Tales from the Haunted Mansion Vol. 1: The Fearsome Foursome (5 page)

Tim began to expound on the one-handed baseball player hanging from the tree, but when his parents looked outside, all they saw was the old tire swing swaying from a branch. His mom assured him it had been a nightmare. “You’re spending too much time with Club Spooky,” she said.

“The Fearsome Foursome,” corrected Tim, “and this has nothing to do with them.”

His dad sniffed the inside of the glove. He hadn’t followed the game since he was Tim’s age and couldn’t recall a Lefty Lonegan.

“He played for the Red Devils. Triple-A ball, way back in the fifties. Before he, well…retired early.”

“What was it? An injury?”

“You might say that.”

Tim’s mom shook her head. “Served him right. Baseball’s just a game. English and math skills pay bills.” She kissed Tim good night and headed off to her bedroom. His dad stayed behind, holding the glove a moment longer. Another whiff. “Is it valuable?”

Tim shrugged. “Could be. I paid five bucks for it.”

“See if you can sell it. Turn a profit. Say…six dollars. One for each finger.” His dad thought that was hilarious, adding his own laugh track as he turned out the lights. “Pleasant dreams, champ.” But Tim didn’t laugh. And he didn’t sleep. Not until the next day…during English and math.

Later that afternoon, Tim planned on sleeping through baseball, as well. He might have taken a nap on the bench, where he spent most games, had Arty Caruthers not sprained his ankle kicking sand in some kid’s face. So what was Coach Anderson to do? Forfeit the game? Or send Tim to center field, where he could do minimal damage?

His being in the starting lineup was a happy accident. But when Tim reached into his duffel bag, he inadvertently grabbed the wrong mitt. That’s right—Lonegan’s glove.

He would have switched it, except that Coach Anderson was already yelling: “Get into center, Tom—Ted—Tim!” Tim jogged onto the field, which he could do in a relatively player-like manner. His hope was that he wouldn’t embarrass himself, and for the first four batters, he didn’t get the chance. There was a walk, a strikeout on three pitches, a pop-up to the catcher, and another strikeout on five. Tim was almost through the inning unscathed when Lena Toots stepped up to the plate. Lena was a big girl, and not just twelve-year-old Little League big. We’re talking thirty-eight-year-old truck driver big. She took a practice swing and the pitcher winced. Tim was playing shallow and the coach waved to him, calling: “Back! Back! Back!”

Tim was still backing up when the ump shouted, “Ball’s in!”

The pitcher kicked up his left leg to begin his windup, then fired a fastball straight down main street…which Lena proceeded to eat like it was her third churro. The clang of her aluminum bat echoed into the next field, and a fly ball went soaring two hundred feet into the sky, then made its descent toward center. Tim’s teammates watched, hoping for a miracle, because that’s what you did when you watched Tim cover the field. But Lonegan’s glove had
other
plans.

Tim felt the sixth finger take root inside the mitt as the surly voice in his head instructed his legs to move, which they did. He got a perfect bead on the ball as it traveled toward the wall. Louis Crump, playing in right, ran at it, too. He’d been instructed to make any and all plays that came Tim’s way. But this was Tim’s moment. Tim’s and Lefty’s.

The ball started to drop when, out of nowhere, Crump flew in, shouting, “I got it, loser!” Tim lowered his hands, as if giving Crump room to snag it. But as the right fielder came under the ball, Tim stuck out his foot and swept his legs. Crump went down, continuously tripping over his own two feet—one of those trips you can watch for about five minutes, wondering if the guy is ever going to land. Well, Crump landed. It looked like an accident, even to those who saw it: the ball going one way, Crump the other.

Tim ran for the wall, watching with unnatural clarity as the ball spiraled over his shoulder. He felt lighter than air now. Coming into range, he lifted his feet, climbed the wall like an insect, and made the catch. There was a gasp from the stands but the play wasn’t over. Tim did a complete flip, like something you’d see in the Olympics, landing on two feet and, in the same motion, firing a rocket to home.

By then, the runner on third had already tagged up. It should have been a close play, but Tim’s throw missed the cutoff man. It missed because Tim bypassed the cutoff man on purpose, sending the ball home on a fly. The catcher didn’t even have to move. The ball landed in the pocket of the glove like it had been born there. He dropped his arm and tagged the runner as he slid into home, a double play!

Tim’s teammates went nuts. Even Crump, flat on his back, had to admit it was a spectacular play. For the record, he never called Tim “loser” again.

As Tim trotted in from center, his team was waiting on the field to greet him. He’d never felt that way before. Sure, Tim had aced tests; he’d even placed third in the potato sack race on Field Day. But this was different. This was baseball, the sport he so adored but had never excelled at.

This was power.

T
im made three more plays that day,
none as spectacular as the first, but all pretty nifty, especially for him. He shined at the plate, too, hitting a double and a triple and driving in four runs. That Monday, it was considered a fluke. On Wednesday, the fluke continued when Tim hit a three-run shot to win in a walk-off. By Friday, Tim had infiltrated the starting lineup. The following week, he batted leadoff. And the week after that, Coach Anderson moved him into the cleanup spot, batting fourth. It was some sort of miracle, a gift from the baseball gods.

Or was it a curse?

You see, Tim’s newfound skills came with a price, and an ugly one at that. His very nature had changed. He would now do anything to ensure a win: lie, cheat, brawl. Sling insults at the other team. Insult his own teammates, like he was better than them all. Like he really was Lefty Lonegan back in the day.

