Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 4

by Amicus Arcane

  Copyright © 2019 Disney Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1200 Grand Central Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-368-04421-9

  For more Disney Press fun, visit www.disneybooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  The End Is Nigh.

  Chapter One: The Road to Madness

  Chapter Two: You Are Cordially Invited

  Interlude

  Chapter Three: Class Brain

  Chapter Four: Class Brain (Part 2)

  Chapter Five: What Do You Believe?

  Interlude

  Chapter Six: A Pirate’s Death for Me

  Chapter Seven: A Pirate’s Death…(Part 2)

  Chapter Eight: Ghost Relations

  Interlude

  Chapter Nine: Writer’s Block

  Chapter Ten: The End Is Nigh

  Hereafter Thoughts

  Biographies

  For Mistresses Granger and Black, as well as Mistress Woods, whose contributions to these terrifying tales are unequaled. Thank you.

  —AA

  For Ma—my heart, my hero—forever. Some things never pass.

  —JE

  For Mike, my fellow traveler and vampire hunting comrade, who taught me to draw by the light of the full moon….

  —KJ

  Welcome, foolish mortals, to our grand anniversary celebration.

  The party began on August 9, 1969, when 999 happy haunts from crypts throughout the world retired to the spooky sanctum of our humble abode, the Haunted Mansion.

  The frightening festivities have continued ever since, both above ground and below, in this country and beyond.

  For the foolish mortals brave enough to attend, we guarantee a ghoulishly good time. And the haunting’s free, so please join our jamboree.

  Your doom buggy awaits….

  As each day turns to night and every body turns to dust, so, too, must my tenure as your loyal librarian reach its creepy conclusion.

  All things must pass.

  Yes, I, Amicus Arcane, keeper of frightening fictions and your ghost host for these tales, shall be moving on to grayer pastures. It has been my distinct displeasure to serve you—the living—to regale your kind with 999 spooky stories from creepy crypts around the globe.

  But before I go, I have one final service to attend. It is my obligation as departing librarian to select a replacement, someone—or something—to keep watch over our diabolical depository.

  How about you, foolish reader? Do you have what it takes? Will you be our next librarian? I am seeking just the right nightmarish note on which to end. So bring me your scariest tale.

  But be warned—the competition is stiff. Quite literally. Ghost writers from around the world will be vying for the position. Final arrangements have been made, invitations have been sent, doom buggies have been dispensed. At the stroke of thirteen, the first guests shall appear—and disappear.

  Won’t you join us?

  You are cordially invited to attend this grand celebration.

  The entrance should be frighteningly familiar by now.

  You enter by turning the page.

  Who would pave such a path? What pestilent purpose could it serve? It is said that all roads lead somewhere. Route 13, with its curving, twisting, winding lane perpetually blanketed by a debilitating fog, can only lead to madness.

  Or death.

  It has led to madness and death before, many times during its storied past. And it soon will again.

  Thirteen people died during its inception. That’s how the treacherous path, whose actual name is no longer spoken, got its unofficial moniker. Countless motorists have gone missing trying to navigate its corrupt course, as tributes littering both sides of the road attest. There have been numerous sightings, now considered folklore, of specific apparitions. The most common one involves a trio of mischievous hitchhikers looking to bum a ride from unsuspecting travelers. Local legends, of course. Legends that have no basis in fact. Or do they?

  Apart from those transcendental sightings, the dense foliage that hugs Route 13 is home to peculiar wildlife—bats, ravens, and vultures, to name but a few—nocturnal in nature. Like the road itself, its surroundings thrive in darkness.

  Legend has it that beyond the vestige of a vast cemetery, the path leads to a gated mansion on a hill. For those who make it past its threshold, a wondrous journey awaits. The mansion is said to be the doorway to a world yet to come, a place beyond one’s darkest imaginings. Souls from around the globe, it’s been whispered, go there to “retire”—some by choice, others by more persuasive methods. For those willing to embrace its magic, there are myriad rewards: a return to the wonders of childhood, a confirmation of those dark imaginings.

  But to the nonbelievers—beware! To those who doubt: turn back now. If you dismiss the indisputable evidence of a world beyond ours, a much graver fate awaits.

  A fate worse than death.

  Officer Davis was new to the police department. It was only his second night on the job when the terror began. The new ones were always given the night shift. And the brand-new ones were always given Route 13 to see if they had what it took to make it on the force. Davis had heard all the rumors, of course, the ones about Route 13 being—what was the word?—frilly. No, that wasn’t the word.

  Treacherous. The word was treacherous.

  A word that suited Officer Davis just fine. Because along with treacherous came deserted. Very few travelers ventured onto Route 13 after dark. The daytime was a different matter. Route 13 was the only road going into and out of the Eternal Grace Cemetery.

  Officer Davis didn’t punch in till midnight. We’re talking the late, late shift. The witching hour, as they call it. He had parked his squad car behind a USE CAUTION AFTER DARK billboard, keeping strategically out of sight. His job was to protect the roadway. But there were no speeders that night apart from several large bats fluttering past his radar, and he couldn’t ticket them.

