Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume II

by John Esposito (retail) (epub)

  What is it about bedrooms? Your bedroom, in particular? It has everything you could ever want. Your TV, your clothes, your favorite games and knickknacks. All chosen by you, for you…except for that rug your mom insisted on.

  It even has a night-light, just in case.

  When you think about it, it’s the safest room in the house. Until the lights go out. Because that’s when they come. They mostly hide in closets and under beds. You’ll hear a sound behind your wall and think, I’m being silly. It feels especially silly when the sun is up. But in the dark, when the hairs on the back of your neck are standing on end, you’ll know…everything is not going to be all right.

  So pull the covers over your head. It’s safer that way.

  Think good thoughts. That helps, too.

  And know for certain that on any one of those nights, that visitor in your closet or the thing under your bed might yank those covers from your eyes. And in that moment, you’ll realize you weren’t being silly. You’ll understand that your room is their room, too.

  It happens more often than you think. It happened to Camille. It could happen to you.

  Tonight.

  Unspeakable acts had happened in the house where Camille had come to stay.

  In 1865, the year Halloway House was born, a woman named Missy Cooledge chopped her husband into pieces with a meat cleaver and hid his body parts inside a cord of wood. In 1902, the Swanson family resided there for less than a fortnight before fleeing the house in terror, claiming it was possessed by demonic forces. Perhaps the most widely reported incident occurred in 1931. The writer Jerome Selby, famous for his historical opus, We Weep for Thee, had sublet a room for the summer, as he was preparing a gothic novel about the ghosts of Maine. On the morning of July 21, a servant discovered Selby’s body hanging from a ceiling fan, his unfinished novel still on the nightstand, a single sentence scribbled across all 249 pages: They come in through the walls.

  As circumstance secured its sinister reputation, Halloway House became a favored destination of paranormal investigators and the morbidly curious. Prominent neighbors petitioned to have it demolished. Mired in red tape, the request withered; in 1955 the Cortland family of New York City purchased the land and had Halloway House declared a historic landmark, permanently thwarting the wrecking ball. In September of the following year, Halloway House opened its doors to the public, now as a bed-and-breakfast.

  Since that time, the house has remained relatively sedate, barring a minor event in 1963, when a chandelier fell, injuring three guests in the lobby. Lawsuits were settled out of court and Halloway House endured. It is reasonable to suggest that over the course of centuries, bad things happen everywhere. It is the law of averages. So the old Victorian overlooking the crashing coastline of the Atlantic some fourteen miles north of Kennebunkport remains a popular destination today.

  It was a month before the start of the new season when Camille arrived with her aunt. She had never heard of Halloway House and therefore knew nothing of its reputation. Her aunt Rue had served as senior housemaid for twenty seasons before “inheriting” Camille the way one inherits fine china. By then, in her mid-fifties, Aunt Rue had a reputation for being a stern taskmaster. She had never married and her interest in children had long since waned. But as a proponent of discipline and hard work, she believed she would have made a most excellent parent.

  Camille believed otherwise. She was the thirteen-year-old daughter of Aunt Rue’s sister, Florence, who had died five years earlier. In a straitjacket. The recent death of Camille’s father had given Aunt Rue legal guardianship of her niece. To those looking in, the arrangement appeared mutually beneficial. Camille was spared the orphanage, and Aunt Rue inherited a sizable monthly allowance. As one would imagine, Camille had become withdrawn and sullen. But there was an inner light behind those sad gray eyes. Some people are born good. Just as some houses are born bad. Aunt Rue saw it a different way.

  “You’re as undisciplined as a storm! And just as dumb.” Aunt Rue’s words were cruel but also literal. Camille hadn’t spoken since the day her mother died. A specialist had labeled her a “selective mute,” suggesting that Camille was silent by choice. She no longer had a reason to talk. Or sing. Or even scream. Aunt Rue had little sympathy. Life was hard on everyone. Including her. Especially her. “Get over it!”

  During the car ride up, Aunt Rue outlined a list of chores, which she considered modest. “Your first day will be light. After settling in, you’ll start in the lobby. The floors need to be buffed and polished. Are you hearing me?”

