Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume II

by John Esposito (retail) (epub)

Uncle Rory clasped his hands like he was praying, but he wasn’t. “You can’t take her from me.” He dropped to his knees. “Please, Mr. Trevelyn. She’s all I have.” It wasn’t like Uncle Rory to beg. He was a proud man. But desperate times called for desperate measures. The creep from the bank had just delivered a death blow in the form of a foreclosure notice. Meaning that in thirty days’ time, Uncle Rory’s Bijou would be no more. Meaning it was time to beg. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

  But Mr. Trevelyn wouldn’t budge, which was why the bank had sent him in the first place. He was their hatchet man. A crusher of dreams. And Mr. Trevelyn loved his job. “On your feet, Mr. Subotsky. You’re making a bloody fool of yourself.”

  Uncle Rory remained, knees on the carpet. “I’m willing to do that. I’ll be your fool. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep what’s mine.”

  The banker found that last bonbon especially amusing. “You mean, what’s ours.”

  “N-n-not the Bijou.”

  “Especially the Bijou. You have one month to vacate the premises. Is that clear, Mr. Subotsky?” He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. Uncle Rory’s chest had tightened and his breath was nearly gone. (There’s a medical term for that, but let’s just call it heartache.) You see, Uncle Rory had put everything he had into restoring the Bijou, a two-thousand-seat movie palace boasting one giant screen instead of twenty: a cathedral where the ghosts of Hollywood’s past could perform their antiqued rituals night after night, in flawless repetition.

  “Answer the question, Mr. Subotsky. For legal purposes, do you understand the terms?”

  Uncle Rory placed his finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhhh! No shouting during showtime. You’ll ruin it for the audience.”

  “What audience?” Trevelyn chuckled. It sounded cruel, as the truth sometimes did. That night, the Bijou was playing host to an audience of one.

  Mark was the audience’s name. He had the balcony to himself, gleefully munching popcorn, engrossed in a black-and-white spook show he’d seen about thirty-two times. Mark adored old movies almost as much as he adored his uncle Rory, which was no coincidence. His uncle had introduced him to the magic of film in the first place: “the only real magic in a mostly unmagical world.” And he proved it! With the flick of a projector switch, Mark could be transported to far-off lands, to 20,000 leagues under the sea or galaxies far, far away. To a world where singin’ in the rain inspired tears of joy, as opposed to the kind that were currently flowing in the lobby.

  Mark walked down from the balcony, grinning—“What an ending, what an ending!”—and spotted Uncle Rory, still on his knees, sobbing. “Unc, you okay?” Something awful must have happened. He hadn’t seen his uncle cry since they’d colorized It’s a Wonderful Life.

  “It’s over, Mark.”

  Mark helped him to his feet. “Yeah. It ended about a minute ago. Clean print, great sound.”

  “Not the movie—the Bijou.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That Peter Lorre–looking character who was just here, he’s from the bank.” Uncle Rory held out the foreclosure notice and Mark turned away, refusing to see what was right in front of him. “Everyone said a movie palace was a bad move.” Uncle Rory shook his head despairingly. “The kids won’t come. They watch movies on their phones, if they watch ’em at all. Why didn’t I listen?”

  “I came!” Mark did his best to look cheery and even threw in a few steps from his happy dance.

  Uncle Rory caressed his nephew’s shoulder. “You see the box office? You’re the only one who came. And you got in for free.”

  Wow. Uncle Rory was sounding more desperate than a sequel. Or a volume two. Heh-heh. True, it had been ages since the Bijou had enjoyed a packed house. Even the midnight spook show—a onetime guaranteed sellout—no longer drew a crowd. The untimely death of the central air conditioner, may it rest in peace, probably hadn’t helped. But maybe it had to do with the movies themselves—golden oldies, as they’re sometimes called, when the colors of the world appeared in black and white and movie stars looked like Clark Gable and Diana Durwin.

  “Things will pick up,” Mark promised, a white lie he hoped would come to pass. “Maybe Mom can dip into her retirement fund.” But even Mark knew that was reaching. His mother only believed in things she could touch. The Bijou was a place for dreamers.

