying the chandelier; risers were lifting the table legs. It was unmercifully clear. Like the magic William had performed as a kid, it was all smoke and mirrors.

  He reached across the table and retrieved his sister’s bracelet, and Madame Harriet recognized the disappointment in his eyes. “Mediums provide a service,” she said. “They tell people what they need to hear. Is that so wrong?”

  “If you’re seeking the truth, it is.”

  Madame Harriet smiled, touching his hand. “I hope you find it.”

  William left the cottage, thinking, There has to be one—one authentic medium. Is that too much to ask? William was determined to find her. Little did he know…

  The world’s most powerful medium was about to find him.

  William was sitting on his own in the corner booth of the Tiki Restaurant for what would have been his sister’s twentieth birthday. He spoke to no one that day; he didn’t take his parents’ calls or even their texts. He insisted no other voices intrude. The cake arrived—s’mores, her favorite—and along with a confused wait staff, William sang “Happy Birthday” to an empty chair. Strange guy, right? It should have gotten easier. Like a toothache, the pain was supposed to lessen over time. Eight years was a long wait. Would the feeling ever pass? If he could talk to her, it might.

  It was getting late. A waitress packed the untouched cake in a to-go box, and William left the restaurant for the next phase of the morbid festivities.

  The Eternal Grace Cemetery was one of the oldest, most distinguished boneyards in the land. William arrived at closing, unaware of the time. A bouquet of fresh flowers, left by his parents, no doubt, had been placed by his sister’s grave. The headstone was adorned with an ornate granite sculpture of an angel in flight, her wings outstretched and her flowing hair appearing to change color in the moonlight. William sat down in the dirt, rearranging the flowers to his liking. They were pretty, like she had been. And in a day or two, they would die, like she had done. William removed the cake from the to-go box, then placed a slice in front of the grave and cut another for himself. “Happy birthday, Sis,” he said to the angel’s granite eyes. “Make a wish.” He ate a forkful of s’mores, chewing mindlessly when…a shadow passed over the grave. William managed to swallow, looking around. There was nothing to see. He took another bite as he watched an elongated shadow coming closer, closer until a figure appeared, as if stepping through a blank doorway. William dropped his fork, startled. “Who’s there?”

  A tall elderly man was standing by the grave, an old lantern extended in his left hand. He was formally dressed, all in black, with a skull-like face topping an unnaturally thin frame. He wasn’t a caretaker. William knew all of those. He might have been an undertaker, with himself as a client.

  “Who are you?” inquired William.

  “I am the librarian.”

  William snickered. “Funny place for one. You won’t find many readers out here.”

  The librarian shifted the lantern, shedding light on the surrounding headstones. “But there are stories. More tales than even the grave can hold.” He read the marker at William’s feet. “You are celebrating an anniversary of sorts?”

  “It’s my sister’s birthday.” William extended the to-go box. “Care for some cake?”

  “Thank you, no. I no longer have the stomach for it.” Literally.

  William pulled himself up by the base of the effigy. “Guess I lost track of the time.” He bowed his head, pretending to pray, hoping the librarian would leave. But the stranger remained. “Look, would you mind giving me some privacy?”

  “You wish to communicate with the deceased?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “Perhaps I can help.” The librarian lifted the light, illuminating the angel’s bust. “The dearly departed, she was a creature of flight?”

  William nodded, fighting off tears. “In life, she was an angel. Except I didn’t know it at the time.”

  “But you know it now.”

  “Doesn’t do her much good, does it?”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong. Thoughts and prayers provide daily comfort to the dead.”

  William sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I wanted to believe. More than you can imagine. I’ve been to every so-called clairvoyant and fortune-teller from here to Timbuktu, and you know what I found?”

  “I’m dying to know.”

  “That none of it’s true. Spirits, ghosts, goblins, the afterlife. It’s a fairy tale. Except there is no happy ending.”

  The librarian shook his head. “That would be news to Leota.”

  William perked up. “Madame Leota?”

  “You are familiar with her work?”

  “I sure am. I did a paper on her. The world’s greatest spiritualist. Even her skeptics would agree.”

  “Oh, yes, she is quite genuine,” confirmed the librarian.

  “She’s also quite dead.”

  “A minor inconvenience, I assure
you.”

  “You’re not implying she’s still alive? After all these years?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” the librarian said with a nod. “In a manner of speaking.”

  William couldn’t help being amused. In fact, he almost smiled. “You’re a strange one,” he said. He momentarily looked away. And when he turned back, the librarian had disappeared. What to make of the curious encounter? He waited several moments, but the stranger did not return. As William pivoted to leave—Gasp! The librarian was somehow standing beside him. “Whoa. Nice misdirection.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I studied magic as a kid,” explained William. “Misdirection is a magician’s best friend.”

  “I am not a magician. I told you, I am the librarian. I have always been the librarian.” The mysterious stranger drifted onto a misty trail that seemingly led to nowhere. William couldn’t let it go and took off after him.

  “What you said back there, about Madame Leota. Or her namesake. I need to see her.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry. You do not meet…the conditions.”

  William fumbled for his wallet. “Name your price. Anything. I’ll pay it!”

  The librarian refused the offer, pushing the wallet back toward William. “Payment comes in other forms.”

  “All right, tell me. Name the condition!”

  “Death,” responded the librarian. “That is the condition.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “As am I.” The librarian continued down the trail. And William continued to follow.

  “Please, you have to help me!”

  The librarian paused, hearing the desperation in William’s voice, seeing the tortured look in his eyes.

  Caw! Caw! From the highest branch of a gnarled tree, a raven, black as night, weighed in with its thoughts. The librarian listened. Caw! He considered it. Caw! He concurred, then turned to William. “Very well. Kindly step this way.” He extended his lantern, revealing a zigzagging path formerly concealed by fog. William made a split decision to follow. What did he have to lose? Except his heart, his lungs, his kidneys.