Mario and the Music Box
Chapter 1:The House Where It Always Rains
If they had not run out of milk, perhaps things would have turn out differently.
Not significantly differently, mind. The girl would still be dead. And so would everyone else. The man in the dark suit and the woman with the fluid glistening on her chin, and the specter in the fireplace and all those children, dirty children with sunken-in cheeks, running around with the back of their socks bleeding, staring up at them with mournful gray eyes.
All of those people were dead, and that fact could not be changed. And, perhaps, the outcome of the whole thing would have been no different as well.
But, at the very least, if things had been different, they could have walked into that house side by side instead of alone, and that would have changed much. At the very least, it would have meant that those dark, stomach-dropping moments when they were alone and hollow, abyssal specters closed in all around them would have never happened. Instead of suffering in isolation where all the loneliness of the world seemed circled on them and only them, they could have felt the heat from each other's presence, fluttering through the air, and in the emptiest nights, a warm, familiar hand in your own is always a prize to fight for.
But, as it was, they had run out of milk, and Luigi had decided to go to the store to get more, promising to come right back.
When he returned, Mario was gone.
That alone was not so unusual. Luigi was used to Mario's restlessness, a trait he'd learned of in his childhood when he'd been dismayed to learn, after labor-intensive, fruitless searching behind bushes and up in trees, that the game of hide and seek he'd been playing had actually ended an hour ago when Mario had gotten bored and gone inside for milk and cookies. Luigi would normally have assumed that a similar boredom had carried Mario outside, over into the neighboring town, or perhaps even to the castle, where he was, of course, always welcome. Luigi had never been so bold as to stroll into the castle uninvited, but that was the kind of thing Mario did, and, after all, he had more than earned it.
So, Luigi wouldn't have wondered at his brother's absence if not for the sheet of paper fluttering in the breeze from the open doorway like a white sail. That paper had definitely not been there when Luigi left. The bottom half of the sheet was pinned down by an empty coffee mug. It was in order to fill this mug that Luigi had left to get milk, and now it sat empty, pressing a ring into the paper.
Luigi set the carton on the counter, slid the paper out from under the mug, and read:
Dear Mario and Luigi,
I hope this letter finds the two of you well. I wish I had my own good news to share with you, but the truth is I need your help. Don't worry, you needn't worry about me this time. I'm actually out of town on a diplomatic visit, so I hope this letter was able to find you quickly. I've received word that Bowser is still recuperating from your last encounter with him, so rest assured that I am well safe.
However, just before I left, I received word that a man has gone missing in an area called Blue Hill. If the name doesn't sound familiar, it's because it's been unoccupied for decades. If I've been informed correctly, there used to be an old mining town there, but when the mines dried up, so did the town.
His acquaintances fear he may have gone into an old house called Azurewood Hall, which used to lie just outside of the town, at the foot of the mountains. It's been so long since anyone lived there, I'm not sure how such a house could still be standing, but there are rumors that the house is haunted. Of course, rumors may just be rumors, but we can't rule out the possibility, especially not when a Mushroom Kingdom citizen's safety is at stake.
It's already been a few days, and, as you can imagine, his family is absolutely frantic. I truly believe that sending you two is the best chance we have of finding him and bringing him home safe and sound. Just in case the rumors of ghosts are true, I think it would be best for you to pay a visit to our dear friend Prof. E. Gadd to pick up the Poltergust 5000. As I understand it, Luigi is very familiar with the operation of this device, and I'm sure if you explained the circumstances, the professor would happily lend it to you.
One of the old rail lines should stop near Blue Hill. It's one ticket to get on the train and another to transfer, so it shouldn't be too expensive. Please be careful and watch out for each other, as always.
Good luck and thank you!
~ Princess Peach
By the time Luigi was finished reading, the letter was fluttering again. Not from any breeze but from the shaking in Luigi's hands.
"Don't… Don't tell me," cried Luigi, feeling slightly faint, "that he actually went and-!"
Just then, Luigi noticed a squiggling series of indentions on the bottom of the page, filling the space around Peach's signature. He flipped over the letter and saw, scrawled on the bottom in thick, sloppy pen ink:
Bro,
I'm going ahead. Get the Poltergust and meet me there.
- M
Outside, in the sunlight, several birds jerked up their small, round heads and startled from the trees, alarmed by the scream of anguish that had suddenly erupted from the Mario Brothers' house.
"Here's your coffee, Mr. Mario!"
"Grazie."Mario took the mug and saucer from the Toad's outstretched arms and set it on the small table in front of him. He lightly unscrewed the lid from the little clear jar where the sugar cubes sat glistening like moon dust and began dropping them in, one by one. He was on his fourth when he notices the Toad with the trolley was still staring at him.
Mario put his tongs down. "Can I help you with something?" he said gently.
The Toad bobbed up and down on the spot, his heels rising and dropping onto the floor. "Um, actually, I was wondering if I could get a selfie?"
Mario smiled patiently. "Of course," he said.
