The doctor had a general idea. “It’s Latin, of course. If memory serves, it means ‘Remember death.’” He added under his breath, “As if one could forget it.”
“You’re close, Doctor. So very close. It means ‘Remember you must die.’”
He resented the correction, as minor as it was. “And these words—they hold some special significance?”
“All words pertaining to death hold significance for me. Death is my business, Doctor. At least, it was. Graves, ghouls, goblins—they were my bread and butter.”
“But you stopped. Why?”
She looked at him sharply, then smiled, as if he’d made an unexpected blunder. “Come now, Doctor. You’re my biggest fan. You know a lot more than you’re admitting to. That’s fine. I’ll play your little game. In truth, I hadn’t produced a worthwhile sentence in years.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I suppose…I stopped believing.” She rose to her feet, making the six-foot-two Dr. Ackerman feel small. “I stopped believing in the ghosts and the goblins that populated my work. And when a writer stops believing, the words stop believing. The inkwell goes dry, so to speak.”
“You’re talking about writer’s block.” Dr. Ackerman stood, too.
“Yes, Doctor. Writer’s block. I no longer believed in anything I had to say. Until that night in the mansion. The things I saw, Doctor. The visions of a world I dare not convey. If my readers only knew…they’d never sleep again.”
“Why is that? Why would your readers never sleep again?”
She shifted her eyes to the rectangular slot in the door. “Because, dear doctor…they’d be too busy praying.”
Prudence Pock had gotten under his skin, all right.
“What’s wrong, Doctor? You seem distressed.”
He avoided looking at her eyes—eyes that told the truth. They were the windows to Prudence’s soul and perhaps to his, too.
“Please sit down, Doctor. You’re making me anxious.”
“Very well, if it will calm your nerves.” Dr. Ackerman returned to his stool, and in the same moment, both of them sat. “Do you know why they brought you here?” he asked.
“Of course, Doctor. They say I’m unsane.”
Dr. Ackerman paused, almost as if for dramatic effect. “I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”
“Where to begin?” Prudence smiled wistfully, thinking back forty-eight hours. “I suppose it all began in Liberty Square. I was doing an event in a small brick-and-mortar shop. A book signing.”
“Something new?”
His question amused her. “Now, now, Doctor. I already told you, I haven’t written anything new in years. It’s a compilation of short stories. Some of my early work. A greatest hits package, if you will. The Very Best of Prudence Pock. Sound familiar?”
“No,” he lied, “I’m afraid I don’t know that one.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Prudence slapped her hands together. CLAP! The doctor jolted back, startled. “So sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to frighten you…prematurely.” She opened her hands, and the color drained from the doctor’s face. There was an old hardcover book in her hands; it seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
“That’s remarkable. How did you do that?”
“Magic, Dr. Ackerman. I believe in magic again. And before this night is out, so will you. Now, where were we?”
Prudence Pock leaned forward and started from the beginning. From the event in Liberty Square two days earlier.
The last time she had been considered sane.
It was in Ye Olde Book Shoppe that Prudence Pock first came to a numbing realization: It’s almost over. The first visible signs of arthritis had crept in. Her joints were gnarled, her fingers twisted. It was becoming painful just to sign her name. Soon I’ll have to give up the pen, she thought. The quill. The instrument of my art. And how many people will actually care?
How many people would actually care? Thirty-one fans had shown up in total. You wouldn’t call it a crowd, but hey, has-beens can’t be choosers. And wasn’t it better to be a has-been than a never-was? Her reading public had moved on to a new flavor. And who could blame them? Not Prudence Pock. She was grateful for the handful of fans she had left.
The next person in line held out a book for her to sign. He was a high school freshman, at most. Couldn’t even make eye contact. “Who would you like it made out to?” she asked.
His response was barely audible. “Just your name, please.” Prudence signed her name and slid the book across the table. She knew the autograph wasn’t for him. He planned to sell it online. Turn a fast buck. The young ones weren’t interested.
