“Beware. The second type is a force to be feared. These witches use their powers strictly in the service of darkness. Look.” Bella turned to a page featuring a wood etching from 1692. It showed three hags—the same witches Ellen had seen on her midnight stroll. They were preparing a human sacrifice. The main course was floating in a cauldron, wearing a face she recognized. It was Ellen’s father, Big Ed.
Ellen clapped her hand over her mouth, muffling a scream. Bella, on the other hand, let one rip. A scream, that is. What she saw in the etching was beyond her comprehension.
“What do you see?” asked Ellen.
“It’s what I don’t see,” said Bella. “The picture. It’s changed.”
“How do you mean?”
Bella pointed to the clearing. “There used to be a tree here. A magnificent oak had always been a part of this picture.”
Ellen shuddered. “And now it’s gone.”
That night in her room, Ellen was watching the clock as closely as she watched the closet door. Midnight was fast approaching. The witching hour. Samhain. Halloween! Soon the horrible hags would be demanding their sacrifice, her father the preferred choice. But The History of Salem Witches had offered her an alternative. It wasn’t a great alternative, mind you, but it was all she had. Ellen had come across an obscure witches’ rite that would enable her to undo the sacrifice. Sort of. For the sake of her father, the pigheaded lug she loved so dearly, Ellen had to try.
The clock struck twelve. It was Halloween. Ellen gulped. Nothing happened. The door remained a door. One minute passed. Then two. Ellen wondered if it had all been a dream. But at three minutes past midnight, two things put a stop to her happy thought. One, her arm began to throb. And two…
The door began to breathe.
Ellen got up from her bed and approached it. The door was heaving, splitting, growing stronger. And the handle was no longer a handle. It was alive—a living serpent coiled in a knot. Ellen froze, not wanting to grasp it. Then the door flew open on its own, inviting her to return to the wicked woods of 1692.
Once more she stepped through a portal that had once been her closet, and entered a world where time had no meaning. The woods of Salem were themselves timeless, as timeless as the wind and the water and the fire and the trees. By then Ellen didn’t need an electric-blue path. She knew where she was going. She knew the trail by heart. This was her third trek, after all. And the third time’s the…oh, never mind.
Ellen bravely entered the nemeton to discover a great celebration already under way. The clearing was filled with masked celebrants dancing around a bonfire. Witches, all of them. And this was their holiday. Samhain. Halloween. A time when the veil between the living and the dead is tissue thin.
Ellen shoved her way through the crowd. Several witches turned and pointed. “Is it she? The witch who destroyed our tree?”
“I am not a witch!” Ellen replied contemptuously.
She arrived at the cauldron, presenting herself to the three hags.
“Where is thy woodcutter?” asked the leader.
Ellen looked the evil crone in the eye. “The woodcutter isn’t coming! You’ll have to settle for me.”
“Have you no fear, child?”
“Of course I have fear. I’m scared to death. But that isn’t enough to sacrifice my own father.” Ellen took a breath before invoking the ancient rite. “I offer myself willingly, in accordance with the laws of your society. Take me as your sacrifice.”
“You’re a fool,” scoffed the leader. “Take her!”
The celebrants roared with excitement, dancing and cavorting. If the revised menu seemed, at first, a disappointment to the demonic diners—after all, Ellen didn’t have nearly as much meat on her bones as her father—there were other compensations. The young ones were usually stronger, which meant more time in the pot tenderizing. The meat would literally drip off the bone. Oh, and the screams. The young ones also came with healthier lungs.
“So mote it be,” said the leader.
“Into the cauldron, my dear,” added the eyeless one.
But Ellen refused to climb in on her own. True, true, she had made the offer. She had agreed to be cooked and eaten alive. But sorry, witches. She wasn’t going to dive in without a fight. If they wanted her, they’d have to come get her.
So mote it be.
Ellen ran, but there were too many of them. A sea of hands reached out and grabbed her, snatching her around the waist. The celebrants lifted her above their heads, carrying her to the cauldron like she was crowd-surfing at a concert.
“In she goes,” said the eyeless one.
The celebrants shoved Ellen into the cauldron, bare feet first. The stew was not yet hot. And that was when she realized that they intended to cook her slowly. One of the witches stoked the flames and they danced higher, hotter—first yellow, then blue. The pot would come to a boil, along with Ellen, the main ingredient. She closed her eyes and thought of her father. And from there, she thought of her mother. What would she have done? And a voice entered Ellen’s head.
It was telling her to float.
Ellen closed her eyes and visualized. She saw herself rising, lighter than air. And suddenly, it was reality. She felt her body rising, leaving the pot, ascending above the cauldron, her feet dripping with stew. Down below, the celebrants pointed. “Look! She floats! The woodcutter’s daughter! She floats!”
