Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 3

by Amicus Arcane

spooks arrive for the midnight spree….”

  Beware.

  Ellen was blindly following orders, and blindly following orders usually leads to trouble. She had been instructed—the parental euphemism for ordered—to find the tallest, healthiest tree in the woods and report back home, pronto! Her father was a professional carpenter, you see. He sold premium wood furnishings for a living. You might know him by his commercial. “Come on down to Big Ed’s Discount Furniture, where the deals are real and the wood is good.”

  All right, so Big Ed was a carpenter, not a poet.

  He’d started Big Ed’s Discount Furniture out of his garage, when he and Ellen’s mom were still newlyweds. It took some time for the business to percolate—three long years (everything comes in threes)—but when his big break finally came, Big Ed had more work than he could handle. Quality was the key. He took pride in his craft. Big Ed hailed from a long line of carpenters. His great-great-great-grand-something-or-other supposedly lathed the mast on the Mayflower. At least that was what the story on Big Ed’s website said. Was it true? Who knew? No one had ever bothered to look it up. Customers don’t want history lessons; they want chunky armoires with ample drawer space. And they want them for a price.

  “Come on down! The wood is good!”

  So Ellen was assigned the task of venturing into the woods and finding raw materials. That meant good wood. Trees. The fatter, the better. Sort of like Ellen’s dad.

  She had gotten a late start, having stayed after school to audition for the fall play. That year they were doing The Crucible, a show about hysteria sweeping through a small town in 1692. The play was famous the world over. It told the story of a clique of teenage girls who accused their neighbors of consorting with the devil. And get this: it was based on actual history. It really happened. But what made it more compelling, at least to Ellen, was where the events took place: in her hometown.

  Ellen was born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts.

  And if you don’t know what Salem’s famous for, don’t ask Big Ed. He’d tell you they’re famous for premium wood furnishings, and he’d only be half wrong.

  Salem is famous for witches.

  The sun had begun to set on the fabled woods, where tales of witches and warlocks were as commonplace as those of Cinderella and Peter Pan. The path was difficult, changing from patchy grass to prickly bramble in a few short steps. There was something otherworldly about the Salem woods, in particular. About the snakes and the owls and the frogs. The same wildlife that had served the witches of legend, the ones we still talk about, not in whispers but in our best projected stage voices. The hysteria. The trials. The hangings. It all happened there.

  Ellen had always been a brave sort, though not by choice—at least, not a conscious one. No one ever decides to be brave. You’re either born with it or you’re not. Of course, it bothered her that her smartphone was down to a measly 3 percent. Because everything comes in…percentages? It was two weeks before Halloween, not the best time to get lost in the woods. She had used up most of her battery documenting her hike. Now she couldn’t even make an outgoing call. Forget the maps app! Not that she needed confirmation. Ellen knew exactly where she was.

  Ellen was in the last place she wanted to be: the middle of the creepy old woods at sundown.

  She hoped her phone wouldn’t supply the impetus for a found-footage horror movie in which she was the star.

  Calling upon her Girl Scout skills, she located the last shafts of the setting sun. West, she reminded herself. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. That would have been an enormous help had she known which direction she’d come in from. The best thing she could do was turn around and hope to find her way back. But with the light almost a memory and overhanging branches closing in like Mother Nature’s umbrella, Ellen’s sense of hope had begun to fade. We said she was brave; we never said she was an optimist. She was honest-to-goodness lost.

  The darkness was upon her now, and with it came those woodsy sounds that emerge in the night. The ones she could identify were fine. Crickets: good. Croaking toads: not bad. A rustling in the trees: acceptable. Nearby footsteps? Bad. Really bad.

  Nearby footsteps were gulp-worthy.

  Ellen heard twigs snapping. Someone else was in the woods. For Ellen, this was a case of good news/bad news. The good news: she was no longer alone in the woods. The bad news: she was no longer alone in the woods!

  She squatted like a toad, hopping behind a thick berry bush. The footsteps were coming from the other side. They weren’t animal; she could tell from the pattern. They belonged to people moving in a circle. Her curiosity piqued, Ellen separated the branches. What she saw forever changed her world.

