Dr. Ackerman cleared his throat. “As a story, I suppose it had its share of unsettling moments. But if we’re being honest, all that gore…it isn’t my thing.”
“That’s not what I asked, as you well know. I asked if you believed. A simple yes or no, Doctor. You either do or you don’t.”
The doctor had to tread lightly. The wrong answer could send a seemingly docile patient into a rage. It was best just to pacify her. “I believe that you believe. Is that enough of an affirmation?”
“No, it is not!” Prudence sprang from her stool, and Dr. Ackerman reflexively sprang from his, backing into the padded wall. Pointing her finger, Prudence raged: “That tale was not born of my brain! It came from a resident! It was her tale.”
“A resident of the mansion?”
Prudence quickly settled down. “Yes, Dr. Ackerman.”
“And this resident…does she have a name?”
All at once, an inhuman wail perforated the walls. “Cherreeeeeeeee!” It sounded like an animal in mourning.
“He’s been calling her name this entire time, good doctor.”
“You—you think he’s been calling Shelley?” Prudence nodded, and the hairs on the back of Dr. Ackerman’s neck stood on end. But the doctor wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t relent. “But this unfortunate creature, this Adam, as you call him—how did he relay such a tale? You painted him as a near mute. Barely articulate.”
“And he still is.” Prudence Pock was smiling again. “You’re not listening, Doctor; that tale didn’t come from Adam. It came from Shelley herself. She’s just one of the nine hundred ninety-nine happy haunts who have retired to the mansion.”
The doctor placed his hand over the page, cutting her off. “Right. Your supposed haunted mansion. Tell me more about this phantom manor of yours. You’ve established how you got in. The cryptic invitation. The horseless carriage. But I’m wondering how you got out.”
Prudence unleashed a wide all-knowing grin that would make Amicus Arcane envious. “Maybe I didn’t get out. Maybe I’m still inside. Both of us, Doctor, trapped within its corridors. Entombed for all eternity.” She added a raspy chortle as a sour cherry on top. It was an invitation to the other patients, a mad call to arms, and they responded in kind. Uproarious laughter bled through the igloo-like walls.
Naturally, proclaiming himself sane, Dr. Ackerman wasn’t in on the joke. But to the residents of the dungeon, he was the joke. Disbelief in an afterlife—denial of a universe beyond what we can smell and touch and see—was the ultimate punch line to those who’d been there. There would be terrible consequences for some, dark delicacies for others. It all depended on what one’s soul brought to the party.
Dr. Ackerman left room 4, trying to process what he’d just been told. The tale was nonsense, of course. Outlandish was the word he had used. In his professional opinion, Prudence Pock was insane. The wall between rational reality and frightening fiction had collapsed. That was why they’d brought her to Shepperton in the first place. But certain aspects of the story resonated, and Dr. Ackerman found himself, perhaps subconsciously, feeling his way through the corridor, searching for room 3, his eyes probing the suddenly dark hallway.
Had something changed? Was it the deprived lighting? Because the corridor now looked both narrow and endless.
The pitiful wail grew louder. “Cherreeeeeeeee!” The mournful cry came again, even louder this time. “Cherreeeeeeeee!” Dr. Ackerman took another step toward it when…
A gloved hand clamped down on his shoulder, and the doctor almost died from fright. The orderly was behind him, holding his candelabrum. “Aaah, there you are, Doctor. I thought we’d lost you to the shadows. Have you extracted all you required from the patient?”
“No, we’re not finished. I just needed a little air.”
“Yes, it can be a bit stuffy in here. As stuffy as a tomb.”
The remark struck a nerve. “A tomb. That’s what she implied while discussing this mysterious mansion.”
“Mysterious, sir?”
“All right. Haunted, then!”
The orderly nodded. “We had an expert here once. A scientist who claimed to know all about it. This haunted mansion, as you call it.”
Dr. Ackerman perked up, his expression curious. “Who was this so-called expert? And where is he now?”
The orderly shifted the candelabrum so only his head was illuminated. In the flickering light, that looked different, too. Like the corridor itself, his face appeared to narrow, resembling a skull. “I’ll answer the second part first. The so-called expert is currently deceased.”