  “It’s not up to your mom. Maybe if we could get John Wayne to jump off the screen and vanquish the bad guys.” He gave Mark a consolation squeeze before turning for the lights. “This is the end. Fade to black. Roll the credits.”

  Mark watched with a heavy heart as Uncle Rory threw the main switch, extinguishing the neon sign. On the street below, the Bijou marquee went dark.

  The last spook show came that Saturday night, with Mark watching, misty-eyed, from the balcony as the ghosts of the Bijou took their final bow. A square-jawed hero had just obliterated a slimy gray creature, and the mad scientist’s lab exploded into a mushroom cloud—all without the encumbrance of color. And when THE END zoomed out of the screen, it took on a whole new meaning. Mark almost broke down like his uncle had. There would be other movies, of course, in theaters the size of closets. But their special home, the Bijou, was riding off into the sunset.

  When he bent down to get his empty popcorn bucket, the screen erupted with blinding light. Mark knew what it meant. The film had left the projector. Something wasn’t right. Uncle Rory never allowed a movie to flicker past its final frame. Just as troubling: the house lights hadn’t come up. Again, that was unlike Uncle Rory. The audience deserved better. Anything less was multiplex.

  Mark flew down the stairs from the balcony, fearing the worst. If life had been a movie, the music would have been swelling to support a close-up on his running feet.

  He circled the second-floor lobby, calling out his uncle’s name. There was no response. He checked everywhere: the closet, the concession stand, both restrooms. Where had Uncle Rory gone? Then he spotted the red door to the holiest of holy sanctuaries: the projection booth.

  Deeming it an emergency, Mark entered without knocking. “Uncle Rory?” The projector was still running. He could hear the take-up reel spinning, loose film flapping. “Uncle Rory,” he said again. And when he saw the body, he shouted it. “Uncle Rory!”

  Mark’s uncle was propped up next to the projector, his cheek pressed against the casing, feeling the final beats of its Bell and Howell heart. Uncle Rory’s own ticker had sputtered to a stop just moments before, something the local coroner would later rule a massive coronary. But Mark knew better. He had seen enough movies to know.

  Uncle Rory had died of a broken heart.

  A month to the day after Uncle Rory’s final death scene, Mark watched from a park bench as a wrecking ball completed the montage, reducing his happiest place on earth to a mound of rubble. The Bijou was…gone with the wind.

  Later in the week, Mark joined his mother at a lawyer’s office for the reading of Uncle Rory’s will. Not particularly exciting events, such readings—just a room full of vultures waiting to hear their names called, hoping the dead guy left them something good. In Uncle Rory’s case, after the Last National Bank got through with everything, very few assets remained. There sat Mr. Trevelyn, free of shackles, void of guilt. How many others had there been? How many dreams had this creep squashed?

  Uncle Rory’s lawyer got to the section of the will involving Mark. “‘To my dear nephew, I bequeath the key to your dreams.’” The lawyer reached into an envelope and withdrew a cheap brass key, then slid it across the table to Mark.

  Trevelyn couldn’t help snickering. “Just your luck, kid. He left you a metaphor.”

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “If you’ll allow me to continue.” Reading on: “‘The contents of unit 1939 located on Buena Vista Avenue are yours, dear nephew. Keep in mind…the audience demands a proper ending.’”

  Mark smiled, hearing those words, his uncle’s mantra. He was right, of course. Movies were all about the en
dings. Especially the golden oldies, in which the heroes always won and the villains were properly punished. Seated across from the banker, Mark could well imagine Mr. Trevelyn’s ending, a juicy death scene in 3-D. He juggled the key between his hands. What did it unlock? What dreams may come? Mark will find out soon enough. And if you consider “happily ever after” a proper ending, stop reading at once, foolish reader. Here at the mansion, we prefer “They all died miserably.”

  —

  That evening, Mark’s mom had a big date, so he had to wait until the next day to explore unit 1939. Really, now. Would you wait? I thought not. Neither would young Mark.

