Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume II Read online

  “Where are we going?”

  The librarian pointed. “Up there.”

  William looked up to see exactly where “there” was. His jaw almost hit the ground. But “almost” doesn’t count, except in “I almost made it out alive.” It couldn’t be; it wasn’t possible. He’d been to that cemetery a hundred times. He couldn’t have missed it, but apparently he had: perched on a hill, overlooking the graveyard, stood a grand old mansion, enclosed by steel gates. But it wasn’t just any old mansion. Its construct was born of a morbid mind; there was a discernible madness to its contradictory styles. Turrets jutted into the dark clouds, while oversized chess pieces adorned its roof. Scary, yet playful. The skeptic in William decided it was a trick—a high-powered projection. It was the only explanation.

  “No trick,” said the librarian, reading William’s thoughts. He headed for a small gray structure, a mausoleum, with the surname ARCANE engraved over its archway. A stone door shifted open, welcoming them inside. The librarian glanced back at William. “Do you frighten easily?”

  William shook his head. “No.”

  “Pity. I suppose we’ll have to do it the hard way.”

  The librarian ducked his head and entered the mausoleum. William thought about turning back. The day had been a strange one, and it was about to get stranger. But he reminded himself, This is for you, Sis, lowered his head, and went inside. Immediately thereafter, the stone door returned to its first position, sealing the crypt. There was no turning back now.

  The interior was old and musty, yet, like the librarian himself, it retained its dignity. An ornate stone sarcophagus was curiously vacant. Where had the body gone? Corpses don’t usually go out for a stroll. But the Arcane crypt was anything but usual. William felt something nibble at his feet. He looked down. A plump rat was gnawing at his loafer. William stomped his foot and the rat waddled off, not a care in the world, disappearing into a fissure in the wall.

  The librarian continued moving, and William had to hustle just to keep up. They descended thirteen steps. When they hit bottom, the very air turned foul, and William sensed the walls closing in on him. They had entered a passage, unusually low and uncomfortably narrow.

  “Mind your head,” warned the librarian.

  “I’ll be fine,” said William.

  “I was talking to the head.” The librarian shifted his lantern, bringing light to the passage. A human skull, wet with dew, was dangling just above them. The ceiling and the walls had been meticulously decorated with skeletal remains. Femurs jutted from the ceiling like stalactites; calcified fingers reached from the walls. Any sane person would have called it a night, but William had visited the catacombs in Paris and, as mentioned, did not scare easily. “Cute,” he said. “What do you call this place?”

  “A shortcut,” replied the librarian.

  A light appeared at the far end of the tunnel, and William caught glimpses of a more civilized setting. There were faint sounds, the morbid music of an old pipe organ. “This way, young sir,” the librarian said, beckoning. William took a breath and followed him deeper into the tunnel.

  For an instant, the air grew sharply cold, then the temperature slowly rose to be more hospitable. At the same time, the cobwebbed catacombs gave way to brick and mortar, and William found himself within the confines of a handsome hallway, where eyeballs stared from purple wallpaper and gargoyles with candles crackled their burning disapproval. William asked, “Is this Leota’s house? Is this where she lived?”

  “Resides, Master William. Resides is the word you’re looking for.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Before the night is over, you will. If true understanding is what you desire.” The librarian continued down the hall.

  William heard voices, a symphony of shrieks, crying out from somewhere in the mansion. He moved briskly, not to be left behind. Not because he was scared, mind you. “What on earth was that?”

  “Merely the winds,” replied the librarian.

  “That wasn’t the wind!” insisted William. “It sounded like people. I heard three distinct voices, crying out for help!”

  The librarian concurred. “Oh. That sound. You’re quite correct, sir. That would be Ezra, Phineas, and Gus. They’ve been with us for quite some time, though to be honest, they’re always looking to hitch a ride out.” He pointed onward. “This way.”

  The lantern fizzled out and the corridor went black. Losing his footing, William felt his way like a blind man, calling out to the librarian, “Sir! Sir!”

