For an instant, Jane’s heart stopped—she was literally dead—but then her granddaughter rattled her hand. “Check it out! A cheesy old haunted house!” She tugged Jane’s arm. “We have to do it!” And she ran off to get in line.
“Emily, wait!” Jane took off after her granddaughter, slowing down when the rickety attraction came into range. The Grim Grinning Ghost House had been waiting for her by the edge of a lonely field. Emily was already in line, an empty pod puttering her way. “Em, please. It might not be safe.”
“We came all this way. Don’t tell me you’re chicken.”
That made Jane smile. Chicken. Some insults stood the test of time. “Yeah, your old grandma’s a chicken. Come on. I’ll buy you a candy apple.”
Jane extended her hand, but her granddaughter didn’t take it. A candy apple, as good as they are, couldn’t compare to the retro thrills of the Grim Grinning Ghost House. “That’s okay, Gram, I’ll go alone. See ya on the other side…chicken.” Emily laughed as the attendant swiveled the pod for her to board, and Jane felt her breath leave her body.
It was pod number two.
As the pod rode the rails toward the entrance, Jane ran alongside and, at the last second, leaped in next to Emily, who scooted over with delight. “So you’re not so chicken after all.” The safety bar lowered and the pod blasted through the double doors. Jane glanced back, seeing for the second time in her life the barker pointing a pudgy digit her way. “You’ll be sorreeeeey!”
And for the second time in her life, Jane knew he was right.
The pod puttered through the haunted attraction, which was as unrefreshed as it had been in the past. The department store witch stirred her plastic cauldron; the flying sheet said “boo”; the skeletons still refused to rattle. And Emily groaned. “Guess I should have listened.”
“Just enjoy the ride,” said Jane. “It’ll be over soon.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, just a feeling.”
Just then, the ride rrrrrred to a crawl and the announcer’s voice bellowed from the speakers: “Please remain seated.” Jane’s granddaughter shifted anxiously, pushing up on the safety bar. Jane took her hand. “Relax, it’ll start up in a minute.”
“What if it doesn’t? Grandma, I’m scared.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, angel. I’m here.”
Emily rested her head on her grandmother’s lap as the announcer continued his prerecorded spiel: “Unfriendly spirits have interrupted our tour. Please remain seated in your Poison Pod. Your tour of terror will continue momentarily.” Two, three, four minutes passed before the pod sprang to life, crawling like a beetle to the heart of the attraction. Emily was still frightened, and refused to look up.
Pod number two glided into the hall of mirrors, greeted by a rainbow burst of color. Jane had anticipated a third figure, the fake Francine, glaring back from the glass. But she hadn’t expected the chilled feeling she got when an unseen presence entered the pod.
Emily felt it, too. “Grandma? It’s cold.”
“Don’t look, baby, it will be over soon.” But Jane had to look; this was fifty years coming. In the mirror, she saw a third figure seated in the pod: a girl with angry eyes, forever twelve, wearing a blue gingham dress and a well-remembered grin. The figure laughed at the old lady with the bifocals, as if the mirrors hadn’t already done their job. “What’d I tell you, Janie-girl? Beauty fadesssss.”
William was staring into the fireplace, lost in thought about his childhood—a childhood that passed too quickly. “I haven’t been to a carnival in years. Since I was a kid. I used to go with my…”
“Sister?”
The mere mention of the deceased lured him back to the present. “You’re wasting my time, Mr. Arcane. That story had nothing to do with Madame Leota.”
“Patience, Master William. All will be revealed in time.”
“I’m ready now!”
“In time,” repeated the librarian. He rose to his feet, running his hand across a bookshelf. “Every spirit has a story. This spirit you seek…what was her story?”
“Why?”
“All tales interest me.” He ran his spindly fingers across the bindings, the books his favored companions. “Human and inhuman alike.”
“Tales interested her, too. The scarier, the better. My sister was a natural-born storyteller.”