  Mark skateboarded to a dull-as-dirt industrial building on Buena Vista Avenue, arriving just before sunset. A black-and-white banner for Keep It Here Storage was fluttering in the wind. Mark entered through the customer service door. The reception desk was unmanned, but it did have a bell with a small sign that said to ring it. So Mark rang it. Fourteen times.

  A figure backed in from the adjoining office, illuminated by a shaft of harsh light. It was an older woman wearing a fancy black evening gown. A tad overdressed for Keep It Here Storage, thought Mark. Before she turned, he tried guessing what she might look like. A prune, most likely. Which was okay. He liked prunes. But the last thing he expected was to see a face he recognized. True, she now sported wrinkles, and her famous blond tresses had turned gray, but her beauty, it was timeless. Even her skin retained an unnatural luminosity. It must’ve been the light, because the woman seemed literally to flicker. “May I help you?”

  “I-I-I’m sorry,” stammered Mark. “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just…Can you tell me how to find unit 1939?”

  “Of course, darling. That’s why I’m here.”

  She delivered it like a line from an old movie. There could be no doubt. It was her, eighty years past her Hollywood prime. Mark knew the answer, but he asked anyway: “Didn’t you used to be Diana Durwin?”

  “‘Used to be,’” the woman said with a whiff of disdain. “Have I been replaced?”

  “No, never! You were—are—irreplaceable.”

  “You’re too kind. And I’m very lucky. It’s a gift to be recognized, especially by one so young.”

  He recognized her, all right. Diana Durwin had been one of Uncle Rory’s absolute favorites, the Oscar-nominated star of A Life Remembered. “I used to watch you all the time at my uncle’s theater.”

  “I know.”

  “You do? How?”

  “I could see you from the screen.”

  A fun idea, he thought. Movie stars watching the audience the way an audience watches them. But Diana Durwin wasn’t being coy. “Since the Bijou’s demise,” she went on, “my kind have been out of circulation. Oh, we occasionally show up on television. But so few tune in. We belong on the big screen, where the colors of the real world shall forever remain in black and white.”

  “Your kind?” asked Mark. “Who’s your kind?”

  “The ghosts of the silver screen.”

  “You were always the most beautiful,” he added.

  “And forever shall be…with your help.” Diana Durwin turned to her best side, left profile, and the years seemed to vanish before Mark’s startled eyes. He was seeing her as she had been, yesteryear’s top starlet. “Do you believe in magic?” she asked. “The magic of the movies?”

  “I—I always have.”

  Ms. Durwin nodded her approval. “Rory chose wisely.”

  “You knew my uncle?”

  “He was our greatest benefactor, without whom our kind would be forgotten.” She lifted her chin, striking a new pose, the cover of Screen Daily, circa 1939. “I was sent to find you, Mark.”

  “I don’t understand. By who?”

  “By your uncle, naturally. We made provisions. In case he, how shall I put it, departed this world suddenly. Oh, yes, arrangements were made. You did bring the key, didn’t you?”

  The key, yes! Unit 1939. Mark hadn’t thought about its significance before. That was a golden year for movies. Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Stagecoach, Son of Frankenstein. He could go on.

  “Don’t forgot Tainted Rose,” added Diana Durwin.

  “Uncle Rory’s favorite!”

  “He had excellent taste,” opined the star of Tainted Rose. “It’s showtime, Mark. Well begun is half done!” She gave him detailed directions to the unit. “And keep in mind: the audience demands a proper ending.”

  Mark started to leave, then lingered, staring a moment longer. How was it possible? Diana Durwin wouldn’t be alive, and even if she were, she shouldn’t be working at Keep It Here Storage.

  Diana Durwin smiled at him and turned to walk in the opposite direction, slowly drifting out of the light. “You’re a doll,” she said as she disappeared down a seemingly endless corridor. Mark should have been beaming; this was better than an autograph. But he didn’t feel happy. Instead, a chill rippled through him. Mark noticed something he hadn’t before. The woman he had been speaking to was colorless. As she had been in her heyday…

  Diana Durwin appeared in black and white.

  Mark got lost twice before finding his way to unit 1939. From the outside, it looked like a regular roll-up door, protected by an old padlock. Mark took out the key, pausing before unlocking it. Uncle Rory’s final gift was in that room. We’ve all opened presents, hoping for winners, coming up with underwear. What if this turned out to be just that? Perhaps not knowing would be better.