Ouch!
Prudence Pock knew the sting of rejection all too well. It had been her partner, her mate, for most of her professional life. A lifetime of strangers telling her that her work wasn’t good enough. That they liked the last one better. That what she said or did had no value. But for that one crumb, that tiny morsel, had any of it truly been worth it?
“I’m your biggest fan.” Prudence heard it as an angelic whisper. And in that instant, she decided it had. It had been worth it. She looked up, adjusting her glasses to greet the fan.
But there was no one there, just the soft tinkling of a charm bracelet still lingering in the air. It reminded Prudence of her childhood. In place of a book, there was a small black envelope with a fancy seal: AA stamped in bloodred wax.
Prudence stepped outside Ye Olde Book Shoppe, holding her complimentary mochaccino, hoping to see the mystery girl riding off on a pretty pink bike with a wicker basket stuffed with fancy invites. But Liberty Square had pretty much cleared out. She glanced back at the shop. The manager was already plucking down the banner that announced her signing: PRUDENCE POCK—MISTRESS OF THE MACABRE! BORN TO MAKE YOU SCREAM!
The fancy black envelope was no bigger than an index card, probably an invitation to a kid’s birthday party. Prudence loosened the seal with her stirrer and removed a card. It was an invitation, most certainly, but not to a child’s party. In deep red lettering, it read:
Dear Mistress Prudence:
You are cordially invited to attend a ghost writers’ symposium.
A grand prize will be bestowed upon the author of the scariest tale,
to be selected by yours truly.
A carriage will be sent to collect you tomorrow evening
when the Liberty Square clock tower strikes twelve.
We’re dying for you to attend.
Sincerely,
Amicus Arcane,
H.M. librarian
Prudence shuddered when she saw the name (thank you), then looked across the village square to see if she was being pranked. No signs of that. She slipped the invitation back inside the envelope, considering its implications. What if it wasn’t a prank? And the grand prize. What could it be? Then she thought about what her life had become.
Most evenings were spent in front of a TV, watching old Diana Durwin movies and eating microwave dinners. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been invited out. Why shouldn’t she attend? To go out and socialize? It might be fun. Certainly different. Maybe even adventurous. These days, what did she have to lose? I could say, but why spoil the ending?
And that was when Prudence Pock accepted the invitation to a grand celebration that would change her life—maybe even shorten it—forever and ever.
Twenty-four hours later, Prudence found herself back in Liberty Square, watching the minute hand on the clockface creep toward midnight. She was waiting for her ride to what she guessed would be a strange and wondrous evening. She had chosen a simple black dress—one she hadn’t worn since the death of her beau—with a light sweater in case she got the chills. Somehow, it felt appropriate.
Gong!
The clock struck twelve and the air itself seemed to part, allowing for the introduction of a different sound. It was the clip-clop of hooves, and Prudence Pock couldn’t believe what she w
as seeing.
An old-fashioned carriage had approached the square and was making its way over to its soul passenger. It creaked to a halt directly in front of her, a motorless antique hearse, out of fashion since the nineteenth century. All black, naturally, with an oblong compartment made of see-through glass.
Prudence smiled appreciatively. She had to hand it to this Amicus Arcane, whoever he was. He’d certainly gotten the fine details right. There was even a dead wreath attached to the rear, with a flowing sash that read WITH OUR DEEPEST CONDOLENCES. She stepped around front to greet the driver. But there wasn’t one. Doubly strange, there wasn’t even a horse. Just a harness floating in midair where a horse should be. But she’d heard the clopping, right? Right?
She added light applause to her smile. “Bravo! Bravo!” Clearly, someone had been operating the hearse by remote control from somewhere nearby. That would be one explanation. But not the only one.
Prudence reached for the door handle, and not surprisingly, the door opened on its own. She squeezed herself into the oblong compartment and had to lie down horizontally to fit. After all, it was meant for a coffin. As soon as she settled in, the hearse jerked forward, the clopping of invisible hooves echoing through Liberty Square.
