Tales from the Haunted Mansion Vol. 1: The Fearsome Foursome (17 page)

Rolly was still pleading when Steve clicked off the phone and lowered the lid. Now his world was dark but far from silent. Because Steve was still rambling for all the nearby apparitions to hear. “Come Monday, I’ll be king again. All hail the king of dares!”

By then, total exhaustion had settled in. It had been quite an evening, filled with searching…and worrying…and digging. So Steve closed his eyes and took a nap, just like he’d said he would. Soon he fell into a deep slumber. He didn’t even stir when a caretaker, accompanied by his shivering bloodhound, wandered by the open grave and, using the same spade Steve had left behind, shoveled the remaining dirt over the Eternal Rest Deluxe Recliner, burying him alive.

By the time Rolly convinced the sheriff to excavate the grave, more than four hours had gone by. When they finally opened the coffin, they found Steve with his arms folded across his chest, looking positively regal. His oxygen had expired, accounting for the royal-blue hue. And unless Rolly was imagining it, he noticed that Steve’s lips were curled, indicating total satisfaction. The corpse in the casket was filled with pride—and more than a few worms. Rolly Price was forced to concede. Ole Steve-o was once again the king of dares…for all eternity.

T
he librarian closed the book.
But don’t you, dear reader. You still have several pages to go.

His Royal Highness, King Steve-o himself, was now back in the library, surrounded by his best buds. Yet there was no comfort. No warmth. Like his friends, he felt only the chill of the grave. This time, the librarian didn’t ask for criticisms or comments. He knew from the group’s frosty expressions that the time for commentary had passed. “Now do I get my ice cream?”

Steve’s hands balled into fists, but not from anger; he was just trying to conceal the dirt under his nails. “No, you don’t get your ice cream! That was the least scary of them all! Now you said we could leave, old man.” Steve puffed out his chest, as if that might intimidate a talking skull. “Let us leave—right now—or there’ll be trouble.”

“Allow you to leave?” The librarian seemed puzzled. “There’s been a
grave
misunderstanding. You may come and go as you please—all of you. This is your home, after all. Your happy haunt. Forever.”

“What’s going on?” demanded Steve, looking at the others. “What’s he talking about?”

Willa was the first to piece it together. “Those tales he read. Our stories. Each one ended with the main character…”

“Dying”—the librarian paused—“to know what happens next.”

Noah asked, “What
does
happen next?”

As if to respond, the book left the librarian’s hand and floated purposefully to its space on the shelf. Other books began to vibrate, growing giddy with excitement. They had their own tales they wanted to share.

“The spirits are indeed playful this evening,” the librarian said. “They can hardly contain themselves.”

And so they were. Volumes of ghost stories began floating across the library. The happy haunts had received their sympathetic vibrations and were beginning to materialize. The group could hardly believe their eyes. All manner of spirits appeared—young, old, tall, short—all carrying the books that contained their tales. And that was the least of it!

Willa pointed at Tim. “Timothy! What do you think you’re doing? You know better than to come apart at the seams!”

But Tim couldn’t help himself. His parts had detached from his torso and were now drifting independently throughout the library, in the same order as Lefty had dismantled them. Tim’s floating head noticed a change in Willa, too. “That’s pretty gnarly, Will,” he said, hovering above. “Pretty gnarly.”

“What are you talking about?” Willa looked down at her arm and saw the real-life chompings of a rabbit, a parrot, and a goldfish. Her flesh was riddled with bite marks.

What about Steve? He was still in one piece, thank goodness, but his complexion was blue, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours…days…weeks…years. And yet he still looked cooler than Noah, who was blowing about five hundred gallons of salt water from his nose—and loving every minute of it.

In that moment, the Fearsome Foursome understood. They, too, were spirits, specters, poltergeists, apparitions. Or, if you prefer…

ghosts.

Their ethereal forms took flight, joining the other spirits in their midst. Music swept in from beyond the bookshelves. The party was just getting started, and Willa so wanted to join in. “Let’s go, Tim-bo. Take me dancing.” She took Tim’s hand and floated through the wall in search of the ballroom. A moment later, the rest of Tim’s parts followed. But not Noah and Steve. They flew off to cause some mischief in the graveyard.

For the Fearsome Foursome, a new and wondrous adventure had begun. For they were the newest residents of the happiest haunt on earth.

S
ome final words of discomfort before you turn out the lights…

You didn’t heed our warning.

You stayed until the bitter end.

Maybe I misjudged you.

Maybe you
are
our type.

As I said, every spirit has a story.

Share yours, won’t you?

I’ve cleared a space up on my bookshelf.

You are cordially invited to remain with us for all eternity.

Welcome, foolish reader.

Welcome to the Haunted Mansion.

Amicus Arcane
Little is known about the dearly departed Amicus Arcane, save for his love of books. As the mansion librarian, both in this life and in the afterlife, Amicus has delighted in all forms of the written word. However, this librarian’s favorite tales are those of terror and suspense. After all, there is nothing better to ease a restless spirit than a frightfully good ghost story.

John Esposito
When John Esposito met Amicus Arcane on a midnight stroll through New Orleans Square, he was so haunted by the librarian’s tales that he decided to transcribe them for posterity. John has worked in both film and television, on projects such as
Stephen King’s Graveyard Shift, R. L. Stine’s The Haunting Hour, Teen Titans,
and the
Walking Dead
web series, for which he won consecutive Writer’s Guild Awards. John lives in New York with his wife and children and still visits with Amicus from time to time.