The librarian glanced down at the book he had been reading. At once, the pages started turning on their own. But William was unimpressed. He knew how most tricks were accomplished, and although this one had him stumped, it was still a trick, all the same. The pages came to a halt on the next chapter, the librarian grinning his devilish approval. “Oh, yes, I believe you’ll find our next tale—”
“No more tales. The only thing I’m interested in finding is information about Madame Leota. Did she really speak with the dead?”
“Always. But first, our second tale.”
“Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Arcane. I’m going to find someone who can actually help me.” And with that, William walked toward a long dark tunnel.
“Once you leave the library, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
“Master William!” said the librarian. William paused. “Are you betrothed?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you taken a wife?”
“I know what ‘betrothed’ means.” William shook his head. “No. I’m not married.”
“Then I beseech you: stay clear of the attic. Our resident bride, Constance, is always on the lookout for a new suitor.”
“The attic,” William repeated to himself. That’s where the secret lies. The attic is where I’ll find out more about Madame Leota. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Arcane.” He removed a candle from a sconce and proceeded into the tunnel.
The temperature dropped almost instantly. William moved the candle back and forth, noticing that the walls were swelling, as if the house itself was breathing. It wasn’t hard to imagine being trapped inside the guts of a giant being, to believe that this strange mansion wasn’t built from brick and mortar. Rather, it was a living entity that accepted you in, opening its doors like the jaws of a giant organism, only to spit you out into who knew where? A swamp? The cemetery? The thought almost brought a smile to his face. Almost. But “almost” doesn’t count, except in “I almost didn’t get hit by that truck.” But houses weren’t alive. Secret passages didn’t breathe, and doorways didn’t swallow guests. Where this passage would lead, though, was anyone’s guess, and William found himself wishing he were back inside the confines of the library, along with its host, Amicus Arcane.
Halos of warm light flickered just ahead. Wall sconces, those grinning gargoyles, were now a welcome presence. William made it out of the passage, into a corridor. This was more like it. Windows overlooked a moonlit landscape, and the paneled walls were lined with portraits. He panned with the candle, eyeing the peculiar artwork. At the same time, he could feel the artwork eyeing him.
“There you are, Master William.”
He lurched back, practically jumping out of his skin. The librarian was standing in front of him, holding volume two in one hand, a candlestick in the other. “Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you…prematurely. The real chills come later.”
William located his breath, followed by his voice. “The portraits. More tricks, Mr. Arcane?”
“I’m certain I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I’m certain you do. I’m getting the distinct feeling I’m in for a letdown.”
The librarian appeared genuinely perplexed. “I assure you, I can vouch for your satisfaction just as I can vouch for your very soul.”
“You mean your soul, don’t you? Vouch for your very soul.”
“If you say so.”
William gazed up at the final portrait, that of a gentlemanly-looking fellow holding a lantern and wearing a high-collared opera cape. A most curious aspect was the two ca
nine teeth—fangs, actually—protruding from his mouth. And the eyes were closed, as if he was asleep standing up.
“This portrait, it interests you?” asked the librarian.
“Who is he? The owner?”
“Hades, no.” The librarian explained: “Like most of our residents, he is a retiree. We have nine hundred ninety-nine happy haunts here, but there’s room for a thousand. Care to book early?”
“Residents?” William chuckled. “I haven’t seen a living soul since I got here.” At that remark, the gentleman in the portrait opened his eyes. William jumped back, startled. “Whoa! Great effect. How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“The eyes. They just popped open.”
The librarian tucked volume two under his arm, then reached into his vest and checked the time on his pocket watch. “Yes, he should be rising for his first meal of the day.”
“Just rising? It’s the dead of night.”
“The Count has always been a night person.”
“The Count? Give me a break. You’re not trying to tell me…what? That this guy’s a vampire?”
“And has been for centuries.” The librarian closed his eyes in wistful remembrance. “How he came to our attention is a story in and of itself.”