  Camille was staring out the car window, watching the trees go by. Fruit was blossoming, the colors coming back. Her father would have commented on the view.

  “Camille!” Camille looked left, where the view was decidedly worse. Aunt Rue had the face of a bitter old crone, with cold, pitiless eyes. “The doctors say you’re a fake. I say you always have been. You had your parents fooled, your daddy mostly. But I know what you really are. Ugly things come in pretty packages. You’re ugly, Camille. And now I’ve got you. By heavens, we’ve got each other!”

  Camille gave no expression, turning back to her view of the trees. Her insides were numb. Too numb to laugh or to cry or to scream. Aunt Rue thought of her “fake” affliction another way. She’s trying to drive me mad, this devil with an angel’s face. Sizing me up for a straitjacket, just like she did my sister!

  The car turned onto a private road lined with pear and apple trees that led to Halloway House. Yes, Camille was thinking, her father would have loved it there.

  Halloway House was still vacant when they arrived. The staff wouldn’t be returning for another week. The house itself was a handsome Victorian with vaulted ceilings and cozy brick fireplaces, featuring twenty-one bedrooms of varying sizes. The facilities were state-of-the-art for their time, a time when cell phones and the Internet were just the musings of science fiction. Despite its age, Halloway House was consistently ranked in the top twenty bed-and-breakfasts of North America.

  Aunt Rue escorted Camille up the lobby stairs, proudly boasting of Halloway’s notable guests: two vice presidents, a slew of famous writers, and even an old movie star, Diana Durwin. But she made no mention of its notable horrors.

  Room six would be Camille’s for the week. Aunt Rue unlocked the door and walked her inside. It was the most luxurious bedroom Camille had ever seen. The furnishings were gold-trimmed, the wallpaper gold-striped; there was even a canopy bed perpendicular to the south wall, the kind of bed she had once dreamed of, back when frivolous dreams seemed to matter. Aunt Rue remained in the doorway. “Do we approve?” Camille nodded. “Very well. Unpack your things. I’ll be back to collect you in ten minutes.” She moved off, the clumping of her shoes echoing throughout the empty corridor.

  Camille quickly unpacked, hanging her meager belongings in a closet that could have accommodated five times the amount. The last item in her case was a journal, which she hadn’t written in since her father’s death. She placed it on the vanity by the window. She needed to write again. For her own sanity, Camille needed to talk to someone, even if it was herself. She picked up a pen and opened her journal. Camille flipped through the book, in search of a blank page in which to write her new entry. But something stopped her: it was her last entry.

  Camille’s last recorded entry was on a Friday—Daddy bringing home surprise—the day of the accident. The black ink had been spattered with tears. How many times had she cried on that page, trying to recapture the feeling she had when she wrote it? The past felt like a dream—Mommy and Daddy are alive.

  No, they’re not. Wake up, Camille, you’re dreaming!

  Camille dropped her pen, partly because the words weren’t coming, but mostly because of the sounds. She heard a noise she didn’t recognize coming from behind the bed. For most, it would have been too faint to hear, but losing the ability to speak had served to heighten her other senses. Camille heard everything.

  It was coming from behind the wall.
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br />   She tiptoed over and pressed her ear against the striped wallpaper. By then, the sounds were already starting to wane. They weren’t coming from the pipes, Camille decided, or the furnace powering up. They were deliberate. Something was alive back there. Alive and on the move.

  A loud, disciplined knock interrupted her. Camille looked at her watch. Ten minutes had passed, to the second, and Aunt Rue had returned to collect her niece. “It’s time to earn your keep.”

  That afternoon, Aunt Rue went into town for supplies, leaving Camille to explore the property on her own. The grounds were idyllic. There were fruit trees and sloping hills and a freshwater stream where Camille skipped stones. It was like living in a painting.

  Except for the flowers.

  Exotic varieties from all over the world lined the perimeter of the estate. Beautiful to look at but deadly in their implications. Camille suffered from severe allergies; all insects posed a threat, and the flowers were overrun by bees. For Camille, the encompassing blooms were like an electrified fence. Any attempt to escape Halloway House could prove fatal.