  Who are we kidding? Mark undid the lock as fast as he could, whipped the door up to the ceiling, and clicked on the light. And for the love of all things Hollywood, his eyes almost fell out of his skull. But “almost” doesn’t count, except in “I almost made it out in one piece.”

  Unit 1939 was loaded with metal canisters, a veritable treasure trove for those who knew what they were. Mark knew. They were movies, hundreds of them, on actual film, not a digital pixel in sight. He tilted his head, practically drooling as he read some of the titles. Hmmm, London After Midnight. That one sounds interesting. A thousand hours of forgotten gems just waiting to be rediscovered. If only he had the projector to run them.

  A flickering light appeared on the cinder block wall. Mark turned around, finding a vintage movie projector, immaculately maintained, facing the wall’s makeshift screen. Their kind thought of everything.

  The projector grumbled with starvation; any film would do. Mark reached for the nearest reel, the one by his feet. He attached it to the spindle, feeding the celluloid strip into the belly of the projector. The proud device burped its approval. Sitting on a stack of canisters, Mark faced the wall, imagining he was back at the Bijou.

  A black-and-white image appeared, the opening moments of a movie Mark had never seen.

  It took place inside a coffin.

  —

  Crawling out of a grave is never easy. For starters, you have to make your way through an inch and a half of coffin. Even the cheap pine boxes prove arduous. But if you have revenge on your brain, even if your brain’s turned to mush, you’ll find a way. The undead always do.

  The shadowed corpse inside the coffin did have revenge on its brain. A condescending chuckle—something the rotting corpse had heard before it died—echoed through its skull, enraging it, yet affording it a patience it hadn’t known in life. Pressing its finger against the lid of the casket, the corpse began to scratch. And scratch and scratch and scratch.

  It scratched until the nail fell off.

  It scratched until the bone of its forefinger sharpened into a makeshift tool.

  It scratched until a tiny hole formed in the lid, until an avalanche of mud forged a path through that hole, expanding the opening until the coffin imploded and the earth absorbed the corpse.

  The first obstacle had been defeated. Yet the ground was cumbersome. Climbing through six feet of putrid muck would be an insurmountable task for the living. The dead, however, were another matter. They had time to kill. And the vengeful dead…

  th
ey had patience.

  Mark switched off the projector, having seen too much. He loved a good spook show more than anyone, but this was different. This was real. It was the single most realistic film he had ever seen, its unforgettable images scorched into his thirteen-year-old gray matter along with other sensations. The sound of the grave, the smell of steaming hot flesh permeating from the celluloid. Normally, a film of such power would have Mark running off to sing its praises. That night, he ran off in terror. For the first time in his moviegoing life, Mark had seen a film he wanted to forget.

  His mother was waiting on the porch when Mark skateboarded up the driveway. She sprang to her feet. “Where have you been?”

  “The movies.” Mark’s brain was working overtime, trying to make him unsee what he had just seen. And having no luck.

  “Why didn’t you call?” But after noticing the look on his face, she took it down a notch. Uncle Rory’s death had taken a toll on everyone. “All right, what did you see?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. It was terrible.” He started for the door.

  She knew something was wrong. Mark always had time to dissect a movie, especially one he didn’t like. She sat back down, patting the step to invite him to join her. Mark hesitated. “What?” he said. She patted it again and he gave in. His mom often had to play both parents, since his dad had pulled a reboot. This was one of those times. “What really happened today?” she asked.

  “Do you believe in the magic of the movies?”

  His mother smiled; Mark sure sounded like his old self. She thought about it. “I believe there are a handful of movies that are special, movies that have changed lives. Not the vast majority, mind you. But the special few. If that’s magic, then yes, I guess I believe.”

  “Not like that. I’m talking about actual power, about real magic.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Forget it.” He stood up, ready to go inside. That was when he saw his mother’s expression. She was greatly disturbed, too. “You okay, Mom?”

  “Not really.” Tears began streaming down her cheeks. An unusual plot twist. His mom was not a crier.