“Currently?”
“Gone on to a better place. Or is it a deader place? I never can get that right.”
Dr. Ackerman grew impatient. “We’d all like to believe. But we mustn’t allow childhood fantasies to interfere with cold, hard reality.”
“What is cold, hard reality, Doctor?”
“Simply put: dead is dead!”
“That’s your opinion,” said the orderly. “However, getting back to our expert…”
“So-called.”
“The gentleman’s name was Rand Brisbane.”
The doctor hesitated. “I know the name. He was a medium or a mind reader or something.”
“Master Rand was the leading authority on those realities you deem childish. He claimed to have been inside the mansion, to have spent an entire evening amongst its inhabitants.”
“A claim he made after he was brought here?”
“That is correct, good doctor.”
“A claim made from within the walls of a madhouse. With due respect, Mr. Coats, it’s not a very convincing argument. I expect such musings from some of my patients. But this? It’s pure fantasyland.” Not to be confused with Tomorrowland or Adventureland or Frontierland…
Their talk was intruded upon by that long, labored moan, a cry of infinite sadness. “Cherreeeeeeeee!” Dr. Ackerman turned to face the orderly, eager to see his reaction to the sound. Coats readjusted the candelabrum, casting red, yellow, and orange flickers on the next door.
Dr. Ackerman cautiously approached the rectangular slot. The glass had veins snaking through it, as if it had been smashed. “I can’t make out a thing. Where’s the patient?” He spotted a lumpy shape on the floor: a pile of torn rags Dr. Ackerman recognized. “His straitjacket. It’s been torn to shreds!”
The orderly nodded. “Patient three dislikes being confined.”
“But that’s impossible! You can’t tear out of a straitjacket. It would require inhuman strength!”
“Aptly put,” said the orderly. “Aptly put.”
“Cherreeeeeeeee!”
This time, the moan was accompanied by a face, jolting into the rectangular slot. Dr. Ackerman lurched back, startled. He didn’t get a good look at the unfortunate creature, but he saw its bilious eyes darting to and fro. Sorrowful eyes, rendering its guttural pleas more pitiful than petrifying.
“Cherreeeeeeeee!” The very walls vibrated.
Dr. Ackerman aimed his cell light through the rectangular slot and located the hulking silhouette of a man; the poor soul was on its knees. The incongruous parts, the slightly bluish-green complexion: everything matched the description in Prudence’s tale. “Cherreeeeeeeee! Cherreeeeeeeee!”
And it hit Dr. Ackerman: “By God, it’s true.”
Dr. Ackerman returned to room 4 and stood in the doorway, staring at Prudence Pock. Neither spoke; neither moved. The silent standoff lasted for what seemed like an eternity. Then, without a word, Prudence curled her lips in a wide sinister grin and lifted volume four.
The doctor entered, then watched as Prudence opened the book and silently sifted through blank pages until she found what she was looking for. “X marks the rot,” she said. “This tale involves a hidden treasure, one that should have stayed hidden—like a lot of things in this world, Doctor. And the next. Some things are supposed to remain buried.”
Alert, the doctor leaned in close, listening. Yes, he wante
d to hear it. As much as Prudence Pock wanted to tell it. As much as the spirits it involved wanted it told. Thanks to the foreboding nature of his curious profession, Dr. Ackerman had become the perfect audience for her spirited tales. Just like you, foolish reader.
Prudence looked down at the page and began to read aloud the words that weren’t there.
Aah, there you are! Our ghosts have been dying to meet you.
We spirits haunt our best in gloomy darkness.
So turn out the lights and look alive! (For as long as you can.)
A spiteful spirit from centuries past has perilous plans for you, foolish matey.
Snip-snip!
The old lighthouse keeper loved giving middle school tours. He’d been doing them for half a century.
Visitors came to Displeasure Island for the pretty views and fine dining. But mostly they came to see the lighthouse, because it was extraordinary. Not so much in its duties. If we’re being honest, it did what most lighthouses do. But in life (and the afterlife) it’s all about appearances. The Displeasure Island lighthouse was built in the likeness of a pirate—a 168-foot-tall pirate.
