Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 3 Read online

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  ISBN 978-1-368-01003-0

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Third Time’s the Harm

  I’ve Been Waiting for You, Foolish Reader.

  Chapter One: X Marks the Rot

  Chapter Two: The Raven’s Inn

  Chapter Three: The Phantom Manor

  Interlude

  Chapter Four: Strange Musicality

  Chapter Five: The Nefarious Nile Room

  Interlude

  Chapter Six: Some Tea with a Mummy

  Chapter Seven: Restless Bones Etherealize

  Interlude

  Chapter Eight: The Door That Breathes

  Chapter Nine: Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad

  Hereafter Thoughts

  Apparitional Addendum

  Biographies

  To the ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties

  and things that go bump in the night…

  —AA

  For Jean, Lou, Laura, Rose, & kin

  —JE

  For Len Wein, who reminded us all

  that it’s supposed to be fun!

  —KJ

  Call it a hunch. A premonition. A feeling in my guts. Oh yes, something in my glowing gray matter told me you’d be back. What is it they say? Third time’s the charm.

  Or is it “Third time’s the harm”?

  No matter. What’s of utmost importance is that you’ve returned, momentarily safe and snug in your reader’s space, for more troubling tales of mystery, madness, and the macabre: three of life’s—and death’s—darkest delicacies. And it is the number three with which we concern ourselves today, for this is volume three, and three also happens to be the most powerful number in the rarefied realms of magic and the occult sciences.

  It is no mere coincidence that a witch’s spell is invoked in repetitions of three. Shall we try one?

  Very well. In a solemn voice, repeat after me:

  I shall read this book, I shall read this book, I shall read this book.

  There now, it seems to be working.

  What else comes in threes? Let’s see. There are three wishes, three blind mice, three musketeers. Then there are the three parts of our day: morning, noon, and night. The three phases of our lives: beginning, middle, and end.

  Ah, the end. Now we’re getting somewhere. Those pitiable final moments. I refer, of course, to life’s constant companion: death. A subject most near and dear to my

  non-beating heart.

  Death comes in threes.

  And fours and fives and so-ons. Death comes for everyone. Sometimes sooner rather than later.

  Oh dear, there I go raising my hopes again. Not to worry, foolish reader. You’re quite safe…for now. We here at the mansion need your kind—the kind with a pulse—to share our tales with the living.

  So enter freely. Pass through our spiked gates, hear the cry of the raven, and roam our cavernous corridors, where doors breathe and walls have eyes. Where the things that haunt your dreams are real…

  And death is only the beginning.

  Enter, foolish reader. I knew you’d come. There’s no turning back now.

  The mansion is an anomaly.

  By all appearances, it was constructed with care, under the strictest of guidelines. It stands on a hill—whose name remains unspoken—where it has stood for over a century, protected by a wrought iron gate of uniform height. Only invited guests are permitted entry. And of those, only a privileged few are said to remain.

  It is often labeled by its mysterious attributes. The mansion has been called enchanted and possessed. Some believe its unhallowed halls are host to refugees from the world of the living. Whatever its true nature, the mansion continues to intrigue and inspire.

  The exterior is no more menacing than that of most homes of substantive girth. It is handsome to the naked eye, with boundless artistry and well-tended grounds. Maintenance crews, however, seem curiously scarce. Some see it as a Southern antebellum; others claim it was built in the style of a Dutch Gothic; still others see a Victorian manor on a hill. A nearby cemetery features grave markers from a bygone era—some with amusing epitaphs—and granite angels and finely sculpted cherubs of varying sizes.

  The mansion is a favored destination for writers of questionable taste and talents, a place to pen the great American ghost story. Or to live it. A harmless vocation by day.

  But beware the night. For when the sun goes down, the true nature of the mansion is revealed, a nature that has secured its sinister reputation. Strange music occupies its hallways. Voices cry out from hidden chambers. The air is always chilled; the moon is always full. This is the mansion many call haunted.

  Its precise history remains a mystery, concealed by fiction, contradicted by fact, one of a few glorious enigmas remaining in a world obsessed with origin stories.

  There are some who claim it began as the residence of a certain Lord Gracey—heir to the Gracey fortune—who died under unusual circumstances. His body was discovered hanging under a skylight in the main foyer.

  Others cling to the tale of a merciless sea captain, whose treasures remain hidden within the mansion’s walls, along with the body of his late wife.

  Still others suggest the mansion was designed by a mad genius for the sole purpose of transforming it into a deadly amusement park, for its secret passages and ingenious contraptions are without peer.

  While its true origins remain elusive, some facts are beyond refute. For example, owing to its curious altitude, the mansion cannot be located by GPS. Nor has it been featured on conventional maps.

  The famous parapsychologist Rand Brisbane spent ten years trying to pinpoint its exact location. The mansion he had erroneously labeled Gracey Manor had become his obsession, the holy grail of haunted investigations, until, finally, having wrangled an invitation by way of séance, Brisbane spent a single evening inside.

  He was discovered the next morning wandering nearby Route 13, speaking gibberish. Brisbane was confined to a padded room in Shepperton Sanitarium, where he later died.