  It was going to be a very dull shift, with plenty of time to catch up on his reading. Officer Davis was dying to know how his book ended. It was one of those horror anthologies most respectable readers wouldn’t be caught dead with. Aaaah! You’ve been caught. Play dead! It involved a group of friends who loved to tell scary stories. It was called The Gruesome Group. Not The Fearsome Foursome. Copyright issues, you understand.

  Officer Davis opened the book and skimmed all the way to the end. It was the fourth and final tale, and it involved a premature burial. Davis smiled appreciatively. Those horror writers. Where did they get their sick ideas? He flipped over the book and studied the author photo: a rosy-cheeked lady with thick glasses, her silver hair worn in a bun. Truthfully, she looked about as menacing as your local librarian. Ahem! Hers wasn’t a face you’d associate with such tales, and in fact, her bio stated she had once been a poetess. Of course, penning tales about the unliving was way more profitable, so she switched gears. And it was a good thing, too. Her stories had already been translated into 666 languages; even an awful movie adaptation couldn’t tarnish her brand. We’re talking, of course, about that international icon of fright: Prudence Pock, who, according to the jacket, “was born to make you scream.” Go ahead. Scream. I’ll wait.

  AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

  Wa
s that you?

  The book flew out of Officer Davis’s hands. The scream, a genuine cry of terror, had come from somewhere along Route 13. His heart was racing—so fast, in fact, he could have given it a speeding ticket.

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

  There it was again, longer and louder. Someone needed help. So Officer Davis grabbed his flashlight and hopped out of the car.

  The road felt unnatural, as if he was heading downward instead of upward. Officer Davis was afraid; he’d be the first to admit that. Would you be the second?

  Cruuuuunch. Crunch. Cruuunch. Cruuuunch.

  Uh-oh. He heard footsteps, the crunchy kind, headed his way. “Is somebody there?” His flashlight hand was trembling. “Hello?” He made a half-turn, maneuvering his light. “Show yourself, whoever you are. If you’re in trouble, I can help!” It was his first real police officer moment. And also his last. He would resign the next day, like everyone else who’d worked the night shift on Route 13. But at least he sounded in charge.

  He wasn’t, of course. Cruuunch. Crrrrrrrunch. The footsteps were in charge. The night belonged to them.

  Caw! Caw! Caw! Another sound emerged from the trees. Davis looked up and saw a large raven eyeballing him from a branch. Caw! Caw! Caw!

  He agreed with the bird. It was time to get back to the car—car—car! He bolted down the hill, which felt like he was bolting up the hill. Could things get any worse? he thought. Then his flashlight went out.

  They could.

  The squad car was just ahead, shrouded in fog. He made it to the door and leaped inside. Safe! Officer Davis slumped down below the steering wheel, closing his eyes for a second of relief. With his eyes closed, he couldn’t see the skeletal hand creeping up over the seat behind him. But soon he felt its bony digits making a path across his shoulder.

  “Good evening, Officer,” someone said from the backseat.

  Officer Davis jerked forward, and his breath left his body. Looking up into his rearview mirror, he saw a skull-like face glaring back at him—grinning. He flipped on the interior lights and turned, finding a fully fleshed woman in place of the skeleton. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Don’t you know?”

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw a face he recognized. In fact, he’d just been admiring her picture. Prudence Pock, author of The Gruesome Group, was inside the car. “They’re coming for me, Officer. The spirits of the dead. And then they’ll come for you.” Prudence Pock added a laugh, the scary kind nobody likes to hear.

  Officer Davis hit the gas, and as the squad car raced from Route 13, he radioed headquarters and informed them of the situation. Upon hearing the crazed laughter over the radio, headquarters advised him to take Prudence Pock directly to Shepperton Sanitarium, an asylum for the insane.

  The staff at Shepperton referred to the ward below the basement as the dungeon. It was where they kept the special patients, the ones the doctors deemed incurable. The laughers and the screamers. The ones they would never allow to leave.

  It was several hours past mealtime—an unusual time to be in an unusual place. The overhead fluorescents brought an unnatural brightness to the sparse corridor. An elevator door opened at the far end, and a pair of properly dressed gentlemen entered the chilled domain. The first was Coats, the night orderly. He punched a security code into a keypad with his gloved hand. There was a buzz followed by a mechanized release. A set of security doors swished open, and the orderly extended his hand. “This way, Dr. Ackerman.”

  The esteemed Dr. Ackerman was behind him. An acclaimed psychiatrist and author, Dr. Ackerman was considered the leading expert on the incurably insane. The doctor waited, somewhat impatiently, as the orderly lit the individual candles of an antique candelabrum. “Really, Coats. That’s a bit theatrical, don’t you think?”

  “Theatrical, sir?”

  “The candles. It’s perfectly light down here.”

  “For now.” The orderly led Dr. Ackerman into the narrow passage. “The lights get temperamental during storms. Take my word for it, Doctor. You don’t want to be down here in the dark.”

  The doctor sighed. “Very well. Lead on.”

