Tales from the Haunted Mansion, Volume 4

by Amicus Arcane

  “Cherreeeeeeeee!”

  “Would you like to hear his tale, Doctor?” Prudence asked.

  “And just what do you know of the patient in room three?” Dr. Ackerman replied.

  Prudence cracked open the book and flipped through the blank pages, locating the tale she’d been searching for. “Aaah. Here we are, good doctor. The proof is on the page.” He leaned in to see. The page was empty except to Prudence Pock. She could see a tale staring back at her. “Indulge me, Doctor. Listen to these…tales from the haunted mansion. And then you can determine, once and forever, who is sane and who isn’t.”

  Dr. Ackerman shifted on his stool, trying to conceal his impatience. He couldn’t refuse. As a psychiatrist, he had a duty to sit there and listen. “Very well. If you insist, dear Prudence. Let’s get on with it.”

  Prudence Pock unleashed a smile that sent a chill up and down his spine. She turned her eyes to the blank page and began to read.

  Beware, foolish reader. Proceed with caution.

  The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize.

  Do you have the guts to join them?

  You do?

  Very well. Our first tale happens to be all about guts.

  And brains…

  “It’s alive! Alive!”

  And so it was. Alive. Sort of. Juleen, about two seconds away from a full-fledged freak-out, was pointing at the dead-alive thing in the science lab. The frog was attempting to hop, its hind legs kicking with spastic jitters.

  Johnson screamed and Corky threw up his mac and cheese lunch, which in turn made Stanley throw up his, which in turn made Madison throw up hers. Soon a squadron of janitors was storming the science lab, armed with mops and buckets of suds to deal with the cheesy mess.

  All because a frog decided to do what frogs do naturally. Sort of. But there was nothing natural during sixth-period science that day. The frog in question had been very dead a few seconds before. Worse than dead, it had been dissected by Shelley, the star science pupil in Mr. Balderston’s class. Its internal organs, which had been removed, were on display like so many peas and carrots. The amphibian, Shelley insisted, could be reanimated with a complex electrical charge not seen in nature. She provided the proof by plugging a special surge-amplification cord into her phone, and several zaps later…“Rrrr-ribbet!”—a science lesson the students of Buena Vista Middle School would never forget.

  Followed by a record-breaking cleanup the janitors of Buena Vista Middle School would never forget.

  Mr. Balderston pointed to the exit, too flummoxed to speak. Of course Shelley understood the gesture. She had seen him do it like fifty times before. “You want me to go to the principal and tell him what happened,” she said, helping him along, since Mr. Balderston was still unable to form words. The reanimated frog hopped into his shirt pocket. Don’t leave just yet, janitors! Mr. Balderston promptly joined the puke party. “Blooo-gah!” Roast beef on a kaiser roll. “Blooo-gah!”—an exact quote, by the way.

  Shelley dutifully left the class, the students watching with venomous eyes. So what else was new? Shelley had always been referred to as class brain, and not in a good way. Class brains didn’t get asked to dances and always got picked last in gym. “But they sometimes save the world,” her grandpapa often said.

  Could Shelley help it if she excelled at science? It was in her DNA. She hailed from a not-so-distinguished line of scientists dating back to medieval times—the type who performed their experiments in Gothic towers. A few of her relations had even been burned at the stake for being witches. Thank goodness Shelley lived in enlightened times. These days, punishment for mad scientists amounted to a trip to the principal’s office.

  Sitting across from Mr. Gribbons, Shelley questioned her latest infraction. “I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

  Mr. Gribbons was just as flummoxed as Shelley’s teacher. That happened when a student cornered him with logic. “What you did…” he started. Then he stopped, looking around for an assist from elsewhere. A plaque on his desk caught his eye. It said HONESTY ISN’T THE BEST POLICY—IT’S THE ONLY POLICY! That helped. Sort of. “What you did,” he said, rearranging the plaque, “it was dishonest.”

  “How so?”

  “You say you brought a dead thing back to life. That’s impossible, Shelley. It implies you performed a miracle.”

