Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 3

by Amicus Arcane

  “Chaaaaarge!” Big Ed squared off with the oak in a duel to the finish. He tucked in his elbows and thrust forward with the cutting chain. But before he could strike the first blow, the redhead stepped in front of the tree—so fast, in fact, that Big Ed almost didn’t see it happen. “Are you crazy?” He lowered the chainsaw. “I could have split you in two!”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  Big Ed upgraded his look to super confused. “Is that a trick question? Do you think I’m a killer?”

  “You were about to kill that tree,” replied the redhead, referencing the mighty oak. “And she’s a living being, too, older and wiser than you or I. With a past worth remembering.” She stroked the trunk. “To my people, this tree is sacred.”

  “And to my people, she’s a table and six chairs,” replied Big Ed. “Now step aside before you get hurt.”

  Abigail’s eyes grew wide as Big Ed moved past her and went to work, stabbing and carving into the defenseless oak, its branches dropping like severed limbs, sap spraying his plaid shirt in blood-like geysers.

  “Noooooooo!” The redhead watched with profound sadness. She wept, not only for the dying tree but for the death of a father’s heart, a man whose own brand of morality mattered more than the pleas of his loving daughter. And in that moment, something magical occurred. The redhead became one with the tree, reacting to every blow, sharing its pain, its undignified end.

  Ellen cried out. “Stop it! Pop! You’re killing her!”

  But Big Ed didn’t hear a word. Mr. Do-Right was drowning out all other sounds. And people like Big Ed never really hear what they don’t want to hear, anyway. So he continued his assault, carving and slicing until the tree collapsed a few feet from the redhead. And as the tree fell to ground with a mighty crash, Abigail fell to the ground with a labored wheeze, struggling for air. Only then, wiping sawdust from his face like a soldier awash in the blood of a fallen enemy, did Big Ed see the shattered look on his daughter’s face. Ellen was cradling the redhead in her lap, rocking her, trying to visualize a heartbeat.

  But that was a magic she did not possess.

  No charges were filed. In fact, there wasn’t even an inquiry. The young woman, it was decided, had died the way she had lived: naturally.

  But Ellen felt differently. In her court, Big Ed was guilty. And in the days leading up to Halloween, she kept her dealings with him to a minimum, giving him one-word answers mostly: yes, no, maybe. And Big Ed sure was feeling it. He felt guilty as sin.

  “How’s the school play coming along?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe.”

  He hadn’t intended for it to happen. And the sensitive-dad books didn’t have the answers, not for that one. Big Ed had to do something. He’d have to get his hands dirty on this, to prove to Ellen that he had a heart after all.

  For three straight days, he labored through the night, guided by an unknowable force. The ornate details, the intricate carvings, it was of a caliber beyond his talents. What Big Ed had been working on was anyone’s guess. Go ahead. You’re anyone. Take a guess.

  And in seventy-two hours, it was finished. A beautifully crafted wooden door, forged from the remains of the magnificent oak. Excellent work, Master Edward. A door made from a hanging tree. What could possibly go wrong? Heh-heh.

  Ellen couldn’t shake the sadness, her heart feeling emptier than it had in years. After play rehearsal, she went directly to her room and threw herself facedown on her bed. She thought a power nap might help her forget. But it didn’t. The death of her redheaded friend, a person she’d known for all of ten minutes, felt like the most profound loss since the death of her mother.

  “Ellen.”

  She mushed her face into her pillow. “Ellen!” someone cried out. She’d heard that; she was sure of it. It was a familiar voice. Could it have been Abigail? Was that even possible? Ellen sat up to look.

  She did not see a redheaded beauty standing at the foot of her bed. What she did see made her feel decidedly worse. In fact, she was infuriated.

  The wooden door, hand-carved from the mighty oak by her father, was staring back at her, having replaced her old closet door. It was a superior piece of craftsmanship—she’d give her dad that—but so what? The tree had also been a masterpiece.

  Big Ed was relaxing on his Big Ed recliner (retail $599.00) when Ellen stormed into the living room, unannounced. “I want that thing out of my room! Immediately!”