  The hall was sixty feet long, made of cinder blocks, with six numbered doors, three on either side. They were entrances to padded rooms, each one equipped with a small rectangular observation slot. The sole accoutrement was a round clock on the far wall, its face protected by steel mesh. Ackerman thought that beyond its modern facade, the same corridor might have been an actual dungeon back in the day, its padded cells torture chambers equipped with devices such as the rack and the knee splitter. Ah! Did someone say “party games”?

  A patient barked out orders as Dr. Ackerman passed his door. “Martin! I’ll take my tea now, Martin! Original blend! Chop-chop!”

  “It’s not quite teatime, Colonel,” replied the orderly. Dr. Ackerman looked his way, curious. “That would be Colonel Tusk,” explained the orderly. “The famous importer of rare and exotic goods. He’s been with us for quite some time.”

  “Why, may I ask? He sounds perfectly lucid.”

  The orderly moved close, the flickering candelabrum bringing an unnatural glow to his gaunt face. “Some time back, he imported an Egyptian mummy to the States. Along with some very special tea leaves. And, well, the details are in his file.” As well as Volume III.

  “Making progress, I trust?”

  The orderly lowered his head. “I’m afraid he’s lost, sir. Like the others. Trapped in the recesses of his own mind. You see, the residents of the dungeon”—his eyes shifted to the other doors—“they share an uncommon trait.”

  “And that trait would be?”

  “They say they’ve seen a ghost, good doctor. Or two. Or three.” A thunderclap rocked the hallway, a bone-rattling rumble, taking out the overhead lights. The orderly lifted the candelabrum, his face saying I told you so, followed by his mouth: “I told you so.” The orderly pointed to a door labeled 4. “She’s in there, sir. Our newest arrival. Been requesting you by name.”

  “That’s odd. Do I know the patient?”

  “Perhaps by her work. You are a reader, are you not?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, it’s a favorite pastime.”

  “Ah! It’s good to pass the time, Doctor. Since time is all we have…in the end.” The orderly inserted a brass skeleton key into the lock. But before he turned the latch, the door creaked open on its own.

  The encompassing walls of room 4 were made up of small white cubes, making it look like the inside of a giant igloo, with no windows and no d—Well, there was one door, if we’re being honest. The orderly carried a stool in from the corridor and set it down. “Dr. Ackerman to see you, Mistress Pru—” He stopped himself. “Ma’am.”

  The patient was seated on her own stool with her back to them. Dr. Ackerman could see her silvery bun bobbing up and down. She was busy doing something. “I’ll just be a minute. It’s almost finished.” Prudence Pock looked as though she was writing, but she had no pen and no paper. She was writing a story on air.

  Dr. Ackerman sized her up. If appearances counted for anything, she looked to be mild-mannered, a middle-aged woman. The doctor turned to the orderly, who remained in the doorway. “You can leave now, Coats. I’m certain patient four will behave.”

  “Very well,” replied the orderly. “I’ll be right outside if you need me. All you have to do is scream.” Dr. Ackerman heard the key turn the latch. He was locked in a padded room with patient four.

  Dr. Ackerman placed his stool directly across from Prudence, smiling when he caught her eye. “What are you working on?”

  “A tale.”

  “I’d be interested in hearing it. Would you care to tell me what it’s about?”

  “When it’s finished.” Her hand kept moving, and Dr. Ackerman kept waiting. He waited until she appeared to complete her invisible work. “Ahhh, that one creeped me out!” she said, and mimed putting down a pen.

  Dr. Ackerman tried changing the subject.
Something mundane. Sane. “I’m told you haven’t taken a meal. Perhaps now that you’ve completed your work…”

  “I seem to have permanently lost my appetite. Why do you suppose that is, Doctor? What is your prognosis?”

  She was baiting the doctor, but he refused to bite. “Let’s chat a bit first. May I sit?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Dr. Ackerman lowered himself onto the stool. “I understand you requested to see me.”

  They locked eyes, and Dr. Ackerman had a momentary flash of recognition. He knew her face; it had once been a very famous one. This pleased Prudence Pock. “There, Doctor. You do know me.”

  “From your books. And, of course, I’ve seen you on some talk shows. Mostly around Halloween.”

  “Yes, that is my busy season.” She slid her stool closer. “Do you consider yourself a fan?”

  The question caught the doctor off guard, and it gave her enormous pleasure to see him squirm. “This isn’t about me, my dear. It’s about you.”

  “But I’m familiar with your work, too, Doctor. I know everything you’ve done.”

  Dr. Ackerman nodded appreciatively. He was an author in his own right, with thirteen nonfiction best sellers under his belt, each one focused on a specific incurable madness. It made sense for a purveyor of terror tales to use his books as research.

  “Tell me, Doctor. You’re highly educated. Do you believe in an afterlife?”

  Dr. Ackerman took a long breath. He could feel the orderly watching through the door slot. He needed to be careful. He knew from experience the wrong response usually set the quiet ones off. He gave his stock answer. “What I believe is unimportant. It’s what you believe, my dear. That’s the only truth I’m interested in.”

  “Aaah, the truth. That is important.” Prudence Pock removed her glasses. There was an unmistakable certainty in her eyes, her look never wavering. “Memento mori.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Me-men-to mor-i,” she repeated, savoring every syllable. “Are you familiar with the term?”