Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 3

by Amicus Arcane

  “Is this piece of junk even gonna make it?” muttered Declan from the window seat. Poor Marge was crammed in the middle.

  Pasquale squinted to see through the soupy fog. Gnarled branches from blackened trees were reaching down on both sides of the road. “She’ll make it,” he replied. But really, Pasquale wasn’t so sure.

  The conditions were, in a word, treacherous. And in two words, insanely treacherous. Apart from the lack of streetlamps, the road seemed to curve and twist and wind for the sake of curving and twisting and winding. There were no safety rails. No reflectors. And situated every few yards were potholes the size of graves. Pasquale couldn’t avoid them all, and the truck swerved, sending the crates sliding and colliding.

  “Careful,” shouted Marge. “The old codger said the stuff needs to get there in one piece or we don’t get paid.”

  But Pasquale was way ahead of her. “What’s the good of gettin’ paid if you ain’t alive to spend it? They say Route 13 is haunted.”

  Declan groaned. “Oh no, not another ‘dude who knew a dude’ story!”

  “No. This one’s firsthand. A lot of people croaked on this road, which is why it don’t appear on no map. Route 13 had an unusually high incident rate. It’s been called the Bermuda Triangle of highways.”

  “What’s this got to do with anything Bermuda?” Marge asked.

  “The Bermuda Triangle is a place, a real one, where boats and airplanes have disappeared. For years and years. They went missing without a trace.”

  That put the whammy on Marge. “Okay, so I’m officially spooked. Turn this bad boy around. I ain’t lookin’ to disappear.”

  “I’m with ya,” agreed Pasquale, nodding. His right foot must have also agreed, because it eased up on the accelerator, bringing the truck to a crawl. “You see that?”

  “See what?” Declan’s full supply of patience, which was very small on a good day, had run out.

  “Bats! Vampire bats are watching us from the trees!”

  “There ain’t no bats in these parts, no sir, nohow!”

  Marge wiped condensation from the windshield. “You might want to tell that to the bats.” A family of oversized bats were hanging upside down from the gnarled tree branches and staring with ruby-red eyes.

  “Okay,” Declan conceded. “So there are bats. And fog and thunder and creepy trees. So what? There’s also a pot o’ gold waitin’ at the end of this rainbow.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Who lives in mansions? Rich folks, right? Rich folks live in mansions!” They also die there.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So this job could be our one-way ticket out of the poorhouse. These places are loaded with jewelry and safes stuffed with cash!”

  Pasquale nodded. “Yeah, they’re loaded, all right. Mansions are loaded with security. These fat cats have fancy alarms and mean old guard dogs.”

  “And if we was breakin’ and enterin’, that would be a problem,” said Declan. “But we ain’t breakin’ and enterin’. We’re marchin’ right through their fancy front door like we was invited, ’cause we was.” Getting in is easy. But getting out, Master Declan? That’s a much graver proposition.

  Marge was no longer feeling lucky. She squeezed Pasquale’s arm. “You were right. This is a bad road. Let’s wait till it’s light.”

  Wham! Declan’s oversized fist slammed the dashboard. “We ain’t waitin’ for nothin’. The old goat said the delivery’s gotta be at night, so we deliver at night.” He pointed out something on the side of the road. “Besides, how bad can it be? Them three seem to be doin’ just fine.” Marge and Pasquale looked to see what he was pointing at.

  There were three gruff men—one tall, one husky, and one diminutive with a beard—hitchhiking, their thumbs extended.

  “Should we pick ’em up?” asked Pasquale. He was such a softy.

  “Not on your life!” Or yours. Heh-heh. “We ain’t got time for good deeds.”

  Marge found herself agreeing with Declan, but not for the same reason. There was something off about the hitchhikers, something not quite right. Maybe it had to do with the lighting? But there wasn’t any! So how were they glowing?

  Pasquale hit the gas and the truck sped off. Checking his side mirror, he could see the road shrinking behind them. But the hitchhikers, they were gone. Poof! Like Bermuda Triangle gone.