  Dinner took place in the main dining room, which could accommodate fifty guests. That night, there was seating for two: Camille and Aunt Rue. The meal was liver and steamed vegetables. The jellylike main course made Camille sick to her stomach. She slid the plate away and motioned to be excused. Aunt Rue didn’t acknowledge her until Camille got to her feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Camille pointed: upstairs.

  “Not before finishing every last morsel on that plate.” Camille shook her head and started for the lobby. As she passed, Aunt Rue popped up from her chair and snatched Camille by the bicep. “Just so we’re clear: I talk, you listen. I believe that is the arrangement you’ve insisted upon. You lost a father and I lost a sister. For the time being, we’re stuck with each other. There isn’t much I can do about that. In less than a week, the first guests arrive. I have a job to uphold, which is seeing to the needs of Halloway House while, in accordance with your mother’s wishes, looking after you. Guess which job I prefer?”

  Camille flared her nostrils. If she could have raged, screamed, shouted, she would have done so, but she could not. Aunt Rue had won the round. “I’ll have your dinner sent up to your room. Set your alarm for five. We have a full day ahead.”

  Camille had made it halfway across the lobby before Aunt Rue called out again. “Cammie, dear!” Camille paused, not turning. “I’m surprised at you. Aren’t you going to say good night?” Camille didn’t need to look back. She knew with certainty…Aunt Rue was smiling.

  It was after ten o’clock when Camille scribbled her first journal entry in months. She wrote: I hate liver. Then, after careful consideration, she altered it to say: I hate Aunt Rue. She closed her journal and contemplated her next move. The odor coming from her untouched dinner might have cinched it. She had to get away, to escape Halloway House before Aunt Rue cost Camille her sanity. Or before one of them was dead.

  She climbed onto the canopy bed and lay on her side. The mattress was heaven-ness, a thought that made her smile. Is that even a word? It was to Camille. She only said words in her head, so there was no one to correct her. She reached for the nightstand and switched off the light. No small irony, Halloway House provided Camille with the best sleep she’d had in months.

  It was 3:33 in the morning when all that changed.

  Camille suddenly found herself trapped in a dark, dank space; she couldn’t tell where. She kicked and clawed and cried out for help, and only then did she realize she was dreaming, because Camille wasn’t mute in her dreams. But her voice was stifled by a different sound. Something nonhuman was approaching, building like a tsunami, a chirping sound emerging from the walls!

  Camille’s eyes popped open. She was panting as she looked about the room, unsettled by the unfamiliar surroundings. It all came flooding back. Halloway House. Aunt Rue. Mommy and Daddy are dead. But the strange sounds, those clarion chirps, were still in the room, rising to an almost deafening refrain.

  Camille clicked on the lamp and held it to the wall. The wallpaper was rippling. Tiny shapes, numbering in the thousands, were migrating underneath; they were lined up in military precision, chirping as they traveled. Camille opened her mouth to scream but could barely manufacture a hiss. Out of some mad instinct, she kicked at the wall, tearing a hole in the wallpaper.

  Then, suddenly, the chirping ceased, and for the moment, Camille questioned her own state of mind. Was the sound an extension of her dream?

  The answer arrived when a waterfall of black cockroaches tumbled out of the breach like living plumbs, bouncing onto the bed, their numbers inexhaustible. Camille kicked and slapped, her voiceless mouth twisted with anguish. She leaped out of the bed and backed into the dresser, watching them swarm into the room. Reaching back in the dark, her hand found the dinner tray and squished into something moist and animated. Camille turned to look.

  The liver was covered in roaches.

  Her mouth formed a silent cry as she stumbled to the door. It flew open before she got there, slamming into her shoulder and throwing her facedown into a carpet of roaches. If there was a scream left inside her, that would have been the time to use it.

  Aunt Rue flicked on the light and the roaches scattered, retreating under furniture and back inside the walls. She looked down condescendingly from the open doorway. “Why are you on the floor when you have a perfectly good bed to sleep in?”

  Camille sat up, flustered, trying to breathe. To form words. Aunt Rue handed her a pen and pad from the nightstand. “You have something to contribute? Here. Write it for me.”