  Light returned, and William found himself inside an enclosed room with no windows and no doors save for a high skylight that allowed a single moonbeam to shine like a spotlight on an old velvet chair. All four walls were lined with shelves overflowing with books—upright, on their sides, old, new, you name it. There was something oddly familiar, yet also discomforting, about this room. William stepped to a shelf, perusing a good number of the titles. Ghost stories, one and all.

  The librarian appeared behind him, having replaced his lantern with a candelabrum. “Welcome to my library.”

  “My sister loved stories,” said William. “The scarier, the better.” The librarian reached for a book on the highest shelf. It floated down to his hand, VOLUME II engraved on its spine.

  “What are you doing?” William asked.

  “Selecting a tale.” The librarian sank into the high-backed velvet chair and opened the old tome.

  “I don’t have time for that. What can you tell me about Madame Leota? Is there someone who carries on in her name? I need to know!”

  The librarian looked up from the page. “And so you shall.” He held William’s gaze. “When you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now, sir.”

  “I think not,” said the librarian before returning his attention to the written words.

  Flames erupted from the fireplace. The library was preparing itself for a shivery tale. “All right,” agreed William, “I’ll listen.” He planted himself in an antique chair opposite the librarian. “If that’s what it takes to see Madame Leota. My name’s Gaines, by the way. William Gaines.”

  The librarian didn’t react to the name, because he already knew it. He felt obliged, however, to return the courtesy. “In life, I was known as Amicus Arcane.”

  “Arcane,” repeated William, recognizing it from the crypt. “Very well, Mr. Arcane. I’m ready to hear your tale.”

  “And so you shall,” said the librarian. He averted his unworldly eyes to the opening passage and, at William’s behest, began to read.

  Step right up, foolish reader, don’t be shy. The carnival’s in town!

  Most people never think about how a carnival gets where it’s going. It simply arrives. And while it’s true that these bizarre traveling shows, with their unusual delights and rickety rides, seem to spring up without an invitation, it’s also true that a great many people do their level best to avoid them.

  In fact, it’s safe to say that many people do everything in their power to avoid them. The same people, mind you, who avoid roller coasters and horror stories.

  Not you, of course.

  When the carnival arrives, they remain indoors, holding their collective breath, waiting for the freak show to pass.

  But the carnies themselves, they count on the masses. The rubes. The ones who feel a certain tingle when the tents go up, with sun-bleached signs promising weirdness and wonder.

  So step right up! Don’t be shy. There’s a new show in town filled with magic and mayhem and who knows?

  Maybe a little murder.

  The trolley car arrived with a shrieking halt, depositing the girls less than a mile from the old pier. They could already smell the mixed aromas of doughy hot pretzels and sweet cotton candy being airlifted by the cool autumn breeze. Those smells they had come to expect, along with others, less pleasing: the pungent vestige of a vomiting child; or the odious stench of wayward animals, human or otherwise, pausing to mark their territories. Then there w
ere the electric fumes that lodged in your sinuses as the trolley left you where you paid to be left, going, going, gone. The two young girls now stood in a strange and mysterious world that not twenty-four hours earlier had looked as familiar as the constellations. But that was before they arrived.

  In the black of night.

  Bringing terror and delight.

  The carnival was back in town. It came every fall, when the leaves turned golden, like people turn golden, when the promise of death is lurking within every shadow. It came with its weather-beaten tents, home to ten thousand delights, and its rickety rides, assembled with spit and a prayer, not a safety inspector in sight. All for the low, low price of…everything you’ve got in your pocket.

  This is the promise of the traveling show: as funny as it is scary; as safe as it is dangerous. You might survive. You might not. But if you do, well, give yourself a good poke in the eye. You just cheated death.