  Shelley looked down at her timid hands. They weren’t the hands of a god. They were the hands of a kid who got picked last in gym. But when he said it out loud, it sounded like she’d done a bad thing. Science wasn’t bad and it wasn’t good. It just was. Real science was never a lie. So she responded with the truth. “It wasn’t a trick, Mr. Gribbons. Or a miracle. It was science. Go down to the lab and see for yourself.” She spared him the details about the frog’s insides being on the outside.

  But it seemed honesty wasn’t Mr. Gribbons’s only policy, and Shelley was rewarded with a two-day suspension.

  Shelley had plenty of time to think about it during the long walk home. She shuffled along the sidewalk, stepping on the cracks she wished could break her mother’s back. Not literally. The idea had nothing to do with her actual mother. It would just be nice if she could believe in something that wasn’t science. Why couldn’t she be like the other kids, who grew up believing in tooth fairies and leprechauns? Why couldn’t she laugh at the jokes the boys told at recess? Simple. Because the jokes weren’t funny. But that didn’t stop the other girls from laughing, in their cute outfits, not frumpy dresses handmade by their moms. She wished she could believe in the magic of sunsets and waterfalls, but really, there wasn’t anything to believe. They weren’t magic. They just were.

  But more than that, Shelley wished she could believe in love.

  She would have traded all fourteen science fair ribbons for that. Or just a friend, any friend. Science wasn’t Shelley’s friend. It was a fact. And facts, as good as they were, were loveless and cold. As cold as the grave.

  Shelley heard a buzz coming at her from behind. It was probably a fat bumblebee, looking to add a stinging exclamation point to Shelley’s already crummy day. She turned and saw a red bike heading straight for her, the buzz emanating from baseball cards attached to the spokes. She quickly jumped out of the way and found herself getting doused by a sprinkler on someone’s lawn.

  The bike came to a stop and a stranger stepped off: a tallish boy, his face obscured by stringy black bangs. Shelley thought about booking it out of there, but there was a reason she got picked last in gym. Booking wasn’t her thing. As he moved toward her, Shelley tried scaring him off. “Stand back! I’m a master of tofu!”

  The boy brushed the hair from his face. And what a face it was. It belonged to Hank Clerval, a kid Shelley knew from grade school. More than knew. For a while, they had been inseparable. But that was in the good old days, before a terrible tragedy struck Hank’s family. His older brother had been killed in an accident. Shelley remembered seeing his picture on the cover of the town flyer, and then Hank was out of school for what seemed like forever. When he finally did come back, he was different. Like he was no longer Hank. At least, no longer the Hank she knew. They’d been no more than cordial ever since. Shelley never spoke about her feelings, not to her mom or her grandpapa. Perhaps she even tried hiding them from herself. But not having Hank Clerval in her world had broken her heart.

  Now he was standing across from her and Shelley had to look away. She was soaked and humiliated. She expected him to laugh, but he didn’t—truly a miracle. “Hey, Shellfish, long time no see.”

  He remembers, she thought. Hank had given her that nickname, back when Hank was still Hank.

  He lowered his kickstand and hopped off the bike. “You might want to move away from that sprinkler.”

  Shelley chuckled nervously. “Just cooling off. It’s hot, isn’t it? Are you hot? I’m hot.” He smiled, and all the old feelings flooded back to her. It was a smile she remembered, except now it didn’
t have braces. It had perfect teeth.

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, I’m boiling,” he responded, and joined her under the sprinkler, where they got soaked together. It was the first time she and Hank had laughed since the fourth grade.

  Minutes later, they were walking side by side down the street. “I heard a crazy rumor today,” Hank said. “Some dude said you brought a dead frog back to life in science.”

  Shelley’s heart sank. At that moment, the last thing she wanted to be was the class brain. “It wasn’t really dead,” she explained. “It was just resting, waiting for a new life to come.” That came out weird, she thought, and she fully expected him to make a mad escape, just like every other boy she knew. But he didn’t.