  Three slender figures were moving around a small altar of lighted candles and gold chalices erected on the forest floor. They wore loose-fitting robes, all black, with large hoods hiding their faces; their feet were bare. Ellen had read about this sort of thing. It was a secret ritual. And for some reason, it didn’t scare her in the least. On the contrary, Ellen felt oddly warm and invigorated.

  The figures stopped circling, holding their positions. Had Ellen been spotted? The tallest of the three lowered her hood. She was a young woman with fiery red hair, just like Ellen’s, breathtakingly beautiful—in her early twenties, Ellen guessed. The redhead motioned with her hands, and the others’ hoods came down, too, revealing a blonde and a brunette. They could have passed for sisters, one more glamorous than the other. They shared the same Celtic features, the same glowing eyes, like a cat’s, with a natural assist from the bright autumn moon. The redhead raised her arms to the heavens and spoke the words of ancient tradition. “By earth, by sky, by sea, as I do will, so mote it be.”

  The young ladies clasped hands, their energies combined, the redhead calling forth the natural forces. Her words echoed, as if they were being pumped through a loudspeaker—without a microphone, mind you. She would have clinched the lead in the play. Strong winds whistled through the trees and took down branches, yet through it all, the candles never lost their flames.

  It was the most exhilarating moment of Ellen’s life. She had to capture it. Without proof, who would ever believe it? She lifted her cell, the battery down to a pathetic 2 percent. Still, it would be enough for a single selfie, with the mysterious beauties holding hands in the background. That was all the proof she’d need.

  Ellen turned her back to the clearing and lifted her cell. Click. The shot went off—no flash, thank you very much—then it was back to crouching-toad mode.

  Suddenly, the woods fell silent. It was like the entire universe had switched to mute.

  Ellen looked at her screen. You must always look before sharing, kiddies. There she was, leaning in from the left side. Perfecto. But what about the young ladies? The clearing was empty. In their place stood a magnificent oak tree, its branches extending into the wilds like arteries, the embodiment of life itself.

  Big Ed glanced up at an oversized wooden clock on the showroom wall (retail $169.99, 20 percent off if you became a Big Ed member). It was almost nine and he hadn’t heard a peep from Ellen. It wasn’t like her not to call or text. That was his number one rule, another parental term for you-know-what: If you’re running late, call or text. It was mandatory.

  He tossed his wooden key ring to the assistant manager…Woody. “You mind locking up? I’ve got to go read my daughter the riot act.”

  It was cold, it was dark, and the time had come for her teeth to start chattering. Still, Ellen had to investigate. She stepped out into the clearing and almost had a heart attack when she saw them. The young ladies were standing in the same positions, as if they hadn’t moved.

  “Hello,” said the redhead.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m kind of lost, and my stupid phone’s on zero.”

  “Check again,” said the brunette.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your phone. Check the battery.”

  Ellen shook her head. “Trust me,
I checked it like ten times already.” She checked anyway, just to humor the young lady. Ellen’s mouth dropped open. The battery icon was filling to 100 percent. “How in the world did you do that?”

  “I didn’t,” replied the brunette. “You did.”

  “You can do anything you set your mind to,” added the blonde.

  The redhead smiled, seeing the confused look on Ellen’s face. It was all too much for her. “I know. That sounded like something your mother might say.”

  “My mother is dead,” responded Ellen.

  The redhead nodded. “Which explains your natural gifts. Learn to trust your instincts. They’ll never steer you wrong.”

  The young ladies began gathering their ceremonial supplies, loading them into hiking backpacks. Ellen had a question for them before they left. It was a biggie. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” said the redhead, smiling.

  “You guys wouldn’t happen to be…” She stopped herself, the sentence seeming too silly to complete.

  “Witches?” said the redhead. “Yes. As a matter of fact, we are.”

  “But you’re so…beautiful.”

  The young ladies laughed. “You were expecting green hags, soaring across the full moon on their broomsticks?” said the brunette.

  “Well, yeah, sort of.”