And the man who looked after it was also the keeper of its tales. For fifty years, the old lighthouse keeper had entertained the visiting middle schoolers with stories of Captain Gore and his bloody band of pirates. The kids who gathered around him now were enraptured by his finely honed skills as a raconteur. Well, most of them. There was that one obnoxious kid in the back. We’ll get to him in a minute. For now, let’s listen in.
“Ahoy, foolish mateys! Gather round and listen to me tale: the terrifying tale of that infamous sea scoundrel Captain Gore. For fifty years, he terrorized the open seas. No friendly pirate was he. There be no funny cartoon stories about his kind. Take me word for it, mateys. You wouldn’t want to cross swords with Gore or his cutthroat crew, the captain he-self being the most merciless pirate to ever pillage a village.
“Some say he weren’t even human. That he were kin to a race of sea demons, which is why his left hand weren’t no left hand at’all. It were a pincer. A giant claw, like that of a crab—which he used to snip off the heads of his enemies. And Captain Gore had a lot of enemies, he did.
“Men, women, children. Boys and girls alike. Anyone who refused to give up their loot, be it food or be it gold. But even a pirate be no match for one mother. That’d be Mother Nature herself. For it were during a terrible storm when the Bloodmere ran aground in this very cove.”
The lighthouse keeper pointed over the guardrail, to the waves crashing against the cliffs.
“They say he buried his booty along this coastline.” Some of the students laughed and the lighthouse keeper had to explain: “Not that kind of booty. ‘Booty’ be another word for treasure. A treasure that’s still out there, for not a single doubloon’s been recovered. Landlubbers are still looking. Digging up and down the coastline. And some of ’em lost their lives looking. That be the curse, ya see. The curse of Captain Gore, for any foolish mortals lookin’ to loot his loot. Dead men tell no tales.” Oh, I beg to differ. “And the price you pay…off with yer heads!”
The old man swung his left arm around, revealing a pincer instead of a hand!
The students screamed and backed away as a unit. The lighthouse keeper laughed and he laughed, and it wasn’t long before the students laughed with him. The pincer was a rubber prop available in the gift shop. The class applauded, all except one kid. That obnoxious one in the back. His name was Chris. “Is that it?” he blurted. “Can we finally climb up to the top?”
The lighthouse keeper shaded his eyes so he could make out who it was. He saw the boy. The obnoxious one wearing a shirt with an obnoxious slogan (not suitable for printing). “No,” the lighthouse keeper responded. “That weren’t it. There be more, if you’d care to hear it?”
The class said yes. Chris simply shrugged.
The old man looked serious—or as serious as you could look wearing a rubber pincer. “On certain nights, when the storm’s just right, you can still see the Bloodmere adrift in these misty waters, glowing like a firefly. A ghost ship, she is. And if you keep on watching, you’ll see where Captain Gore buried his gold.”
The students sat in silence, enthralled. That is, until Chris blew a raspberry and the entire group laughed. Then he went further, as the obnoxious ones often do. “Have you seen it?” he asked the old man.
“Aye, lad. For certain, I have. When the storms be just as they were, the Bloodmere returns. In all her gory glory.”
“Then how come you didn’t take their booty? I mean, you work in a lighthouse—for what? Minimum wage? You might as well be flipping burgers.” This incited more giggling, the students no longer laughing with the lighthouse keeper but at him.
The old man kept his eyes focused on Chris. “’Cause I remember the code, laddie, as should you. Dead men tell no tales.”
Just then, Ms. Fisher stepped to the front of the class to do damage control. She also had some disappointing news to report. The remainder of the lighthouse tour had been canceled. A storm was coming in from the south, and the last ferry would be leaving for the mainland in twenty minutes. That gave them ten minutes in the gift shop.
In the meantime, Chris convinced his less obnoxious pals, Jaycie and Niles, to ditch the gift shop so they could keep watch while he climbed to the top of the lighthouse. That doesn’t sound like a big deal, since lighthouses have spiral staircases—built specifically for climbing—that lead to observation decks. Except on that day, an electrical storm, the likes of which could bring a cadaver to life (see previous tale), was bearing down on the region, meaning a climb to the top was strictly prohibited.
Except for the obnoxious ones. They had no rules. They’d climb anything.