  Big Ed did a double take; that was how much his daughter resembled his late wife. “You’ve seen the door. Lovely, isn’t it? If I may say so myself.”

  “Was it the tree?” Big Ed didn’t want to answer. He could tell from her tone whatever he said would come out wrong. “Answer the question, Pop.”

  “Yes. It’s the tree. I thought it would make you happy.”

  “Well, you thought wrong.”

  Big Ed threw up his hands in defeat. “I give up. I can’t win for losing around here!”

  “It’s not about winning or losing! That wasn’t a regular tree. It was a hanging tree.”

  “It looked like a regular oak to me.”

  “It’s local history, Pop. Our history! They hung witches from that tree. And the Puritans who crossed those witches, they all died horribly!” Ah, horribly. It’s the only way to go!

  But Big Ed wasn’t buying it. “There are no such things as witches. They’re superstition, like dinosaurs and low-fat desserts.”

  “It’s fact! It happened here. Right here in our village! The girl who died, her name was Abigail. She was a good witch! She tried to warn us.”

  Big Ed was losing his patience. “I said I was sorry. It was an accident. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “You want an exact number?”

  “I don’t like your attitude!”

  “I don’t like yours, either!”

  “You’re sounding more and more like your mother by the day!”

  “Thank you!”

  “You’re not welcome!” Big Ed jumped up from his chair, a full head taller than Ellen, as he was most people. “What’s gotten into you? You used to be the bravest girl I knew. Now you’re afraid a door’s going to get you?”

  “No.” Ellen took a breath and added the rest for her own benefit: “I’m afraid a door’s going to get you.”

  She left the room, leaving Big Ed to ponder: “What’d I do wrong?” Ah, but you know, don’t you, dear reader?

  It was a struggle just to breathe. Its breath was raspy, its lungs awash in alcohol-based stain and three coats of varnish. It had endured a lot worse. Hurricanes, blizzards. Hangings. A little advanced carpentry wasn’t going to stop it.

  Ellen opened her eyes as soon as she heard it. She was a light sleeper and immediately woke at the sound.

  Something was breathing inside her bedroom. Ellen reached for the small hurricane lamp on her nightstand and switched it on. The room remained in shadow. She lifted the window shade, introducing additional light from a robust autumn moon. She had known where the sound was coming from (just like you). But now she could see it. The closet door was swelling and retracting, swelling and retracting, the ragged rhythm of labored breathing.

  For a moment, Ellen considered that it just might be a Halloween prank. ’Tis the season and all that jazz. But her father wasn’t much of a prankster. And the details on the door were too exact. It was heaving to and fro, as if it was breathing, as if there were arteries pulsating throughout its frame. This wasn’t a prop from Parties 4 Smarties. No, this was the real McCoy.

  The door was alive.

  And it sounded strangely familiar. Ellen realized that she’d heard it in the woods—as her friend lay dying. The door was making the sound of a dying witch.

  Whatever apprehension Ellen might have had quickly vanished. She hopped off her bed, moving quickly across the furry pink shag. The breathing grew stronger, healthier the closer she got. Ellen reached out to touch it. “It’s okay.” She stroked the wood with adoration. That seemed to soothe its l
abored breathing.

  She noticed a brass door handle shaped like a snake. “I’m coming in. Okay?”

  But as she reached for the handle, the snake twisted and turned, opening the door on its own. Ellen didn’t know what she expected to see. The inside of her closet would have been a reasonable expectation. But the appearance of a breathing door seemed to rule out “reasonable.” She was right, of course. The closet wasn’t there—no hanging sweaters or piles of shoes.

  It was the entrance to another time.

  Ellen was staring into the fabled woods of Salem, circa 1692. She could hear the crickets, the toads, a running brook, even over the sound of the door that breathed.

  How? How was it possible? Was it a dream?

  The voice in Ellen’s head told her not to question what she saw, for it was the truth. It was time to trust her instincts. She wasn’t dreaming. In fact, for the first time in her life, Ellen was fully awake.