  The truck crept up to the mansion gates. It was just before two in the morning. The entrance was locked, with no one there to greet them. Pasquale was secretly relieved. “Well, that’s that!” The mansion’s location was a mystery no longer, but the gate was locked, and that was good enough for Pasquale. He checked his mirror, ready to back out.

  Declan reached over and pinched Pasquale’s shoulder. Hard. “Owwwww! That’s gonna turn black and blue!”

  “You’re welcome,” replied Declan as he shoved his head out the window. “Yo! Special delivery! Open up!”

  They waited a few minutes. Nothing until…reeeeeeeeeeee! The front gates opened with a grind that gave them goose pimples. Marge elbowed Pasquale, right on his brand-new black and blue. “I don’t like this.”

  “Ow. I’m with ya.”

  Declan had heard just about enough out of both of them. “Yo! Scaredy-rats! They’re invitin’ us in, just like I said.”

  Marge asked, “Who’s ‘they’?”

  He pointed. “Them’s ‘they.’”

  A scraggly-looking man clutching an old-fashioned lantern was making his way through the gate. There was a shivering bloodhound at his side. The truck inched forward, bringing them into speaking range. “Turn around,” the man warned. “Visiting hours end at sundown.”

  “Says who?” blurted out Declan.

  “Says me. I’m the caretaker around these parts. For more years than I wish to remember.”

  “Caretaker, eh? Well then, would ya mind takin’ care of them gates? We ain’t visitin’. We’re deliverin’!”

  “By whose authority?”

  Marge had the paperwork in her bag. She located the manifest and read a name from the bottom. “Arcane.”

  The caretaker reacted—boy, did he ever. So did the dog. Like someone had just pumped ice water through their veins. I’m flattered! “V-very well,” the caretaker said with a shiver. “Follow the path to the back of the estate. You’ll pass a graveyard on the right. The left, too. Do not stop. No matter what you see or hear, just keep moving.”

  Pasquale thanked him and threw the truck in gear. But the caretaker never said you’re welcome. As the truck passed through the imposing gates, all he could manage was a remorseful “I’m sorry.”

  The truck climbed the hilly path, spotlighted by a large harvest moon. As promised by the caretaker—and the map made from you-know-what—the Eternal Grace Cemetery took up a good portion of the hillside. Even through closed windows, the threesome could hear music coming from within the boneyard. It was a barbershop quintet. Declan bobbed his head, digging their tune. “Sounds like a parrrr-teeee!”

  Pasquale turned to Marge. “Who throws a party in a graveyard?” You’d be surprised. The dead do enjoy a good shindig.

  The music rising from the cemetery was much more than a mischievous melody. The lyrics were a foreshadowing of the woeful wonders yet to come. The quintet sang their hearts out. And their lungs and their kidneys. You’re invited to join them, of course. We’re always on the lookout for one more…voice.

  “When the crypt doors creak

  and the tombstones quake,

  spooks come out for a swinging wake.

  Happy haunts materialize

  and begin to vocalize.

  Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize.”

  That was all Pasquale needed to hear. He hit the gas and sped away from the terrifying tune as quickly as he could.

  A split in the road directly ahead prompted Pasquale to pull over to the side and check the map. “We’re here and—”

  Ss-kink! Ss-kink! Ss-kink! They all heard it. Ss-ki
nk! Ss-kink! Ss-kink! Declan lowered his window, aiming a flashlight into the cemetery. “Now what was that?” Pasquale asked.

  “None of our business, that’s what!” responded Declan.

  Oh, but he was wrong. Dead wrong. The beam of Declan’s flashlight discovered the source of the ss-kink. There were three men (no, not the hitchhikers) in matching tuxedos, standing knee-deep in dirt. Ss-kink! Ss-kink! Ss-kink! They had shovels. Ss-kink! Ss-kink! Ss-kink! They were digging! Ss-kink! Ss-kink! Ss-kink! Three separate graves!

  “Gravediggers.” Declan did his best to play it down. “Just doin’ their jobs is all.”