And almost instantly, Prudence felt her writer’s block disappear. The creative juices were flowing again, flowing like rivers of blood.
The horseless hearse coasted through town, passing a quaint gazebo, where local teens had their first kisses, and Rosie’s Ice Cream Shop, where local kids had their first scoops. Villagers were lining the sidewalk, even at so late an hour, eyeing the hearse like the main float in a paranormal parade. Some of the gentlemen even removed their hats. Perhaps they thought it was a real funeral. So this is how the dead feel, thought Prudence. Respected. She liked that.
But it was the marquee on the recently restored Bijou theater that sent torrents of ice water through her veins, its melty red letters dripping, bleeding, pleading:
NOW PLAYING:
MEMENTO MORI
The journey continued up that treacherous path most often referred to as Route 13, where ravens cawed and blackened trees reached out to grab travelers. It was the kind of road Prudence used to write about, before the affliction took hold—a path perpetually mired in fog, its only source of light an almost impossibly large moon shimmering through dead branches. She had visited Route 13 many times in the past. What respectable ghost writer hadn’t? Her first time was when she was doing research for a story on those legendary hitchhiking ghosts, one of whom was a distant relation. But that’s a whole other story.
Prudence found herself heading for the wrought iron gates of the Eternal Grace Cemetery, one of the oldest, most distinguished boneyards in the land. But the gates were chained shut and the horseless hearse was moving fast, way too fast to stop. Prudence Pock could see it coming. The horrible accident! The tiny obituary! It was a foregone conclusion, the collision inevitable. Add the death of Prudence Pock to the lurid legacy of Route 13.
She closed her eyes. No time for prayers.
But she never felt an impact, because the impact never came. Prudence opened her eyes and looked out through the glass enclosure. There were gravestones whizzing by her. Somehow, some way, the horseless hearse had passed through the gate without crashing.
The hearse arrived at her final destination, and Prudence departed prematurely—in the most literal sense—and watched as the horseless hearse clip-clopped off, disappearing into the fog. Looking around brought about a shiver. The fog, the moon, the sounds. It felt like a moment from one of her stories. She could see the headlines: Famous ghost writer stranded in graveyard. Stranded, yes. But not alone.
She heard festive music emerging from beyond the tombstones. For a city of the dead, the graveyard was especially hopping!
Bagpipes, harps, flutes, and tambourines. Prudence rubbed her hands together. It was that curious combination of fear and excitement. She didn’t know what she expected to see. Something good? Something bad? But the time for guessing had passed. She made her way along a footpath, examining the headstones—most with amusing epitaphs—as she went.
A large one featured the sculpted semblance of a woman, her hair carefully intertwined with a shroud that wrapped around her disembodied noggin. Prudence felt a pang when she read whose ghostly retreat it was.
It was the final resting place of the world’s most powerful medium. And Prudence thought, Rand would have just died to see this! He did. At the same time, the sculpted likeness winked! Prudence chuckled nervously. A common defense mechanism. Chuckles instead of screams. Not to worry, foolish reader. The screams are on their way.
For now, the festivities were underway. She could see colored balls of light—orbs to those in the know—bouncing jubilantly in the night sky! Were her eyes playing tricks on her? The images were beyond her darkest imaginings, and just a reminder: she could imagine very dark. Frightful figures were everywhere. One resembled a living mummy sitting up in a sarcophagus and sipping a cup of tea. And over yonder! A king and a queen were balancing on a seesaw. And what of the five marble busts, singing their merry song—some ditty about grim grimy hosts coming out to soak their eyes. Ahem! Let’s get that hearing checked, shall we, Mistress Prudence?
Marvelous, thought Prudence. The special effects are simply marvelous. Because what other explanation could there be? Sights such as those weren’t real. The frightful figures had to be holograms, or some sort of state-of-the-art animatronics. Special effects to die for! Quite literally.
Clink-tink-clink.