  The girls locked arms as they made their way up the wonky planks of the boardwalk stairs, a string of bouncing lights their first visual. A few more steps, and they could hear the sounds. Guests, screaming their lungs out and laughing just as loud: a curious combination of fear and delight. How closely those sensations are linked. Laughter and tears. Joy and sorrow. Life and death. Folks came from far and wide to experience the peculiar thrills of the carnival. Folks like Jane and Connie.

  We often hear about how competitive girls can be. How they’re sometimes catty, or jealous. But when it came to Jane and Connie, nothing could be further from the truth. A secret rivalry did not exist. Jane wished only the best for Connie. And Connie wished only the best for Jane. The best demise, that is. It would be perfectly acceptable if Connie’s best friend croaked suddenly. Jane was far too gifted, too pretty, too well liked to live. But being Jane’s best friend, Connie sincerely wished Jane’s premature departure would be a painless one. Now there’s a best friend after my own nonbeating heart: putting someone else’s death before her own. And the traveling carnival was a perfect place to find death, if recent history had anything to say about it.

  A season earlier, a girl had disappeared from one of the attractions. Poof! Gone. Just like that. At least that was what the rumors at school would have you believe. Francine was the girl’s name, and according to middle school gossip, she ventured into the haunted house (not everyone can afford a mansion, you know), never to be seen or heard from again. Of course, there was no evidence to support that assertion. But that didn’t stop the story of the kid who went missing inside the carnival haunted house (because they couldn’t afford a mansion) from spreading like a disease. It was an urban legend. Even if you’re unfamiliar with the term, it’s almost certain you’ve heard or told one or two urban legends in your lifetime. These are stories involving strange occurrences that happened to someone nobody knows. It’s all very convincing, except there’s never a firsthand witness to the giant alligator living in the sewers of New York or the killer hiding in the attic. It’s always something a friend of a friend’s cousin’s sister’s boyfriend (who now lives in Canada) saw.

  But Jane was a believer. It had to be true, because so many people said it was true. Connie, on the other hand, being of a less trusting nature, didn’t buy a word of it, mostly because she wasn’t there and didn’t believe anything she couldn’t see with her own two eyes. Oh, but I assure you, there are scores of things—some of them unimaginably terrible—brewing just below the surface of what we can see. One of which, I’m most pleased to inform you, is currently lurking under your bed.

  The story of the girl who went missing in a carnival haunted house (because they couldn’t afford a mansion) had taken on near legendary status by the time the traveling carnival arrived for that season’s tour of terror. If one thought about it, it made little sense. There would have been an investigation and big splashy news stories. But sense never figures into the equation when it comes to urban legends. Where’s the fun in sense? It’s like peeking behind the curtain at a magic show. It’s all smoke and mirrors and sticky tape. (Happy? Now you may get on with your own magically deprived lives.)

  “A winner every time!” shouted a vendor running a ball-toss game. He caught sight of Connie’s angry peepers. “How about you, young lady? And your pretty friend?”

  Ouch! That stung like a bee! No matter what Connie did, or how she did it, Jane would always be the pretty one. Even though they dressed the same—that night it was in matching blue gingham dresses—and their height and weight were almost exact, and their noses shared the same upturned shape, Jane would always be the pretty one. When Jane wasn’t smiling or giggling, everyone said they could pass for sisters. So what made Jane the pretty one? It had to do with that elusive something special, a charming allure that some of us are born with. And die with. Putting it another way: Jane admired the colorful canopy of a butterfly’s wings; Connie enjoyed removing those canopies. Slowly.

  Jane saw only the good in people, even Connie. Especially Connie. We’ll get to that. Which is why she had agreed to join her, three trolley stops from home, on that chilly Friday night Connie secretly hoped would be Jane’s last.

  “Step right up!” the vendor persisted. “I promise you, a winner every time!”

  “What do you say, pretty one?” Connie poked Jane in the small of her back. “Wanna play?”

  Jane returned a naturally disarming smile as she cleared the hair from Connie’s eyes. The bigger eyes. The angry eyes. “I think you’re the pretty one.”