  Camille jotted a single word. When she handed it back, Aunt Rue read it aloud. “‘Roaches.’” Camille nodded. “Where?”

  Camille scribbled a bloodcurdling response: They come in through the walls.

  Aunt Rue gave an impatient sigh. “Well, they’re gone now. Roaches, if that’s what they were, only come out in the dark. Might I suggest sleeping with the light on?”

  Camille scribbled another sentence—Won’t stay room 6—eliciting a laugh from Aunt Rue. “I’ll have you know, room six is a privilege. We have guests booking a year in advance.”

  Not safe, read Camille’s next note. Aunt Rue was incensed. “That’s absurd! Of course it’s safe.” Camille pounded the dresser, knocking over an antique figurine. “Watch that temper, Camille. Or I’ll have you sent to Shepperton—to the same sanitarium your mother died in—where you belong!”

  Aunt Rue turned toward the corridor. Camille followed her out, sticking a final note into her hand. The one-word declaration seemed to resonate with Aunt Rue. It read: Inheritance. She crumpled the note into a ball. So the pathetic little mute knew how to fight when she had to. “There will be an exterminator on the premises first thing in the morning. Until then, there’s a cot in the fruit cellar. You’ll sleep down there for the remainder of your stay. In fact, it rather suits you.” She pocketed the crumpled note and briskly moved off, leaving Camille to gather her things.

  From within shadowy hiding spaces under the bed, an army watched her pack.

  Camille found the fruit cellar on her own, the label being a complete misnomer, since it contained no fruit. It was more like a repair shop. The air was dank. Three sputtering bulbs suspended from beams provided what little light there was. Strewn across the concrete floor were ten partially assembled bar stools, a table with three missing legs, numerous light fixtures, cases of ceramic bath tiles, and lamp shades. Camille found a stained cot shoved between two chunky TVs. It was folded in half and looked as hard as a rock, with a steel support bar that would feel like a knife in her back, the opposite of the luxury mattress in room six. Still, it was better than sharing a bed with roaches.

  Camille rolled the cot away from the wall and found an old towel to cover her feet. Awaiting sleep, she listened to the creaks and dripping sounds that old houses made so well. And when sleep finally came, she dreamed once more.

>   This time of roaches.

  In the morning, Halloway House was alive with activity: footsteps and ringing telephones and the sound of handcarts rolling supplies off trucks as the regular staff checked in. Camille remained in the cellar, hearing the commotion but not seeing a soul, which suited her just fine. In her silent state, it was difficult being around new people. And Aunt Rue saw to it that she had more work than she could handle. Being handy with a needle and thread, Camille got the job of tailoring the staff uniforms, a task that would take her well into the wee hours of the next morning.

  It was after three a.m. when Camille decided to call it quits for the day. Her eyes were seeing double, and in the previous half hour, her mistakes had been piling up. She hung the last uniform on a pipe and wheeled out the cot. Sleep was going to feel so good. Heaven-ness was the word. In truth, Camille was so exhausted she could have slept on a bed of nails.

  She clicked the main switch, extinguishing the trio of overhead lightbulbs. The fruit cellar went black, except for the three glowing balls lingering in her eyes. Soon they would be gone, too. Camille waved her hand in front of her face. Nothing. Not a thing, even an inch in front of her. She turned on her side and closed her eyes. If she could keep herself from thinking, sleep would come. And it did.

  It took forty minutes for the terror to follow.

  Camille’s eyes popped open, unable to adjust because there was nothing to see. The fruit cellar was a black abyss, but she could still hear. Camille heard what sounded like raindrops pitter-pattering across the cement floor. She felt a presence down there with her. She sat up, mouth open, tasting the floating dust particles clinging to the humidity. Was that all it was?

  No.

  Something else was in the fruit cellar. She reached under the cot and found her flashlight. Camille’s knuckles brushed against what felt like pebbles. She wriggled her hand and the pebbles shifted. Camille knew what it meant. The ground was alive. Room six had been fumigated the previous morning, and the roaches needed somewhere to go. And the best place to go was down, down into the cellar.