“I told you, no more stories. Unless they involve Leota.”
The librarian closed his watch with a snap. “We have time, Master William.”
“Time for what?”
“To learn why you’re here.” The librarian shifted the candlestick, throwing additional light onto the portrait, and for just a flash, William saw an altogether different form inside the frame. The Count had momentarily taken on the appearance of a wolf. William knew from the old legends that vampires were shape-shifters, having the ability to transform into various creatures, including wolves, rats, and bats.
“Okay, I’ll listen. If it’ll get me closer to the truth.”
“Oh, it will, Master William.” The librarian opened the book, the pages flipping to the next chapter. “It most assuredly will.”
Vampires are real. They exist, and have since the beginning of time. Are you aware that every culture on earth has fostered a belief in vampires, those undead beings that rise nightly to drink blood from the living? It’s true. Absolutely. Unequivocally. And when we discover life on other planets, vampires will likely be there, too.
The traits are the same. Before TV or the Internet existed, cases of vampirism swept across continents. How can we explain it? Mass hallucination? A message in a bottle? Or the more reasonable…
They exist. They always have.
No one claims Frankenstein’s creation was real. Or that a certain Dr. Jekyll literally transformed into a certain Mr. Hyde. But Count Dracula, a.k.a. Vlad the Impaler? He’s fact. Look him up. We’ll wait.
You see, Dracula existed—pardon me, exists—as surely as you or I. But it’s not my intent to frighten you, foolish reader. Simply to inform you, to pass along some helpful information. To begin with, vampires rarely attack the living. That is, unless they’re thirsty. Oh, but they’re always thirsty.
Hmmm. Perhaps that wasn’t so helpful.
Of course, there are myriad ways to ward off an attack. For starters, vampires despise garlic. Crosses generally drive them batty. They melt like cheese when sunlight hits them, and driving a wooden stake through the heart of one leaves a permanent scar, though the practice should generally be restricted to experienced vampire hunters. But your best defense comes from identifying the threat before anything happens—which can be difficult. You see, vampires look just like—and might be—anybody we know. Our friends. Our neighbors. And sometimes…even members of our own family.
“Oh, man, my country bites!” Ernie said, procrastinating building his exhibit for the International Day school fair. “Romania? Who gets Romania?” Despite his protests, Ernie had gotten Romania for a reason: it was part of his lineage. Ernie was a quarter Romanian on his father’s side. So Romania it was—which struck him as a total bummer. Team France was building an Eiffel Tower out of matchsticks; Team China, the Great Wall of Papier-Mâché. Claudia Coats, over at Team Caribbean, claimed she hailed from pirate stock. But Romania? “What in the world are they famous for?”
“Transylvania, idiot!” shouted Vicky van Sloan from Team Holland. “And vampires.”
“I thought vampires lived in the Pacific Northwest.”
“And you, Ernie Looper, live under a rock. Transylvania is famous for bloodsuckers.” She stomped her wooden shoes for emphasis.
“Lovely,” sighed Ernie. “There goes that grade.” It wasn’t the first time he’d felt ashamed of his heritage. The genetic gifts just kept on giving. Let’s see: there was the beak-like nose he got from his father’s side, the severe widow’s peak that formed a V over his caterpillar eyebrows, and the pasty complexion that couldn’t hold a tan. But worse than all those combined was a red birthmark on his right cheek that looked like spattered jam. His mom called it a strawberry mark, because, well, she was his mom. The lovelies at school, not being his mom, had other names for it, like Cherry Cheek, Dot o’ Rot, Tic-Tac-Toe Face, and the less eloquent but far more popular Puke Puss. Thanks for that one, Loopers. But we are who we are. Life is as simple and as complicated as that.
As far as Ernie knew, he wasn’t related to anyone cool. No movie stars, no Ben Franklins. The Loopers’ one claim to fame was a delicatessen established by his great-great-grandfather when he immigrated to east New York. According to a menu in an old family scrapbook, the specialty of the house was an item called blood pudding. Mmmm. That sounds tasty.