  “I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. More than that, I believe in you.” He extended his hand. “Will you come home with me? I’d like you to meet someone. I live just over the hill.” He pointed to a large blue house that peeked out from the other side of the hill; it was the one with a wraparound porch that Shelley often admired on the days she got sent home early—which happened a lot.

  Don’t judge a book—or a house—by its cover, Mistress Shelley. Or a mansion.

  Hank unlocked the front door and led Shelley into the den. “Mom, we have company!” The inside of the house was a perfect match for the outside: neat and tidy, everything in order, each knickknack properly placed. Shelley couldn’t believe people actually lived that way. The sofa matched the curtains, and the wallpaper matched the sofa, and they all matched the ottoman. It was almost too perfect. Was there such a thing as too perfect?

  The amazing smell coming from the kitchen signaled that there were cookies, too. Fresh out of the oven!

  A sprightly woman wearing an apron that matched the curtains—which meant it matched the ottoman—sprinted in from the kitchen, carrying a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. How fresh? Try steam rising, chips melting fresh. “Would you like one?” she asked.

  Shelley selected the smallest cookie out of politeness. “Thank you, Mrs. Clerval.”

  Mrs. Clerval smiled, recognizing her. “Shelley, isn’t it? I remember you from the science fair. There’s quite a brain floating around in that skull.” Shelley thanked her. But why did it always have to be about her brain? “Your theory on electrogalvanism as it pertains to the reanimation of dead tissue was the highlight of the fair. I was upset when the papier-mâché volcano took the top prize.”

  “What can you do?” Shelley shrugged, smiling uncomfortably. “Who ever said life was fair?” She bit into the cookie and immediately thought to spit it out. Not in front of Hank, of course. It didn’t taste very good. In fact, it tasted fake. Like the Clervals themselves, the cookie looked too good to be true.

  “Please. Have another.”

  “No thank you. I’ve got dinner waiting at home.”

  “Shelley performed some sort of miracle today. You really need to hear this, Mom.”

  Shelley smiled shyly. “Yeah, it’s a miracle I only got two days of suspension instead of three.”

  But Hank wasn’t smiling. “She brought a dead amphibian back to life,” he said, and his mother let out a squeal, dropping the plate of cookies all over the carpet. It was an uncomfortable moment. Shelley got down on her knees and began gathering them up.

  “Leave those!” shouted Mrs. Clerval. “You’re not a maid, you’re a scientist. Yes, I know all about your family, their famous discoveries. And the indignities they suffered for them. You, dear Shelley, will carry on in their grand tradition.” A mask had been removed and the real Mrs. Clerval had been revealed. She wasn’t a woman who spent her afternoons dusting shelves and baking cookies.

  Shelley knew it was time to hightail it out of there. “I, um, have to get home. My grandpapa’s expecting me any minute. In fact, I’m late already.”

  “Please, we won’t keep you long. There’s still time,” said Mrs. Clerval.

  “Time? For what?” asked Shelley.

  Mrs. Clerval took Shelley by the hand and helped her to her feet. “Time to meet the rest of my family.”

  Mrs. Clerval led Shelley down a long metal staircase into the dark regions of the prettiest house in the neighborhood. Oh, if only all houses could be judged by their outsides. Deep, deep into the subbasement they descended. Shelley could feel the temperature changing the lower they got. And a smell, the stench of electric fumes, had infiltrated her nostrils. Not the damp, mildewy smell one normally associated with a basement under a basement.

  “Hank, throw the switch!” Mrs. Clerval ordered. There was a small lever protruding from a stone wall. Hank yanked it down, and everywhere lights burst into being. At once, Shelley understood why they’d brought her below. Hidden beneath this handsome house was the laboratory of Shelley’s dreams! Because, well, people like Shelley dreamed of laboratories. The lab was loaded with exotic tools—some she could identify, others she could not. There were beakers boiling over with potions, red, yellow, and green, and electrical equipment stacked on top of computers.

  “What do you think?” asked Hank.

  “What do I think?” Shelley made it down the last two steps on her own, twirling to take it all in. “I think it’s incredible! That’s a Tesla coil over there! And over there—is that a megavolt regulator?” But the lab wasn’t the only thing they wanted her to see.