  But before expiring, he had a map to the mansion tattooed on his leg from memory. Like many facets of the legendary mansion, the tattoo has since been dismissed as myth, an urban legend. However, one curious fact endures. The pathologist’s official autopsy report for Rand Brisbane notes a patch of skin, approximately six inches by twelve inches, “missing” from the upper portion of his left thigh.

  Last week in the port of New Orleans Square, three shipping crates arrived by freighter. The ship’s captain had been hired by proxy to secure land transportation to an undisclosed destination. He was provided with a map and paid handsomely to keep the details private. The captain had never seen a map like it.

  It was composed of human flesh.

  You wouldn’t go there if you didn’t have to. Not even if you’d been invited. Especially if you’d been invited. You’d be begging for trouble if you did.

  The tall, brutish man with bulging biceps and one good eye shoved open the saloon-style doors, practically tearing them off the hinges. You might forgive Declan Smythe for not knowing his own strength, except that after five yea
rs of pumping iron in the prison courtyard, he actually knew it. If he hit the doors just right, they’d go flying. And with a little luck, the bouncer would get in his face and fists would fly, too. Declan Smythe loved a good fight, but not nearly as much as he loved a dirty one.

  The Raven’s Inn, located on Pier 33 in New Orleans Square, was known for that sort of clientele—the sort that threw punches before giving compliments.

  Declan had been raised tough on the mean streets of Chicago. Before turning ten, he made his living as a street hustler. When he was eleven, he did his first stint in juvenile hall for beating up the school principal. That was bad enough, but Declan Smythe didn’t even go to school. He just beat up a principal.

  Big-boy prison had done very little to reform his wild ways. On the third Friday after his release, he returned to the scene of so many past indiscretions, the Raven’s Inn. There was that familiar crunch of broken teeth and sawdust under his boots, the smell of burnt chicken wings in the air. Declan Smythe was home. He went straight to his usual seat at the bar; at least, it had been his usual seat five years earlier. The man on the stool glanced over his shoulder. “What can I do ya for, big fella?”

  “You’re in my seat.”

  “So? Go find another one.”

  “You first.”

  Before the man knew it, he was sailing through the saloon doors, which, much to Declan’s delight, did indeed fly off the hinges. No one said a word, not even the bouncer. It must have been the extra thirty pounds of muscle Declan had put on since he’d been away.

  He reclaimed his stool and pounded the counter. A flat-nosed bartender came over straightaway, remembering Declan from the old days. As if he could forget. Declan was the one who’d flattened his nose. The bartender put on his best glad to see ya face. “Declan Smythe, when did they let you out?”

  “Three weeks ago, chief.”

  “You’ll want your usual.” The bartender lifted a cheap libation from under the counter.

  Declan shook his head. “Been off the sauce for years. What I’m really dreamin’ about is a cup of Tusk’s Tasty Tanis Tea.”

  “Keep dreamin’,” said the bartender. “They don’t make that brand no more.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. A lot’s changed since you been away, Deck.”

  Declan gave the tavern the once-over. There were faces he did not recognize, music he had never heard. Yes, the world had moved on without him, taking his job and his home along with it. If things didn’t turn around soon, the toughest tough guy in New Orleans Square might be living in a cardboard box. But his luck was about to change. Notice we didn’t say “for the better.”

  Oh, I noticed.

  He saw her sitting across the bar. She looked exactly the same as he remembered, and—forgive us for saying—“the same” wasn’t a good thing.

  Says who? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

  Marge Mulvaney had the kind of face that looked randomly pieced together by a particularly cruel child. And if you switched the parts around, it would come out even worse. Her eyes were mismatched, and her nose dribbled over her cleft lip like candle wax.

  Declan headed her way as patrons backed up to keep from being trampled. Once in range, he gave Marge a friendly swat on the back. She spit out the slider she’d just put in her mouth, chopped meat and caramelized onions splattering all over the counter. “Whoever you are, get ready to spit teeth!” She cocked her fist and turned. Her face lit up when she saw him. (It didn’t help.) “Declan Smythe! I thought they put you away for good!”

  “Nope. They put me away for bad!” They exchanged old-pal hugs, during which Declan inadvertently adjusted her bad back. “Early release. Would ya believe on ‘good behavior’?”

  “No, I would not believe it!”

  They laughed like they were back in the old days. “So what brings you back to this dive? I thought you got banned for life,” he said.

  Marge hesitated. She was there for a specific reason and was leery of sharing her good news. “Just wettin’ my whistle. Anyhoo, it was great seein’ ya again, Deck. Let’s get together real soon, okay?”

  Declan planted himself on the stool next to her, not going anywhere. “We’re together now. What’s goin’ down, Marge? Tell me. Spill it. All of it.”

  “It’s an honest job, Deck. I’m totally straight these days.”

  “Aces, Marge. Me too. Straight as a boomerang. Who’s involved?”

  She didn’t want to say. Oh, how she didn’t. But Declan wasn’t the type to take no for an answer. “You remember Pasquale? The mover?”

