Tales from the Haunted Mansion Vol. 1: The Fearsome Foursome (3 page)

“We’re the Fearsome Foursome,” replied Willa. “We tell stories. But not just any old stories. We only do scary.”

Tim completed her thought. “The scariest one wins. All the dessert you can handle. Usually ice cream.”

Noah raised his hand. “I won six times!”

“No doubt,” said the librarian with a nod. He reached for a book on the highest shelf. Again, it must have been a trick of the light, because the book seemed to glide down into his hand on its own. “It sounds like a most delightful endeavor. May I begin?” He blew dust from the old tome. “It’s been forever since I tasted ice cream…and I have the scariest stories of all.”

Willa’s eyes lit up. “You do?”

Steve was growing impatient, and when that happened, rude was never far behind. “Go chase an ice cream truck!” He turned to the others. “It’s time to split.”

The librarian clasped a hand over his mouth. “Oh my, I’ve frightened you.”

“Fat chance, old man. It’ll take a lot more than you’ve got!”

“But I’ve told you—I’ve got the scariest stories of all,” the librarian replied.

But Steve wasn’t giving in. “Oh, yeah? And what makes yours so scary?”

“My stories are about each of
you
.”

There was a moment’s hesitation as the four friends glanced at one another. Then Steve stepped forward. “Nice try,” he said defiantly.

The librarian smiled. “Then you’ll have no objections if I begin on this side of the room.” The librarian extended his finger, panning it across the library until it stopped. “Tim.”

Tim gulped. “H-h-how did you know my name?”

Steve shook his head. “Because he heard Willa say it, like, two seconds ago.”

But Tim knew different.
As do you.
“Master Timothy,” continued the librarian, “are you ready to hear your tale?”

“What do you mean,
my
tale?”

“The first story is all about
you
. And that remarkable old glove you found.”

A jolt of fear shot through Tim’s body. He turned to Willa. “My mitt. Lonegan’s glove. How did he…”

Steve, ever the skeptic, replied, “He sees you’re into baseball, Einstein. You’re wearing a uniform!”

“Would you care to hear what else I know?” It was more a statement than a question, and before Tim could reply, the librarian was leafing through the introductory pages, his finger stopping on our first story, a tale known as…

I
t’s America’s national pastime.
No, not grave robbing.
Baseball.
The national pastime is baseball, a game that, more often than not, rewards failure. Don’t believe it? Consider this: a player with a .333 batting average, which means he gets out two of three times he steps up to the plate, is hailed as a superstar. That’s failing most of the time. And consider pitchers. They work every fourth game and aren’t expected to hit at all! If they do, they’re practically knighted for it. Crazy game, this national pastime. The perfect game. For Tim, that is.

Tim had a genuine love of the game. Before Poe and Lovecraft entered his world, there were Ruth and DiMaggio. Tim could relay figures and spout stats till the teeth fell out of his skull.
Or is it “stars fell out of the sky”? No matter.
He knew everything about the game, but that didn’t help him in the one department he cared about most:
playing
the game.

Tim couldn’t play baseball to save his soul.

Not that he didn’t try. He’d joined Little League every year since he was seven. That was five seasons ago, and by now, he was on his way to becoming a professional benchwarmer. His mom tried putting it in perspective. “Worry about your grades,” she said. “English and math skills pay bills.”

True, true. But Tim was quick to point out, “When was the last time Derek Jeter had his electricity turned off?”

For Tim, the real trouble began on a Saturday in a place coincidentally called Amicus Field.
Amicus
. That’s Latin for “friendship.” But really, who speaks Latin anymore? It’s only good for reading. And we’ve already established that nobody reads anymore…besides you, that is.

Tim liked to scour the local flea markets, looking for finds. That week he was accompanied by his best bud, Willa. Yes,
that
Willa, the cutie with the blue hair, only it was green the day this story took place.

As it happened, Amicus Field was hosting its biweekly flea market. By yet another coincidence, it had been the site of a baseball field, now long forgotten, where a gruesome tragedy had taken place. In real life, gruesome tragedies are rarely pleasant, but, oh, are they a hoot to read about! And let’s face it: we wouldn’t have a proper ghost story without one.
And this
is
a proper ghost story. Now don’t you fret—you’ll get all the gory details…if you
dare
to keep reading.

As for Tim and Willa, they’d been hanging out a lot more since they both turned twelve, though neither one could tell you why. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Willa could tell you why if she really had to. But that would require sounding like a girl, so why risk it? It was funny, because not so long before, those two had gotten along like blood and embalming fluid.
Or is it oil and water? However that goes.

At the moment, Willa was nagging Tim to split so they could hit a local street fair. “They have live music. We could be dancing instead of wasting our Saturday looking at junk!”

“So who asked you to waste it?”

Willa got right in his face. “You want me to leave?”

“Be my guest.”

He noticed something reddish on her cheeks and tried rubbing it off. For the first time, Willa was wearing makeup. “Just for that, I’m gonna hang,” she said. “I’ll be your worst nightmare.”

