Tales from the Haunted Mansion Vol. 1: The Fearsome Foursome

by Amicus Arcane

  “What kind of music?” Noah asked. “Rap? R & B?”

  “More like D & B. Dead and buried. It was an organ. Like you hear at church or a funeral.” She aimed her flashlight into the hallway. “It came from down there.”

  “Down where?” Steve asked.

  Indeed, the corridor appeared to have no end. It did, of course. It had to, right? But the idea made about as much sense as anything else around the place—like the various staircases climbing up walls and across ceilings, leading to nowhere. Or the strange grandfather clock that struck thirteen. All they could do was keep moving. If there was a mystery as to why they’d been invited, that would be the only way to solve it.

  The friends found themselves entering a quaintly decorated room, loaded with books from floor to ceiling, in cases and on shelves. Hardcovers, exclusively, of various colors and conditions: a collection that could only be built over time. It was the mansion’s library, of course, absent any modern amenities you might find in your local library. Unless your local library happens to be located inside a haunted mansion, in which case I offer my sincerest condolences.

  Almost immediately, Willa hopped onto the lowest rung of a ladder built on a sliding track, perusing the titles. “Guys, you’re not going to believe this.”

  Tim walked under the ladder. “What’d you find?”

  “These books. They’re all ghost stories. Every single one of them.”

  Weird enough. But what happened next really chilled their blood. A disembodied voice boomed from the dark recesses of the room: “Our library is well stocked with priceless first editions.”

  Willa, Tim, Noah, and Steve spun around to face…whatever it was.

  A figure materialized from the shadows: a thin man with a lantern-shaped jaw, holding a candelabrum. He had an ashen complexion and wisps of white hair outlining his cheeks so that when he spoke, he resembled a talking skull. Which really shouldn’t offend anyone. When you think about it, we’re all talking skulls. “Welcome, foo—” He corrected himself. “Friends.” His voice was gentle, almost soothing, but that didn’t fool anyone.

  Willa was quick to explain: “We’re not burglars or anything. We thought nobody lived here.”

  “You’re quite right,” the talking skull confirmed. “No body lives here. Forgive me for creeping up on you. Old habits die hard.” He was formally dressed, all in black, as if he was attending a wake—his own, of course. A crumpled carnation was still in his lapel.

  He tilted his candelabrum, throwing both light and shadow onto a collection of exquisitely sculpted marble busts, of which he was justly proud. “You will recognize their faces. Marble busts of the greatest ghostwriters the literary world has ever known. They were commissioned by the master…before his untimely demise.”

  “Who are you?” asked Steve directly.

  “I am the librarian,” he replied. “I have always been the librarian.”

  “How long’s ‘always’?”

  The librarian furrowed his brow. “I’ve never been very good with dates, but I do recall President Lincoln complimenting me on my spats. A fine gentleman, Mr. Lincoln. Wonderful hat. Is he still in office?”

  The others chuckled politely. Yet the librarian wasn’t joking. “Have I interrupted a meeting of some importance?” he asked.

  “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…

  It’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.

  Willa was mortified. Sure, bargaining was all part of the game. It was what you did at flea markets and yard sales. But this was different; Tim was different. And what concerned Willa most—more than the intense voice—was the look in his eyes. She’d never seen it before.

  Tim’s eyes had looked…cruel.

  She dug into her bag, taking out all the money she had, which was about twenty dollars shy. “I’ll come back tomorrow with the rest,” she told the vendor.

  The old man gently pushed her hand away. “Don’t concern yourself, young miss,” he said in a tone that suggested she should. “The boy got what he bargained for.” The vendor looked relieved, like a thousand-pound tombstone had just been lifted from his chest.

  By that point, Tim was almost through the exit. Willa caught him by his sleeve. “Wait up!” He turned halfway and she punched his shoulder. Hard. “What was that all about?” She was hoping the real Tim would respond.

  “A total rip-off,” he said with a snarky laugh.

  “I agree, fifty bucks was way too much, but you didn’t have to—”

  “Fifty? Little girl, you are as dumb as a rock. This glove’s worth ten times that amount.”

  “‘Little girl’?” Willa cocked her fist. “Before you die, explain!”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Willa placed the un-fisted hand on her hip. “Don’t even.”

  “It’s Lonegan’s glove.” He showed her the mitt—the thirteen, the snake tattoo
. Willa was loath to admit it, but Tim was right. She didn’t understand. “The dude was practically a legend,” he added.

  “I practically couldn’t care less. What you did back there was wrong.”

  Tim continued, unabated. “Check it out! A six-fingered mitt wasn’t patented until the nineteen sixties.”

  “So?”

  “So!” He had to catch his breath. “This glove was specially designed for Lefty in the fifties because”—he could barely contain himself—“Lefty Lonegan had six fingers!”

  That did it. Willa was officially weirded out. Not by Lefty’s unusual anatomy; her uncle Josh had three nostrils. It was Tim’s delivery. The authority in his voice. As if he’d actually been there back in the day.

  “Take it off!” Willa tugged at the mitt and Tim’s entire body came along with it.

  “Stop!” he pleaded. “You’re pulling my arm out of the socket!” The glove wouldn’t budge, like it was surgically grafted to Tim’s wrist. Willa didn’t let up. She couldn’t let up! It had to come off, though she couldn’t have told you why. It was that feeling in her gut. Somehow Willa knew…the glove wasn’t right. She planted her feet, tugging with every ounce of strength she had, and for a brief moment, Willa wasn’t feeling leather. She felt blood flowing through the icy veins of an enlarged hand, like it was actual skin she was touching, cold and clammy. The flesh of a dead man!

  Tim saw the look on her face and then he was scared, too. “Get it off! Please, Willa, please!”

  “I’m trying!”

  As they pulled in opposite directions, a thought went swirling through Tim’s mind: he shouldn’t have ripped off the old man. It was a despicable thing to do. And with regret came release, as if the glove no longer had any use for him.

  It slid into Willa’s hands and she fell backward, landing on her butt. Tim hurried to her side. “You okay, Will?” She thought about responding with a punch until she realized…the voice, it belonged to Tim. Her Tim. He was back.

  “Get rid of it, Tim-bo.”

  As he helped her to her feet, Tim knew she was right. “It’s going back right now.” With an apology, he might have added, because that’s exactly what he intended. But when Tim and Willa returned to where the vendor had been, the old man and the table were gone. Tim spun around in circles, hoping to find him. It was no use. It was as if the old man and the table had never been there. “Now what do I do?”