And what was the benefit of all this ugliness? Oh, just that for the first time ever, Tim made the All-Star team. So typical, right?
Don’t go tearing your eyes out of their sockets. He’ll get his.

Sometimes it takes someone on the outside to truly see what’s happening. Tim couldn’t see it. He had become intoxicated by his unnatural success. It was up to a friend, a real friend like Willa, to turn things around. She arrived at his house early on a Sunday with some important information, the kind that could save a soul. She found Tim in his room, staring out into the yard—where the tire swing swayed back and forth, back and forth. He was wearing Lonegan’s glove.

“Timothy?” He barely looked up. Didn’t even notice that she was wearing makeup, that she looked pretty. All he could manage was “What’s with the skirt?”

“It was in my closet.”

“You can borrow some sweats.” He stood up to grab a pair from his drawer. “After today’s game, you can sell ’em online.”

“Online’s for posers,” said Willa. “Isn’t that what you always say? A real collector needs to handle the merchandise.” She knew the old Tim was in there somewhere and she was trying to draw him out. “I came to ask you not to play today.”

He looked her way and laughed. “Are you nuts? It’s the All-Star game. I’m an All-Star. I, Tim Maitland, made the team.”

“No, Tim-bo. Lefty Lonegan made the team. It’s the glove.
His
glove. There’s something wrong with it.”

“Guess you haven’t seen me on the field.”

Willa’s fists tightened. “Oh, I’ve seen you on the field. And I’ve seen you off the field. You’re not you anymore.”

“That’s right. The old me got permanently benched. The new me is a superstar!”

“No! The
old
Tim was the superstar. The one who was awkward and kind and funny.” Boy, she really was sounding like a girl. “The new Tim’s a jerk. Everybody thinks so.”

“Really? Wait till today, when you hear my cheering section.”

Willa lowered her head. “I won’t, Tim-bo. I won’t hear anything.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to the game.”

“But…you gotta come, Will. It’s the All-Stars.”

For an instant, she heard the real Tim. The familiar sweetness in his voice. And she made the mistake a lot of strong girls make. Willa melted. “Okay, Tim-bo, I’ll be there. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You have to use your own glove.”

“This
is
my own glove.”

“No!” Willa caught herself, not wanting to shout. “I mean your old one. The one I bought you. Think you can do that? Think you have the guts?”

Tim charged her like an angry gust of wind, backing Willa into a corner. With Tim wearing cleats, they were the same height. “I got all the guts I need, dollface. Why don’t you scram? Sew something. Make the beds, wash the dishes!”

Willa knew she’d better leave. If she stayed, Tim might be attending the All-Star game in traction. She started for the door, pausing when she remembered why she came. “I found this online,” she said as she yanked an article from her bag. “It was buried pretty deep. But I went back years until I found it.”

“What’s it about?”

“Lefty Lonegan. The
real
Lefty Lonegan.”

“I’ve forgotten more about Lefty than you’ll ever know!”

“Oh, yeah? So then you knew he was into voodoo?”

Tim seemed to shrink before her eyes. Sure, he’d heard the rumors: that Lefty’s skills were unnatural. But voodoo? Willa continued: “The tattoo on the mitt. The snake. The symbol. I looked it up.”

“A lot of people have weird tats, Will.”

“Let me finish.” She was determined to get through to him; she was a girl on a mission. “It says Lefty made a deal with Houngan Atencio. He was a powerful voodoo priest who lived on the bayou. Atencio agreed to make Lefty a star, a six-fingered wonder, in exchange for ten percent of everything he earned. At first, Lefty kept his side of the bargain. And Atencio kept his. But as his star continued to shine, Lefty conveniently forgot about the magic. He actually believed it all had to do with him. Sound familiar? By the time those major league scouts started wooing him, Lefty had stopped paying Atencio. So the voodoo priest showed up at one of his games to remind him. Lefty had him ejected from the park, humiliated, a laughingstock. And that’s when Atencio cursed him…by cursing the glove.”

She held up the article for Tim to see. Next to a picture of Lefty was a pencil sketch of Houngan Atencio. It was the vendor from the flea market, the old man who had sold Tim the glove.

Tim cradled the glove against his chest. “If you’re trying to scare me, save it for the Fearsome Foursome.”

“You don’t get it, do you? It’s a test!” Willa might have been guessing, but that was okay; her guesses were usually right over the plate. “What Lefty did cost him more than his hand. It cost him his soul. That’s not the game, Tim-bo. That’s not baseball.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” he questioned with a voice that sounded like the real Tim.

Willa sighed with relief. “Get rid of it, for a start. Bring it back to Amicus Field and bury it with Lefty. I’ll help you. We’ll bury it together!”

Willa looked into Tim’s eyes, hoping she’d see the soul of the boy she cared for. But the thing she saw didn’t have a soul. Lefty’s spirit now manifested itself when Tim wasn’t wearing that accursed glove. Tim’s mouth had twisted into the smarmy smirk of a dirty ball player. It was Lefty’s mouth. And it had a few choice words for Willa, some of which are not suitable for printing. “Get rid of it? Bury it? You want me to throw it out? I’d just as soon throw you out! How’d that be, little girl? How’d it be if I stuck you in the trash and rolled you out to the curb?”