  Declan chuckled. “Skinny little nothin’. You still sweet on him?”

  “I ain’t sweet on nothin’! He owns a moving truck. This old codger hired us to move some goods.”

  Declan stopped chuckling, at once interested. “What goods?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean ya don’t know?”

  “It’s all very mysterious, I tell ya.”

  Declan rested his oversized hand on Marge’s shoulder; even without trying, he felt like he was pressing her into the ground. “Good news, Marge. You got yourself a partner.”

  “I already got a partner.”

  “Then this must be your lucky day, because now you got two. We’ll be the three Mouseketeers.”

  “Musketeers.”

  “Whatever.”

  Marge saw the look in Declan’s good eye. Refusing him was not an option. Besides, it might not be a bad idea. New Orleans Square was a rough spot, and Pasquale was about as menacing as Donald Duck. Marge stuck out her hand to shake. “Welcome aboard, partner. I’ll pay you out of my share.”

  “That’s awful generous of you, Marge. Just awful.” They shook on it. “This delivery? Where’s the drop-off?”

  Marge removed a wrinkled map (the one made from you-know-what) from her bag. “The place is in the middle of nowhere. Off Route 13.” She slid the map across the counter for Declan to take a look. He touched its fleshy corner and shuddered.

  “What in the world?”

  “Pretty creepy, right? You never felt anything like it.” But he had. Declan Smythe knew exactly what the map was made from. He’d been around dead bodies before.

  Marge pointed to their final destination: a large dwelling situated on a hill. Declan nodded in approval. His good eye knew a good deal when it saw one. “A mansion,” he whispered. “Jackpot!” Declan’s good eye narrowed. “When?”

  “Tonight. The old codger said the delivery had to happen between midnight and six.”

  Declan smiled. “Looks like we’re workin’ the graveyard shift.”

  It was past midnight, and Pier 33 was mired in a stew-like fog. Declan, Marge, and Pasquale watched as a trio of dockworkers wheeled three large crates into the cargo hold of an old moving truck. The crates ranged in size: The largest one was a piano case, with the return address Buena Vista Middle School. The second one was an enormous oblong box with custom stamps from Valley of the Kings, Egypt. The third one was long and thin, a little bigger than your average storm door. That label read Salem, Mass.

  Pasquale had just been shown the map, and he was visibly shaken. “I just wanna go on record as sayin’ this is a baaaaad idea. I knew a dude who knew a dude who went up there once. A long time ago.”

  “And?”

  “And the dude went straight-up bonkers! They still got him locked up at Shepperton, along with the rest of the loonies. Laughing his brains out. Loonies love to laugh.”

  “That’s malarkey!” declared Declan.

  “He didn’t know nothin’ about malarkey. He only knew English.” Pasquale gave the map another glance. “That’s it, all right. It looks real fancy on the outside. Like a place you might dream about livin’. Except it ain’t no dream, it’s a nightmare. Because once you get inside, things change real fast. There are rooms with no doors and steps leadin’ to nowhere. And it’s always cold! Even when it’s boilin’ hot outside—so hot your feet can’t even
touch the sidewalk—this place is freezin’.”

  That didn’t faze Declan. “Sounds like cross ventilation to me.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, he seen things,” continued Pasquale. “And some of them things weren’t very nice.”

  “I’m not very nice. Tell me, did he see any gold or jewelry up there?”

  “I wouldn’t know. But he mentioned the artwork. He said they got paintings that change when you stare at ’em.”

  “Then don’t stare at ’em. It ain’t polite to stare,” Marge said as she managed a smile. “He’s nuts, you said so yourself.”

  “Maybe.” Pasquale nodded. “But the mansion didn’t make him that way.”

  Now Marge’s curiosity was piqued. “What in the world does that mean?”

  “It happened later on, after he got home. They found him curled up behind his sofa. The dude was pointin’ and laughin’. Just pointin’ and laughin’. Loonies love to laugh.”

  “At what? Spill it! What was he pointin’ at?”

  “A mirror.”

  “A mirror?”

  “That’s right, a mirror.”

  “Any idea what he saw in there?” Declan asked. Then he added, “Besides his big dumb mug?”

  “The dude’s the only one who knows, and he ain’t sayin’. He’s just laughin’. But whatever he saw, it turned his mop full of black hair…pure white. In an instant. As white as fresh snow!”

  The image made Declan chuckle. It was a nervous chuckle. Pasquale continued. “He did say somethin’ strange while they was loadin’ him into the loony van.” Marge and Declan leaned in to hear. Pasquale looked back at the mysterious crates entering his truck. “He said a ghost had followed him home.”

  Pasquale’s truck chugged along the single-lane highway, bucking like it had a bad case of hiccups. The regular headlights hadn’t done much to penetrate the fog, and the reflection of the high beams only made it worse.

  Pasquale was in the driver’s seat. It was his truck, after all. He had once earned an honest living as a moving man. Honest Man Movers was the company name; it still said so on the side of his truck. But Pasquale had fallen on hard times and, to make ends meet, had resorted to making deliveries for questionable clientele, the kind one often came across in New Orleans Square.