Making her rounds, Ms. Fisher, the history teacher, stopped by Ernie’s booth. She was sweet and caring, one of those teachers who encouraged students to share her enthusiasm for—lord help us—world history. She slipped her glasses to the tip of her nose, gazing with care at Ernie’s display. “How’s Romania coming along?”
Ernie was having trouble matching her enthusiasm. “The Taj Mahal would have been nicer.”
“Don’t focus on what you don’t have. Focus on what makes your country great. The culture, the people. Something in your history.”
He told her about his great-great-grandfather’s blood pudding. And the eternally uplifting Ms. Fisher displayed an expression bordering on disgust. “Hmmm. Sounds interesting.” She removed her glasses, as if that might erase the image “blood pudding” had just conjured in her mind. “How about going further back? To a time before your great-great-grandfather. To the past glories of Romania and her people.”
“How do I do that?”
Ms. Fisher flashed her fake disappointed face. “What do I always say?”
“‘Eat on your own time’?”
“Yes, I say that, too. But I also say, ‘Research is the key to unlocking your potential.’ You have the tools. It’s as simple as clicking a mouse, Ernie Looper. Uncover your past. I have a hunch you’ll like what you find. But find it fast. Your project’s due on Friday.” She side-stepped over to the next exhibit, where Kyle McGivers claimed he was related to Benjamin Franklin.
Ernie thought about it. The tools were at his fingertips. There were 101 know-who-you-are websites to choose from. You could trace your lineage back to a cave if you wanted to. And that was what scared Ernie the most. What if the Loopers had always been as un-special as he suspected? What if he was the latest in a long, embarrassing line of Ernies, getting picked on at Transylvania High for generations? As pathetic as his dad, a plumber. Or his mom, who worked in a cubicle. Or his big sister, who couldn’t land a prom date even after she paid for the tickets. Yes, the truth could be scary. But as someone famous—definitely not a Looper—once said, “The truth shall set you free.” Maybe Ms. Fisher was right. Maybe, just maybe, there was something in his past. A prince or a knight or…who knew? Maybe even a count.
As soon as school ended, Ernie rushed to the library (No, not ours) to use its computer, because it was way faster. Delving into a brief history of Roman
ia, he discovered a country rich in culture and cuisine, with a long history of battles and alliances as complex as any. But the real reward came when he stopped by WHO-B-U? and found that Looper wasn’t even his original surname. His great-great-grandfather changed it from Lupescu when he arrived at Ellis Island: “Lup” from the Latin lupus, meaning “wolf,” the full translation being “son of the wolf.” A promising start. But wait, there’s more! There was even a family crest, a symbol that looked like something you’d see on the chest of a superhero, featuring the head of a snarling wolf, all-conquering—something to be proud of.
Where had he seen it before?
From there, it was easy to trace his ancestral line. To his shock, Ernie learned that he had royal blood flowing through his Looper veins. He was a direct descendant of a count—an actual count. Can you believe it? Of course you can. You know what you’re reading. He clicked on a name in the “past notables” section and, because photos didn’t exist back then, a painting appeared. Not that a camera would have done much good. (We’ll get to why later.) An image of the Count appeared. Ernie had inherited his nose and his widow’s peak, but not his eyes. The Count’s eyes were like burning coals, searing through the monitor. Scrolling farther down, Ernie clicked on a Fun Fact and grinned. Wait till Vicky van Sloan hears this. It said that the Count was believed to be a vampire.
Of course, vampires weren’t real. They were the products of cheesy books and even cheesier movies. But it was a great kick to imagine being related to one. Call me Puke Puss one more time and I’ll suck you dry! If only. If only.
That night, during dinner, Ernie mentioned what he had learned, but the conversation was cut short by his mother. “A vampire? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume II Page 4