“Come down from there!” growled the lead witch. “Into the pot, little one!” The celebrants leaped to grab her, clawing at her ankles. Just a little higher, Ellen thought. And it happened. Higher she went, just as she pictured it.
But the leader remained unimpressed. “Get down from there at once! We demand our sacrifice. A life for our tree!” Of all the witches, it was the eyeless one who reached up with her spindly hand and latched on to Ellen’s ankle, yanking her down, down, like a balloon running out of air. The celebrants overpowered Ellen, swarming her. They bound her legs and began preparing their sacrifice once more. Her situation appeared hopeless. Ellen closed her eyes, resigned to her fate, until—
Brrrrrrummm! Brrrrrrummm!
What was that? The celebrants grew quiet, and the witches turned in the direction of the unknown sound. Brrrrrrummm! Brrrrrrummm! It sounded like a monstrous battle cry, not of their time. It had invaded their sacred celebration. But it wasn’t a ghost, a goblin, or a ghoul.
It was the woodcutter, Ellen’s father. He stood at the entrance of the nemeton. And he had brought along his plus one…Mr. Do-Right.
Brrrrrrummm! Brrrrrrummm!
“Run, Pop!” Ellen shouted from the cauldron.
“Not without you, Elle.” Big Ed stormed the clearing, wielding his chainsaw like a wild man. The celebrants backed away, frightened by the mechanical monster, allowing him to make it unscathed all the way to the cauldron—to his daughter—where the three horrible witches were standing guard.
“I’m the one you want. I cut down your tree. And I’m sorry. Truly sorry. But let my daughter go now, or there will be trouble.”
The eyeless witch turned toward the woodcutter. “We demand a sacrifice. The girl shall live, but only if you take her place.”
Ellen’s father glanced back at the coven. He was larger than the largest witch—they didn’t call him Big Ed for nothing, you know—but he was also outnumbered. He looked at his daughter and knew that, as her father, he still had a responsibility to protect her and teach her. And it was his responsibility to accept the consequences of his actions, even if his actions had consequences that dated back to 1692.
The eyeless one licked her lips. Big Ed was the meatier choice, by far. And judging from his sweaty scent, he had already been seasoned. She wasted no more time. “Into the pot, woodcutter!” It was an order.
“First set my daughter free.”
The leader nodded. “So mote it be.” The witches lifted Ellen from the pot and cut her bindings. She immediately ran to her father and hugged him. Big Ed gently pushed her away with one arm and h
anded her the chainsaw with the other.
“Pop, what are you doing?”
“The only thing a father can do. Be a hero to his little girl.”
“You’ve never stopped being my hero!”
Big Ed put an arm around his daughter one last time and kissed the top of her head. Then he whispered in her ear, “I love you, princess. Now, keep this pointed at them and use it to get back home. Go!”
The witches moved forward, demanding what they were owed. And Big Ed never went back on a deal. He lifted his leg, taking the first step into the cauldron. The mixture was now hot. He could feel the heat closing in on him, a horrifying way to end his life, but it would be worth it for his daughter. Saving Ellen was the bargain of the century. Four centuries, in fact.
Ellen pleaded with the witches. “Let him go! He said he was sorry. Now let him go!”
“‘He said he was sorry,’” mocked the eyeless one. “For that, we should go hungry?”
“I think not,” said the leader.
But Ellen couldn’t leave. It was up to her to save her father’s life. She turned to face the witches, inhaled, exhaled, and then, in her best stage voice, issued a direct threat: “I’m warning you.”
The witches cackled, and their leader responded. “Warning us? You have no dominion here. Float away, little one. Before we add you to our feast.”
The sweat was pouring from Big Ed’s face. “Go, Ellen! Run! Run!”
But Ellen disobeyed, no longer blindly following orders. “I’m going to say it one last time,” she stated calmly. “Release the woodcutter or pay the penalty.” Again, the witches cackled in response. Ellen raised her magic mechanical monster from the twenty-first century, Mr. Do-Right, and charged.
Brrrrrrummm! Brrrrrrummm!
The very next morning, Big Ed removed the door from Ellen’s closet, and together they returned it to the clearing where the tree once stood. Two girls—one blonde and one brunette—watched from the opposite side of the clearing. When the task was completed, they nodded knowingly to Ellen. They were three once more.
Later, Ellen returned The History of Salem Witches to Bella’s Witch & Wizardry Shoppe. Bella held Ellen’s gaze for an extended time. She knew. She knew what Ellen really was. She was a witch—one of the good kinds, just like Abigail. “Thank you,” Ellen said as she returned the book. “This changed my life.”