  Shelley stopped breathing when the main attraction came into view. Stretched out along a large metal table, covered by a sheet that matched the ottoman, was the hideous phantasm of a man. Mrs. Clerval made the formal introduction. “Shelley, I’d like you to meet my son.” Hank rolled away the sheet, and Shelley unleashed a most unscientific scream. “This is Adam.”

  The body on the slab was unusually tall, at least seven feet; it was an unhealthy bluish green, and the appendages didn’t quite match up. One arm was slightly longer than the other. The ears had dissimilar shapes. The legs were the same size, but the knees bent in different places. And with the eyes closed, he looked more asleep than dead.

  Mrs. Clerval latched on to Shelley’s arm, pulling her in close, inviting her to examine the fine details of a body meticulously stitched together like a quilt from mismatched parts.

  “How long has he been dead?” Shelley managed to ask.

  “Not dead,” replied Mrs. Clerval.

  Hank added, “He’s just resting. Waiting for a new life to come.”

  Mrs. Clerval explained that she had failed in numerous attempts to endow the body with life. And what a chore it had become keeping the parts from going the natural route—that is to say from rotting.

  “He looks pretty fresh to me,” said Shelley. That was the closest she could get to a compliment.

  “It’s been a challenge,” said Mrs. Clerval. “We’re constantly disposing of old parts, replacing them with…new ones.”

  “Replacing them. From where?” Hint, hint, Mistress Shelley: They come in oblong boxes six feet under the ground. Don’t forget your shovel. Heh!

  “Does it matter where they came from? What matters is how well they work.” Shelley saw an empty jar labeled Adam’s brain on a nearby counter. She felt her own mac and cheese lunch wriggling its way up through her pipes. Seeing no signs of a janitor, Shelley politely swallowed.

  “Whatever you do in the privacy of your own home is your own business,” she said, uttering a sentiment she’d heard her grandpapa express. And it seemed like a good line to depart on. So Shelley bolted for the stairs.

  “Shellfish! Please don’t leave!” Hank implored her. “We need your help.”

  She paused on the middle step. “My help? I don’t understand.”

  Hank covered the body while his mother approached the stairs. “You have the scientific means,” he said. “It’s in your blood. You can bring my brother back to life.”

  Shelley wasn’t sure what to say. True, the very thought was somewhat exciting. If Shelley could pull something like that off, she’d be more than a class
brain—she’d be a world brain! She might even clear the disgraced family name once and for all. The question was, did she have the right? Bringing back a dead frog was one thing. But a dead human being?

  A crackle of thunder seemed to respond. A storm was in the forecast, but Shelley took it as a sign. The thunder was an admonishment from God.

  Being needed for something other than her science homework would be a new experience for Shelley. She’d always dreamed about being needed by someone for anything. “Would you go to the dance with me, Shelley?” would be nice. “Would you share an acai bowl with me, Shelley?”—even nicer. But “Would you bring a dead body back to life for me, Shelley?”—that was typical.

  She was the weird girl. The class brain, then and always. Maybe it was time to accept it. Some of the other weird kids had. And as her grandpapa often said, it was good to be known for something. Reanimating dead things—that was something. As an experiment, it pounded those papier-mâché volcanoes into the ground. But this—this request went beyond even class brain limits. Admittedly, she’d already brought a croaked frog back to croaking life, but that was small potatoes compared to this. Bringing back a dead person was repellent. Maybe even illegal. Forget a two-day suspension. She’d be suspended for life! If bringing back the dead is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to,” she informed the Clervals. But saying it was so much harder than she’d imagined. Shelley saw hope drain from Mrs. Clerval’s eyes. It was like watching a mother lose her child for the second time.

  During the first day of Shelley’s suspension, all she could think about was Mrs. Clerval’s shattered expression. The repeated inquiries: “Why, Shelley? Why? Why?” The disappointment shared by Hank. And then she pictured a joyous family reunion, the happy tears that would flow if Adam came back into their world. It would be better than a blue ribbon. That would be the science project to end all science projects.