  Pasquale pressed lightly on the gas, his truck chug-chug-chuging out of range. They were each thinking the same thing, yet only Marge had the gumption to question it out loud. “Who digs graves in the middle of the night?”

  “They do,” declared Declan. “Let’s not make a ting out of it, okay?”

  Pasquale swallowed—hard. “It’s not their timin’ that bugs me. It’s the number of holes.” He looked at his partners. “Why did it have to be three graves?”

  The others remained silent. For once, even Declan Smythe was too creeped out to comment.

  The truck had backed into the first stall of the loading bay. A massive steel barricade slowly lifted to unveil the black-as-black entrance. It sounded like an enormous chain working a giant pulley. Declan, Marge, and Pasquale wheeled the mysterious crates through the entryway on handcarts. Once they were inside, the barricade closed behind them with a rumble, its hollow THWONG! adding an unwanted finality to the moment. There was no turning back now—for them or you, foolish reader.

  “What do we do now?” asked Pasquale, hoping one of the others had a clue, because his brain was on empty.

  Declan took a cautious step forward, illuminating the path with his flashlight. They had entered what resembled an immense warehouse attached to the back of the mansion, its dimensions undefinable, its contents indescribable. He couldn’t find a single wall or even locate its ceiling. The space seemed to go on indefinitely. There were rows upon rows of shelves, some as tall as trees, and the shelves were loaded with crates, similar to the ones they’d brought, stamped with the names of exotic locations. Of particular interest to the morbidly curious—and that would be you—was the fact that the majority of the crates were rattling, as if the things inside were trying to become the things outside.

  Even though they didn’t know what this place was or what it meant, the threesome were genuinely gobsmacked. Mind you, they didn’t even know what gobsmacked meant. But the sounds were enough. Between the incessant scratching and the moans and screams, there was little doubt. The sounds were inhuman.

  “What in the world is this place?” asked Marge.

  A voice emerged from the shadows: “I call it home.” The tone of the voice wasn’t sinister. In fact, one might call it welcoming. Like a spider welcoming a fly into its web. The threesome turned in circles, trying to locate its owner.

  “It came from over there!”

  “No, it’s over there!”

  “No, I’m over here.” A gaunt figure was suddenly beside them, having materialized from a space between the shadows. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the librarian.” Declan aimed his light straight into the stranger’s face, and Marge gasped. And just a reminder: Marge was a little bit on the gasp-y side herself. The figure standing before them was tall and thin, attired all in black, with a lit candelabrum in his gloved hand and a face more skull than skin.

  “Good for you!” replied Declan. “But books ain’t our ting.”

  “We were hired to drop off some merchandise,” added Marge, having located her voice from somewhere in the pit of her stomach. “From Pier 33.”

  “Ah, yes.” The librarian nodded his approval. “You have been expected, Mistress Marjorie.” He shifted his candelabrum, bringing light to the three crates. “Welcome home.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Declan.

  “All will be explained…at the proper time.” He pointed to the crate by Pasquale, the one marked Buena Vista Middle School. “If you’d care to follow…this one resides in our music room.”

  Pasquale looked to the others. Gobsmacked. And that’s how you learn a new word, kiddies.

  Declan stepped between them. “Just a second, lie-berry man! The old codger at the pier said payment on delivery.”

  “Correct, Master Declan.” The librarian raised his lantern, indicating a path between the shelves. “Once the items have been returned to their…proper resting places.” He beckoned the threesome to follow.

  Pasquale stepped protectively in front of Marge. “What’s this all about? You say you’re a librarian, but I don’t see no books.”

  “Look around. Feast your eyes.” The librarian made a sweeping gesture, indicating the crates. “There are stories everywhere you turn.” The librarian then lowered the lantern and turned to face the three of them. “My name was”—he corrected himself—“is…Amicus Arcane. I am the mansion’s keeper of tales.”

  “You also better be the keeper of the mansion’s checkbook,” snapped Declan, “or we got ourselves a problem.” He flexed his biceps. You could hear his muscles rippling under his sleeves. “A big problem.”