  “We have those, too,” said the redhead. “Witches come in all shapes and denominations.”

  “Although we prefer the term naturalists,” added the blonde. “It’s more palatable to the public at large. Unfortunately, certain prejudices still exist.”

  “Like in The Crucible,” said Ellen.

  “Like in The Crucible.”

  Just then, Ellen remembered her father. It was thirty minutes past her curfew. “Oh no, my father’s going to kill me!” She swiped her screen, turning her phone into a GPS.

  Again, the young ladies smiled. “You don’t need a map,” said the redhead.

  “Trust me, I do.”

  “Trust yourself. Cats find their way home all the time, and they don’t have a GPS.”

  “Yeah, well, the problem is I’m not a cat.”

  “Just close your eyes,” said the redhead, “and visualize a path out of the woods.”

  “Right. I’ll just use the Force.”

  In response, the redhead bowed her head and calmly repeated herself. “Just close your eyes and visualize a path out of the woods.”

  “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” Ellen switched off her cell and closed her eyes, imagining a path—the most direct route home. And within a few seconds, she actually saw it—a path out of the woods, glowing electric blue. When Ellen opened her eyes, the blue haze faded, but the path was still there. The young ladies smiled.

  “Bright blessings,” said the redhead.

  “Good night,” said Ellen. She instinctively, unconsciously removed her shoes and, walking barefoot, followed the path out of the woods, no longer lost.

  Big Ed waited until the next morning to read his daughter the full riot act. During breakfast, he reminded Ellen about the rules. “You broke numero uno, missy. Text or call. That’s going to cost you your phone for a week.”

  “I sent a text.” She flashed a smile, the same as the redhead’s. “Check your phone.”

  Big Ed had checked about a hundred times the previous night, and there had been no text. But when he looked at it that morning, sure enough, there was a text from Ellen. Big Ed shook his head in confusion. “This doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

  “Does it ever?”

  Big Ed glared at his daughter, not happy with her tone. “What was it you said there?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” She took a bite of her blueberry pancakes. “You wouldn’t hear me anyway.”

  Big Ed crossed his eyes, which meant he was angry. Confused and angry. “Was that a slight about my hearing? I work with power tools. Hearing issues come with the territory.” He thought about pounding the oak table (special value: $799.99). “What’s really on your mind there, Elle? I’ve been getting this weird vibe out of you since your birthday.”

  Ellen did have something on her mind. And if she was brave enough to think it, she ought to be brave enough to say it. “It’s just…if you were so worried about me, then why’d you send me into the woods in the first place?”

  “Why’d I what?” Big Ed might have been good with his hands, but a deep thinker he was not. It wasn’t easy being a single dad under normal circumstances. But being the dad of such a headstrong girl—one as headstrong as her mother—posed special challenges. “You’ve gone looking for raw materials dozens of times. I don’t know why last night was any different.” But Ellen did. As do you, dear reader.

  Ellen ingested some more pancake, saying nothing, hoping he’d drop it. Big Ed took hold of her cell and started scrolling through her pictures. His eyes turned into Os when he saw it. “Ho-ly!” It was the shot of the magnificent oak tree. Ellen slapped her forehead. Why hadn’t she deleted it? “Great work, Elle. You’re out of the doghouse. For now.” Big Ed stuck his fork in Ellen’s pancakes, helping her out with breakfast. “I just need to stop by the shop before we go.”

  “The shop? What for?”

  “Mr. Do-Right. You can’t have a party in the woods without him.” Ellen’s heart sank. Mr. Do-Right was what her father called his turbo advanced dual-action chainsaw. He took another look at the tree—the brawny stump, the sinewy limbs—and smiled with begrudging admiration. The old trees were the toughest. “Yessiree, this old-timer’s going to put up a fight!”

  But Ellen had a hunch there was something more. Call it instinct. A premonition. Ellen was scared for both of them.

  Try as she might, Ellen couldn’t talk Big Ed out of returning to the woods. He was nothing if not pigheaded. Her mother used to call him that. A wise woman, Ellen’s mom.