“What else is new?” Secretly, Tim was happy she stayed, but he wouldn’t dare let on. Why spoil the fun?

They passed a ginormous table loaded with used toys. Tim was a quick study, spotting something he liked within seconds. In that case, it was a Major Jensen astronaut figure in excellent condition—well, except for the missing limbs. He held it up to the seller. “Excuse me. How much for the No Legs Major Jensen?”

Good Lord
, thought Willa,
he knows its name.
She didn’t know whether to deck him or kiss him.

“It’s vintage!” confirmed the old lady behind the booth.

“Of course it is,” Willa said.

Tim gave Willa a hip check. “Don’t mind her. She’s a nonbeliever. How much?”

“Shall we say…five dollars?”

Willa practically choked on her own tongue. “Shall we say…
that’s insane
? Put it down, Timothy.” She only used Timothy when things got real. “Immediately!” Tim did as ordered, returning No Legs Major Jensen to the woman behind the booth.

In life—as well as the afterlife—we rarely know how one thing will affect another until it’s too late. If Tim had bought No Legs Major Jensen, then maybe—just maybe—he would have passed up the infernal thing that caused all the trouble. And the horror. And the gore. And all that other stuff you’re reading this book for. But then we wouldn’t have a story. Certainly not one called “Lonegan’s Glove.” And let’s face it: as titles go, “No Legs Major Jensen” doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Willa was already making the hard push for an Italian ice when Tim spotted the item from way across the market. It called to him, like pink lemonade on a hot summer day. Off he went, with a confused-looking Willa lagging a few steps behind.

There it sat, surrounded by trinkets—none of which had anything to do with
the game
. It was a baseball glove, older than the hills. From the 1950s was Tim’s guess, which was spot-on.

“Nineteen fifty-five,” confirmed the vendor, as if reading Tim’s mind.

Tim looked up to see an elderly man dressed in denim overalls, a worn-out ball cap perched crookedly on his scalp. Tim mustered the courage—yes, it took courage—to ask if he could have a look-see.

“You’re already looking at it, young friend,” responded the vendor.

Willa whispered in Tim’s ear: “I bet it’s vintage.” She was razzing him, of course. But very soon the razzing stopped and even Willa would have thrown down cold, hard cash for it. Because she saw the look on Tim’s face. The glove was already working its magic.

“You can hold her, if you’d like.”

Tim picked up the glove like a child reunited with his first toy. It was large—probably an early outfielder’s mitt—and, barring the rust-colored stain near its heel, in terrific shape. It even had the original laces. And then there were the fingers themselves. Six, to be exact.

What drew Tim in, however, was its history. He recognized the markings on the pocket: the number thirteen and a tattoo of a snake coiled around a baseball bat. This left little doubt: it was Lefty Lonegan’s glove!

Now for you non-fanatics wondering who or what a “Lefty Lonegan” is, keep your skin on. If we told you now, it would spoil all the fear—I mean, fun.

The vendor recognized the look in Tim’s eye. Or maybe it was the look of Tim’s mouth: open like a fish’s, ready to be hooked. “Try her on,” he suggested.

A shiver rattled Willa, and not a girly shiver; this was her first true burst of women’s intuition. Something wasn’t right—about the glove…about the man selling it. “Timothy, let’s leave.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Right now!” Normally, Tim would have walked away and asked questions later. But this time he couldn’t. Lonegan’s glove had that kind of pull.

“Go ahead,” prompted the vendor, “try her on.”

So Tim did, sliding his fingers into five of the six slots. The leather softened, instantly conforming to his hand. Tim wouldn’t have been able to tell you how, because at first glance, the glove looked to be about double his size; and yet there it was,
the
perfect fit. But what happened next had to be the freakiest moment of all. Tim could’ve sworn he felt a sixth finger sprouting from his hand.

“It seems to like you,” said the vendor. He cupped both hands around his mouth. “Plaaaay ball!” Tim mimed making a play in the field and could almost hear the roar of the crowd.

“How much you want for ’er?”

Willa stepped between them, keeping her back to the vendor. “We have to go, Timothy.”

“Maybe
you
have to go!” he said in a surly voice that wasn’t his own. Willa’s legs turned to jelly. You know that shiver she felt before? Nothing compared to this one. It was as obvious as tooth decay: Tim had decided the glove was his. That made what he did next even stranger.

“I’ll ask you one last time!” he barked. “How much to take this hunk of junk off your wrinkled old hands?”

Willa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Tim could be many things—awkward, lazy, occasionally silly—but rude never made the lineup.

The vendor responded, “I couldn’t possibly let her go for less than…fifty dollars.”

“Fifty,” repeated Tim. “Fifty.” And then he did something that took Willa’s breath away, and not in a good way. He plucked a five-dollar bill from his pocket, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at the vendor’s feet. “That’s all you get!” he said in that same surly voice. “And you’re lucky to get that. Because if I made a run for it, you’d never catch me. Not in a million years.” And with that, Tim walked away, claiming the glove as his own.