  Ellen stepped through the doorway, following the electric-blue path into the woods. Even in the black of night, she could see. She saw the bugs and the beasts and all the creatures that thrived in the darkness. They were all around her. And they were beautiful!

  Ellen felt free walking barefoot through the woods where she belonged. The trail would lead to the nemeton; that she knew. But what would she find there? That was a mystery, for Ellen had entered the woods of centuries past.

  The great oak tree was the first thing she saw when she stepped into the clearing. It was back, in all its majesty, back where it belonged. And a second later she saw the figures. Three women. No, not those three. These women were seriously hideous, hunched over a cauldron and wearing hooded cloaks. Their skin had a deathly pallor, and their noses were long and beak-like. Two of them had sagging eyes. And they were the lookers! The third hag was eyeless. But hey, at least she had a mouth. The second one’s mouth had been sewn shut with black thread.

  The one in the middle, putrid in her own right but with a working mouth and eyes, pointed a wand at the young intruder. She was their leader. “You, there! Come hither!”

  The eyeless one drooled. She seemed hungry.

  Now just a reminder: Ellen was brave, but she wasn’t stupid. The stupid ones might “come hither.” But not Ellen. She had no interest in hithering. Or making new friends with those strange women. So she turned and ran. Ellen ran for her life! The electric-blue trail disappeared and Ellen found herself running in circles, passing the same rocks, the same trees, again and again and again.

  Until she found herself back in the nemeton, face to face with the hideous hags. Their leader reached out to touch her, stroking Ellen’s fiery red hair with her spindly hand. Her fingers felt like spikes grazing Ellen’s scalp. “Was it you, little one?”

  “Who, me? What’d I do?”

  The witch made a fist, pulling Ellen’s hair. “Speak up! Who hath stolen our tree?” Ellen didn’t answer, at least not yet. “Respond, little one! Or we shall collect thy tongue!”

  The eyeless one gave a sniff. “Aaaah, fresh tongue. Such a delicacy.”

  The leader snatched Ellen’s wrist, pulling her near the cauldron. Ellen could feel the searing heat, the bubbling liquid inches from her blemish-free skin. She could see bones mixed in what resembled beef chili way past its sell-by date.

  Ellen pulled away. She had no intention of becoming the next ingredient. “I didn’t steal anything!” she hollered.

  “Who then, child? Who hath removed the sacred tree from the nemeton?”

  Ellen wanted to say she had no idea. Instead she blurted out the truth. “It was my father! He cut it down!”

  “Oh, did he now?”

  The third hag excitedly ripped the stitches from her mouth, wiping pus and bile on her sleeve. “A woodcutter’s daughter! Bring forth the guilty one. We shall feast on his eyes!”

  “Tomorrow night,” declared the leader. “He must stand before us. During the feast of Samhain. He shall answer for his crimes!”

  “But—but…he’s my father.”

  The three witches got a great kick out of that one and roared with laughter. Oh, such pleasant memories, thinking back to the day they ate their own fathers. “Bring forth thy woodcutter. Or suffer the consequences!” The leader shoved Ellen’s hand into the cauldron. She bit her lip, trying to fight through it. But the pain was too great and Ellen screamed.

  And the witches—they cackled. They enjoyed a good scream.

  Ellen woke up in bed, screaming. Big Ed was in her room in seconds. He flipped on the light. “You okay, Elle?”

  It took her a moment to regroup. “Fine, Pop. Just a bad dream, that’s all.”

  He sat on the bed. “You want to talk about it?” He glanced back at the door, which, for the moment, was not breathing. “It’s my fault. I’m pigheaded, like your mother used to say. I’ll take that door down—pronto!” He started for his toolbox.

  “No, Pop, just leave it!”

  “What’s gotten into you? You’re shivering.” But Ellen couldn’t tell him the truth, that behind the door that breathed were three witches looking to make a meal of him. The Big Ed Special.

  “It’s fine, Pop. Seriously. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  He approached the closet and placed his hand on the serpent-shaped handle.

  “No, Pop, no!”

  Something stopped him. A smile. A memory. He released the handle and turned. “I’ll bring you some warm milk. It’s what she used to bring me when I couldn’t sleep. Your mother. I miss her, ya know. I miss her more than you can imagine.”