“I know,” Bella replied. “Come back soon, my pretty,” she added with a wink. Ellen smiled and left, knowing that she would return. On her own, Bella opened the book, turning to the wood etching from 1692. It had changed once more. It now depicted a young warrior princess—defending her father from a coven of evil witches. In her hands was a strange mechanical device.
So mote it be.
The breathing door was back where it belonged, inside the narrow corridor next to others of its kind. You know the kind. Doors that breathe. The librarian rubbed its wooden tummy. “There, there. Feeling better, are we?” The door seemed to sigh yes.
Marge and Pasquale had seen and heard enough. They were already looking for another way out. They bolted through the corridor and ran down a grand staircase. But the librarian was waiting at the bottom. They ran back up to the top. The librarian was there, too. In each direction they ran, Amicus Arcane was somehow standing in their path.
“We want to leave!” shouted Marge at the top of her lungs. “We didn’t do anything wrong! You can’t keep us here! Please!”
“But you can’t leave,” replied the librarian. “Not without this.” He slid his gloved hand into his jacket. Marge and Pasquale backed away, holding hands, anticipating the horror. What was he reaching for? What would it be? A beating heart, perhaps? Tobe’s ears? The brain of Declan Smythe? It was certainly small enough to fit.
But no, not quite.
The librarian removed a musty old billfold from his inside pocket. He opened it and began counting out money. “Your final payment.”
Pasquale’s truck made its way through the grounds of the mansion, minus three crates and one burly passenger. Marge and Pasquale at first said nothing. The shock hadn’t worn off. They couldn’t be sure about any of what they’d seen or heard. Except the part about Declan Smythe. He was missing for real.
“The fog’s lifting.” It was Pasquale breaking the silence. “It’ll be dawn soon.” Marge looked his way and smiled. She was attractive—even beautiful—once you got to know her. “He’ll be okay, right?”
Marge hadn’t stopped smiling. “Declan? He always has been. I expect he’ll turn up at the Raven’s Inn looking for his share.”
“You wanna have breakfast with me, Marjorie? My treat.”
She nodded. “Sure. I’ll have breakfast with you.”
It had been a strange night, filled with supernatural sonatas, ancient curses, and a witches’ Sabbath. What was real and what was imagined they did not know. But breakfast was going to taste good.
The truck continued down the twisting, winding, curving path, slowing by the cemetery. The gravediggers were just finishing their shift. A single oversized casket was being lowered into a fresh grave. “Hey, Pask, what do you suppose happened to the other two?”
Indeed, the other two graves remained untouched.
“Who knows? Maybe it ain’t our business to know.”
“Or anyone else’s,” added Marge. With that, she reached into her bag, pulled out the map made from you-know-what, and tossed it out the window. A sudden breeze lifted the map high into the air and over the mansion’s front gate to Amicus Arcane, who was waiting at the entrance.
As if in response, Pasquale hit the gas. He wanted nothing more than to distance himself from that gated mansion on the hill. The last thing they saw on that unforgettable night was a scene they’d one day describe to their grandchildren: three motley hitchhikers still looking to bum a ride, except these hitchhikers were most definitely not in the pink, if you get our meaning.
Pasquale turned to Marge. “Should we?”
She shook her head. “No way. Keep going!”
Pasquale threw the truck into gear, racing past them. As he did, he caught sight in his mirror of the librarian, who now stood by the mansion gate. He was calling after the hitchhikers. Calling them back home. Just then, a burly figure joined them. He had bulging biceps and one good eye.
And he was glowing.
Ah, there you are!
Safe and snug as a bug in a slug.
Unlike Declan Smythe, who learned
this valuable lesson the hard way:
Never take something that isn’t yours,
lest something that isn’t yours take you.
Heh-heh-heh.
What’s that I hear? Our clock is striking thirteen.
It is time for the grim grinning ghosts to come out to socialize.
It is also time for me to split. Or is it splat?
Until we meet again, foolish reader…
dream big, SCREAM BIGGER!
Oh, and there’s a little matter I forgot to mention:
Beware of hitchhiking ghosts.
You didn’t heed my warnings,
and now it’s too late.
Look behind you, if you dare.
Go on, take a peek.
There seems to be nothing there.
Oh, but there is, I assure you.
You needn’t bother to look again.
As I’ve told you, it’s too late.
Something has already followed you home!
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 transc
ribe 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.
Kelley Jones For the illustrations accompanying his terrifying tales, Amicus Arcane approached Kelley Jones, an artist with a scary amount of talent. Kelley has worked for every major comic book publisher but is best known for his definitive work on Batman for DC Comics. Kelley lives in Northern California with his wife and children and hears from Amicus every October 31, whether he wants to or not.
Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 3 Page 10