  The witches’ clearing looked peaceful in the light of day. A private sanctuary, where one might go to meditate and become one with nature. “Isn’t it special, Pop?”

  “It’s a good space,” replied Big Ed, and Ellen hoped, just maybe, he’d had a change of heart. “Once that tree comes down, it’ll be a great spot for a barbecue pit.” Never mind. She had to go with a more direct approach.

  “Can’t we just leave it the way we found it?”

  “Sorry, sweetie. This here tree means too much to the store. She’s gotta come down.”

  He steadied the chainsaw in front of his chest and yanked on the start-up cord. Mr. Do-Right coughed up a little gas. Big Ed pulled again. Cough-cough. “Wakey-wakey, Mr. Do-Right. Third time’s the charm!” Yes, Big Ed knew that one, too. He was about to pull the cord a third time when a voice called to him from the trees. It sounded somehow familiar. Almost like the voice of his late wife.

  “Please reconsider.”

  He lowered the chainsaw and looked around. “Tara?” That was her name. Of course it couldn’t be Big Ed’s wife. She had passed. “Who’s there?” A bevy of doves exploded from the trees.

  In the same moment, a set of branches parted on their own and the young redhead entered the clearing. She was dressed casually in jeans and a tunic top, her hair tied back in a ponytail, her feet still bare. In the light of day, she was a fresh-faced college kid. “Hello, Ellen. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  “You too.” They exchanged knowing glances. What they knew remains a secret between girls. “This is my father.”

  The redhead recognized him from his ads. “Big Ed.”

  Big Ed took a bow, the biggest celeb in town. But there are no standing ovations for premium furniture makers. “And you are?”

  “Abigail,” said the redhead. “I met your daughter last night.”

  “Is that right?” He turned to Ellen. “Funny. She never mentioned it.”

  “It never came up!”

  The redhead leveled her eyes at the chainsaw. “May I ask what you’re going to do with that?”

  Big Ed spun the tool by its handle, as if he was some kind of
lumberjack ninja. “Mr. Do-Right has an appointment with a tree.” And with that, he gave the start-up cord a third and final yank.

  Brrrrrrrruuuuuummm!

  The chainsaw was awake and ready to party.

  The redhead put up her hand in protest. “Oh no, you couldn’t! You don’t understand. That tree has stood watch on this land for over a thousand years, since before the Pilgrims landed.”

  On a ship with a mast whittled by my great-great-great-grand-whatever-he-was, thought Big Ed. “That so? You own it?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “And neither do you,” added Ellen.

  “Hey! Whose side are you on?” He brought Mr. Do-Right’s motor down to a steady purr. “It so happens I have all the permission I need.” And that was true. He’d given the mayor a sweet deal on some bedroom furniture, meaning Big Ed could cut down whatever tree he wanted.

  Tears welled in the redhead’s eyes. “Maybe you have a legal right. But there’s more than legality at stake. We’re talking about a very old soul.”

  “We’re talking about a tree!”

  “Please, Pop! Just listen.”

  Listening wasn’t Big Ed’s strong suit. But Ellen seemed genuinely concerned, and he was trying to be a more sensitive dad, so he retracted the chainsaw long enough to hear what Ellen’s new friend had to say. “Thirty seconds. Impress me.”

  Ellen made eye contact with the redheaded beauty. Talk fast! The redhead pleaded her case. “This magnificent oak is more than a tree. The Puritans hanged witches from her branches.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “This is now our place of worship. We call it a nemeton.”

  Big Ed wrinkled his forehead, confused, and in only half the allotted time. What was this hippie talking about? The woods weren’t a place of worship. They were a place for hiking and camping. And the Puritans! That was ancient history. Who cared about history?

  “Sorry, snowflake. You’ll just have to find yourself another tree to name. This one’s got ‘Mr. Do-Right’ written all over it.” He revved the chainsaw, full power. Brrrrrrummm! Brrrrrrummm! A mechanical roar invaded the halcyon world. The birds, the toads, the crickets all fled. Mr. Do-Right was a monster to be feared.