  “I know, Pop. I can imagine.”

  He started for the hallway. “I’m sorry about those things I said earlier. You know I love you, princess. You’ll always be my princess.”

  “I know,” said Ellen. And you’ll be the main ingredient of a witches’ stew if you don’t get out of here fast! “Good night, Pop,” she said, and turned out the light. As soon as he was gone, she checked her hand. Ouch! It stung. Ellen had been scalded for real.

  The following day, Ellen blew off play rehearsals and headed into town. She needed some expert advice. Where does one find a witch expert? In your neighborhood? Tall order. In Salem Village, finding a witch expert is like finding a World o’ Coffee. They’re on every corner.

  Bella’s Witch & Wizardry Shoppe wasn’t the fanciest shop on the block—Merlin’s Magic Shop, with its robotic rooftop display, had earned that title—but it was the one shop Ellen felt a connection to. So trusting her instincts, she went inside.

  The shopkeeper was Bella herself, a middle-aged lady wearing a pointed hat and a purple robe with a five-pointed star on the back. “Bright blessings,” she said as Ellen stepped through the entrance. “How may I help you?”

  Ellen looked around. There were jars filled with lizards’ tails on one side of the store, high-quality witch and wizard memorabilia on the other. To stay competitive Bella targeted the naturalists as well as the tourists and wizarding book fans. Before Ellen could respond…“Let me guess. You’ve got a role in The Crucible and you want to learn all about witches?”

  “Well, I am in The Crucible.”

  “Aha!” Bella tapped her own nose. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”

  “But I’m not researching witches for the school play. I’m researching witches for real.”

  Bella saw the serious intent in Ellen’s eyes. The young girl needed real help; it was obvious. Bella removed her pointed hat. “Follow me.” She parted a beaded curtain, beckoning Ellen to follow. Ellen hesitated. “Come, come, I won’t bite you.” Maybe they all say that, especially the biters, but Ellen didn’t have a lot of time. For her father’s sake, she went with her instincts again, following Bella to a room in the back.

  The room was loaded with out-of-print hardcovers, some old, others older. But no ghost stories. They were housed elsewhere. Heh. “You’ll find all the answers you need in here.” Ellen eyed the massive collection. There were far too many books to get through. It would take days, m
aybe even weeks, just to look at them all. And she didn’t have weeks; she had hours. A door chime jingled and Bella excused herself to tend to the customer.

  Ellen flipped through three or four books before tugging at her hair in frustration. The task was overwhelming. She needed to calm down. To find her center. To visualize. Ellen removed her shoes and sat cross-legged on the floor. She closed her eyes, clearing her mind of worry. And soon she felt lighter than air.

  Ellen felt like she was floating. And when she opened her eyes, she was. But that was impossible. She blinked hard—twice—and when she opened her eyes again, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor with an oversized book in her lap. It was called The History of Salem Witches. She feverishly began flipping through its yellowed pages, trusting that the information she needed would find her.

  And it did.

  There were entire chapters devoted to ancient rites and rituals. Some of the passages were downright disturbing. Flipping through the pages, Ellen perused a gruesome grocery list of forbidden spells and dark incantations. There were arcane etchings depicting scenes of human sacrifice and wanton destruction. There were portrayals of nightmare-inducing transformations, of innocent human beings writhing in pain as their malicious tormentors altered their forms into goats and toads. And there were vivid descriptions of the four great Sabbaths, witches’ holidays that occurred throughout the year. There was one for each season, the most venerable one taking place on October 31: Samhain, the witches’ new year, as it was known by the Celts. A night when the dead were given free rein to walk the earth and when sacrifices, human and otherwise, were carried out in the name of evil. A night that had come to be known as…Halloween.

  Ellen couldn’t imagine the girls she had met in the woods acting like the witches from the book. She called out to the shop’s proprietor, and Bella confirmed: “There are two types of witches in this world. Most, like me, are nature lovers. Powerful, yet peaceful.”

  Ellen had to ask. “And the other kind?”