Chris knew he had about ten minutes before Ms. Fisher would start counting heads. Just enough time to climb. To post a shot from the top deck—the pirate’s hat—simply to prove he had done it. That was his thing: posting pictures of things he’d done that no one else would do. Hey, it was good to be known for something, right? Right?
As soon as the lighthouse keeper went on his break, Jaycie and Niles stood guard as Chris ducked under a chain and began his ascent. The first two flights felt like nothing. He was a healthy young “laddie,” after all. But by level three, he was already feeling fatigued. He stopped for a break, inside the pirate’s booty. (This time, we don’t mean treasure.) All of a sudden, the tower vibrated. There was a great boom, like the sound of cannon fire. Had the Bloodmere returned to destroy the island? Jaycie hollered up the tower. “Yo, Chris, did you feel that thunder? You better come down!”
“Not on your life!” Or…dare I say it? Never mind.
Now more determined than before, Chris went straight to the top deck, the brim of the pirate’s hat. Black clouds had blotted out a previously perfect sky. Now they were unleashing their burden, a storm of supernatural proportions.
Below, Jaycie and Niles ran for cover. The gift shop, their best option, was in range.
Greeted by thunder and lightning and pelted by rain, Chris ventured onto the outer deck. Waves were cascading against the cove. It was an impressive sight—as long as the wind didn’t blow you over the side. With one hand gripping the rail, he raised his cell to grab a shot. Two shots, if he could manage. But before he could do so, the world went completely dark.
Black storm clouds enveloped the lighthouse. Chris could no longer see, let alone take a picture. At the same time, he felt his feet rising from the deck. The wind had taken hold of his legs, and before he knew what was happening, Chris was flying. He let go of his cell so he could hold on to the rail with both hands. The loss of a phone didn’t compare with what else he was about to lose: his life! Chris cried out for help, but the storm—a storm more obnoxious than even he was—swallowed his voice. Don’t let go, he kept repeating in his head. You’ll die if you let go!
But the rain had done a number on his grip, pelting away at his fingers. Chris felt himself slipp
ing away. He was going to fall. This was the end. But the moment before Chris succumbed, he saw it.
A ship had emerged from the eye of the storm, like a glowing teardrop in the abyss. It was the Bloodmere, rising and dipping along the wavy coastline. It had three masts: the one in the middle flew a Jolly Roger, the skull and crossbones flag of a pirate vessel.
Chris studied the ship with a gamer’s intensity, the storm no more than a minor inconvenience now. Less than a hundred yards away, a vision out of some glorious pirate past had unfolded. He watched as a specter disembarked from the gangplank of the phantom vessel. A stout man with a black beard, a white do-rag with red speckles, a white shirt, black pants—oh, and a pincer for a hand. A real one, not available at the gift shop. It had a pinkish hue and double rows of sharp white teeth on the insides of the claw. A pair of shipmates went ashore with Gore. They were carrying a weathered chest, and Chris instantly knew what it was. He was obnoxious, true, but he was also a good listener. It was Captain Gore’s booty!
On orders from their captain, the pirates lugged the chest into the fourth cave in the cliff. There were hundreds of caves, by the way; if you looked it up on an antique map, Displeasure Island resembled a giant piece of Swiss cheese.
Chris witnessed the whole thing. And a moment later, he saw the pirates emerge from the cave without the chest. If his eyes hadn’t deceived him, he’d seen where they had hidden their treasure! But the last thing he saw before he fell was a scene of unmitigated horror. Captain Gore had ordered the pirates to their knees. And immediately thereafter, without hesitation, he swiftly snipped off their heads with his pincer. The headless pirates remained momentarily upright. Could their disembodied heads still see what was happening from the sand? Chris saw. He saw what the heads could not. He saw Captain Gore, staring back at him from across time.
Remembering gravity, the headless pirates slumped forward at precisely the same moment. And before Chris even screamed—and he did, you know—the black cloud banished the vision back into the past. But it was too late for Chris. He had seen it. A sick sensation entered his body, and forgetting where he was, he opened his hands and dropped from the observation deck; the wind caught him and spun him around like a doomed kite before letting him go.
Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 4 Page 6