  “You’re a liar,” said Connie. “But what the hey? I love you for it. Come on!” She grabbed Jane’s hand, yanking her away from the booth. “Let’s go find the freaks!” The girls giggled as they navigated through the meandering crowd, under and around couples and families, like two matching kites in the wind.

  They were soon sucked into the eye of a strange yet marvelous storm in the center of the boardwalk. The Tent of 10,000 Unusual Delights was situated across from the carousal, where frozen horses ascended, mid-gallop, on brass Popsicle sticks to the unsettling score of the calliope. There were cries from the rickety roller coaster that built to screams of terror as it plunged into the pit of its first precipice and oohs and aahs from children pointing with delight as a nine-foot-tall clown drifted by on stilts. There was even an organ-grinder with a live monkey. (Though the dead ones tend to be just as amusing.)

  Then there was the carnival barker, a man of three foot two, teeter-tottering in front of the massive tent, stained with blotches of heaven-knew-what, where a sun-bleached sign proclaimed a world of ten thousand unusual delights. (There were actually thirty-seven unusual delights and thirteen eerie attractions, but who’s counting?)

  “Step right up, one and all!” echoed the barker’s voice through a megaphone. “Boys and girls, children of all ages! For a single quarter—a mere twenty-five cents—you will witness all manner of weird and wonderful delights that I, Mr. Majestick, have collected from around the globe. See…the living Gorgon, with a face so hideous one look can turn a man to stone. Attend…a tea party hosted by a living mummy. Marvel at…the living puppet-boy, whose face is that of a donkey. Take a dip in the stone bathtub of Captain Culpepper Clyne. Is he alive or is he dead? A quarter to me gets you in to see!” He pointed his stubby finger at Jane, spotting her within the crisscrossing crowd. “You, with the blank stare. Enter if you dare!”

  Connie gave Jane a playful nudge. “He’s talking to you, pretty one.” Jane planted her feet firmly on the pier, her shoulders tight, her body filled with angst. Something scared her. Something beyond the Tent of 10,000 Unusual Delights. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” lied Jane. “Let’s go home.”

  “Not a chance. We just got here.”

  “I don’t care. I want to leave. This place is a drag.”

  “Drag-shmag.” Connie was done with the negotiations. She turned to see what Jane saw. Not much of a mystery if you’ve been paying attention, foolish reader. There, on the ledge of the pier, with a p
itched roof and garish displays, stood a haunted attraction aptly called the Grim Grinning Ghost House. Pity, poor Jane. The attraction she had secretly hoped would never return, the villain of the urban legend, had come back. With a vengeance, as they say.

  A festering side note to all you aficionados out there: This tale takes place in a not-so-distant past, when haunted attractions were of a more humble disposition. They did not include live performers in masks or high-tech gadgets or computer-enhanced holograms. The best you could hope for was a glow-in-the-dark mannequin to spring up out of the dark. Admission was a quarter, and the wait time was no wait time at all. Indeed, that was not a misprint. There was no wait time. Not like the lines that accompany most rides today. Lines you might die just waiting in, but I digress…

  Connie was growing impatient. She pounced. “Now I get it. You’re afraid.”

  “Not true!”

  “Oh yeah? Then what’s on your arm?”

  Jane didn’t need to look. A sea of goose pimples had already arrived. “I-I’m cold, that’s all.”

  “Or afraid,” said Connie before upgrading her assessment. “Terrified’s more like it!”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Am not!”

  “All right, prove it! We’re doing the ghost house. Just like we said we would.”

  Jane got up on her toes, pretending to survey the attraction in all its spooky splendor. Really, she was focusing on the dark clouds rolling in behind it. Anything not to look. Not to see the laughing skeletons, purple and green, adorning the entrance, the shutters flapping open and shut along with the recorded screams. Jane was looking skyward to avoid seeing—heaven forbid—the infamous Francine flailing her arms in horror from the tallest triangular window before the house sucked her in like a clam. “I refuse to waste my last quarter on nonsense,” said Jane, turning away.