  The librarian smiled, somewhat slyly. “Payment comes in other forms.” He looked at the others. “This way to the music room. Oh, and mind your step. We wouldn’t want anyone to depart…prematurely.” He spun like a top and led the threesome into the uncharted darkness.

  The music room was a shadowy chamber, save for a shaft of moonlight spying from a small skylight. It featured a treasure trove of musical instruments collected from around the globe. Also on display: a collection of tarnished music boxes, bastioned by a cover of spiderweb, and sheet music culled from the finest composers this world—and the next—has ever known. Phosphorescent dust particles danced about the air amid antique furnishings and somehow moved in time with a funeral dirge played on an organ, its whereabouts unknown.

  The threesome wheeled the first crate through the entrance. “Where does it go?” asked Pasquale.

  Declan pointed to a boldly colored rectangle on an otherwise dull area rug, the obvious space for so large a piece. “Right there, genius.”

  “Precisely,” replied the librarian. The threesome spun around to face him. Amicus Arcane, as he was known in life, was somehow suddenly standing behind them. He stepped forward, almost appearing to glide across the room rather than walk, and approached the threesome. “If you wouldn’t mind?” He offered Declan a rusty crowbar.

  “Mind? No, sir. I been achin’ to find out what you got hidin’ in here.” The brute got busy removing the lid from the crate. The item was concealed under a forest of excelsior. Marge dug through the top layer. Her entire face lit up when she saw what was under it, and Pasquale thought, She’s kind of pretty when she smiles. With special emphasis on kind of.

  “It’s a piano!”

  “So much for a treasure,” groaned Declan, his hopes for a big payday momentarily dashed.

  “Do you play?” Pasquale asked Marge softly.

  “I used to,” Marge replied, almost shyly. “My parents made me take lessons when I was a little girl.”

  “Hard to believe,” interjected Declan.

  “That I was little?”

  “That you was a girl!”

  Pasquale shot her a smile. “I’d like to hear you sometime.” And Marge thought, He’s kind of—

  “Awkwaaaard!” interrupted Declan, sticking his giant melon-shaped head between them. “Looks like a hunk o’ junk. Is it worth anyting?”

  The librarian unleashed a ghoulish grin before covering his mouth with his hand, like he was hiding something. “Hard to say. How much are souls going for these days?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Only that music soothes the soul,” replied Amicus Arcane. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to elaborate while you unpack.” The librarian lowered himself into an antique chair l
ike he was lowering himself into the grave, and he reached for a hardcover book that had been waiting for him on a music stand. The book was covered in dust and bore no markings, save for a simple Volume III engraved on its spine.

  As the threesome removed the handsome old piano from its crate, the librarian blew dust from the cover, then opened the book and began to read….

  Heed my warning, foolish mortal:

  Proceed with caution.

  They already know you’re here.

  They’ve had their eyes on you.

  The ones with eyes, of course.

  Our wall-to-wall creeps are always watching,

  waiting for the right moment to reach out.

  Just ask Mrs. Birch.

  That is, if you can find her.

  Who is Mrs. Birch, you might inquire?

  Read on.

  Before she finds you.

  Tobe was a naturally gifted musician. One might say he had an ear for music. Two of them, in fact. He had performed a piano sonata at the Buena Vista Middle School music semifinals that would knock your ears off. If you’d been invited, of course. But you weren’t. So you’ll have to trust us on that. It was sublime.

  The audience—students, teachers, and parents alike—rose to their feet even before the final notes were played. The applause was thunderous, a six-minute standing ovation, the kind usually reserved for an established master in a place like Carnegie Hall. And to think that was only the warm-up…The real event was scheduled for the following Friday: the Buena Vista Middle School music finals. A local TV station was planning to attend, even though the expected outcome was inevitable. The scholarship belonged to Tobe.

  Afterward, a line of admirers extended out the auditorium doors, a thirty-minute wait just to shake hands with the young maestro.