Prudence heard the sound, one she recognized from the bookshop. The clinking of jewelry, most likely a charm bracelet. She turned to spot the owner. Instead, Prudence found herself looking into the eyes of a granite angel perched on a pedestal, its wings expanded, its hair seeming to change colors in the moonlight.
The girl depicted by the statue looked so young, so lovely, so innocent. A guess, a guess, and a guess.
Prudence stepped closer to read the marker, and her eyes filled with tears. “Twelve years old. My poor, sweet angel. You had your whole life ahead of you.” She took a step back and saw the bracelet. But it wasn’t possible. It had been sculpted around the statue’s wrist, the charms representing various pets: a rabbit, a parrot, a goldfish, and a guinea pig. “They showed you love, didn’t they? At least you had love.” And she might have added unlike me.
Prudence stroked the angel’s cheek. But the melancholy moment was rudely interrupted when something flicked her silvery bun. Prudence turned to scold whoever it was. She saw no one, but she heard laughter. The impish chortles of mischievous boys. Where were they hiding?
As Prudence turned back to regard the angel one last time, her jaw nearly hit the ground. Pick up on aisle thirteen! The stone angel had disappeared, utterly and completely, as if it had flown off. Only the pedestal remained.
Clink-tink-clink.
The sound approached from above. Prudence smiled, forgetting where she was. She’d always wanted to meet an angel. But then the smile went away. Aren’t angels merely devils in disguise? she wondered.
She located a small reserve of courage and turned to face whatever it might be. She didn’t see a devil. Not yet, anyway. She saw a young girl, no more than twelve, with blue hair and eyes that matched. The embodiment of the granite angel, minus the wings. “Hello, there,” said the girl in a voice Prudence remembered from her signing.
“Hello.” It was especially chilly, so Prudence removed her sweater and offered it to the blue-haired stranger. “Take it, sweetie. You’ll catch your death out here.”
The girl couldn’t help giggling. “I seriously doubt that.”
Prudence nodded, slipping her arms back into the cardigan. “Those boys I heard—are they with you?”
“The little jerkoids! Did they scare you?”
“No, not really.” Prudence smiled. “Just boys being boys.”
The girl shook her head like a disapproving den mother. �
�Those boys, as you call them, are a lot older than they appear. I sometimes wish—” She cut herself off with a painful reminder: No more wishes.
“Are you here visiting a loved one?”
The girl shook her head. “I’m here visiting you.” Prudence noticed the silver bracelet around her wrist, glistening in the moonlight. Clink-tink-clink.
“You’re the one. The girl who left me the invitation.”
“That’s me,” the angelic presence confirmed. And she added, “I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read all your work, even the things you haven’t written yet. Tonight, if you’ll allow me…I’d like to inspire you.”
Prudence was both curious and confused, trying to make sense of it all and figure out where it was going. Stop guessing. See Volumes I, II, and III.
“I don’t understand,” she finally responded. “What are you trying to say?”
“It’s much better if I show you.” The girl pointed to the horizon. Clink-tink-clink. “It isn’t very far.”
“What isn’t very far?”
“The place you’ve always dreamed of.”
A pathway appeared between the headstones, zigzagging all the way up the hill. The blue-haired girl led the way, Prudence seeing her angelic form floating behind stone monuments.
“Wait!” Prudence ran to catch up. “Slow down! These knees aren’t what they used to be!” The girl paused, hovering as if she was standing on air. “I just realized,” Prudence said between huffs and puffs, “I don’t even know your name.”
The girl smiled. It had been so long since anyone had asked. “Willa,” she replied. And in that moment, her hair returned to its natural color, dirty blond.
Willa. Willa Gaines. That was the name Prudence had seen on the marker. And the very idea of it greatly disturbed her. “Look, dear. I enjoy a good scare just as much as the next girl, but using the name of a dead person seems in pretty poor taste.”
“It’s my real name, dear. And while we’re on the subject of poor taste, let’s discuss those books you wrote. The Gruesome Group.”
Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 4 Page 2