The Toad squealed and pulled his phone from a rack on the trolley. In no time, he was up against the hard wooden frame of the seat, grinning up at the phone and flashing a victory sign.
"Say, 'Shine get!'" he chirped.
Mario obliged. The Toad looked at the photo on the screen as though it were a jewel in his hands.
"Wait 'til my friends hear I saw Mario at work! Thank you so much!"
"No problem." Mario couldn't help noticing several other passengers eyeing the trolley impatiently.
The Toad looked back up Mario, eyes glittering. "Um, sorry for bothering you! I'm just a really big fan! This is the greatest day of my life!"
"It's no bother," said Mario, "But don't you think you should catch the trolley?"
"The trolley?" The Toad looked. The train had begun to move at a slight downhill angle, and the trolley was rolling casually away. The Toad yelped and dove for it, catching the handle just before its momentum began to build. "Thanks again!" he called as he finally moved down the aisle.
Mario exhaled, fanning the plume of steam over the lip of the mug, and took a sip. Still too bitter. He dropped another sugar cube into the cup. If Luigi were here, this was the point where he would begin to protest. "Alright, bro, I think that's enough!"But, Luigi wasn't here.
Mario looked out the window at the overcast sky. He wondered how long it would take Luigi to reach the house. Professor E. Gadd had finished his research at Evershade Valley – he had invited the brothers over and popped a glass of champagne to celebrate – but he still lived fairly far away. Mario supposed that it might be several hours before he saw Luigi, which was a bit of a shame. He'd only ever caught a fleeting glimpse of Luigi wielding the Poltergust from behind the bulk of King Boo, shuddering with his brows lifted over those wide, blue eyes, and the last time he'd been trapped at Evershade Valley, he hadn't gotten to see him fight at all. One moment, King Boo was looming over him in the dark with his teeth glinting and his laughter echoing in his ears, and the next thing he knew, he was on the floor and Luigi was standing over him. "Mario?"
It was a shame really. Mario knew Luigi had to have been something fearsome with that Poltergust. The hordes of ghosts pouring out of the vault spoke for itself. Luigi had put every single one in their personally – Gadd certainly hadn't done it – and the professor had spoken of Luigi's confidence as he laughed and swung the hose into its holster by his side. "You should have seen your brother, Mario. You'd have hardly recognized him."
Mario doubted that such a gesture would have made his brother unrecognizable, but he agreed it would have been a sight to see.
But, it looked like he would have to wait just a little longer.
To Mario, heading to the house ahead of Luigi seemed the most logical thing to do. There was no point in accompanying Luigi to retrieve the Poltergust; that wasn't a two-person job. It would take Luigi the same amount of time to go to E. Gadd's place and then head to Blue Hill, regardless of whether or not Mario was with him. Mario might as well make himself useful and scope out the area before Luigi arrived. After all, a man was missing, and time might very well be of the essence. And, if the job was really too much for him to handle, well, Luigi would be there before too long.
True, Mario had found himself in over his head in the past. He still remembered the feeling of being trapped behind that picture frame, pressed tight like dried flowers between the pages of a book as he banged and clawed at the wall before King Boo's hungry eyes…
But, King Boo was still contained. And, even if he wasn't, his jeweled crown was still in the brothers' possession. Unlike all the other gems he'd acquired, Luigi absolutely refused to sell it ("I'm not letting that thing out of my sight!") and so it sat on a shelf in the closet. Mario had once tried to lift it up to dust around it only to find that Luigi had glued it to the shelf. Really strong glue it was, too. Looking closer, Mario could actually see it bubbling up under the rim of the crown, smooth, hard, and yellow.
So, there was no need to worry. Mario would wait for Luigi at Azurewood Hall.
The terrain outside the window became increasingly rural as it scrolled by. On the last train, the opposite had been true, the small cottages growing into larger houses which in turn gave way to tall clusters of shops and offices, the plot of land per building decreasing as the buildings themselves grew, giving the impression that the towns were strung along on a timeline or perhaps a time-lapse video of a single town. Humble beginnings to the growth of industry. But once he'd changed rails, the video played in reverse. Now everything was shrinking down, growing farther apart. Flattening and spreading out.
Behind a field dotted with haybales and grazing sheep, a faint mountain range began to rise, its peak evaporating into the hazy clouds. Mario watched the mountain grow. The sight was a soothing one, even with the coffee in his system. It was tranquil as a painting. It was hard to imagine somebody lost out there.
It was while wrestling with the arrangements of transportation that Mario was reminded of another reason it was better to go without Luigi. Mario counted himself lucky if he managed to make it ten steps without someone stopping him. "Hey, it's Mario!" "Mario, where are ya headed?" "Mario, are you gonna stomp some bad guys? Go get 'em!" Everywhere he went, people were stopping him, asking to shake his hand, offering to buy him things. Mario couldn't pretend that being fawned over in this way was an unpleasant experience, but he felt that if he were somehow able to pass by incognito, his travel time would be cut in half. Having Luigi with him in no way slowed this outpouring of anonymous affection. In fact, Luigi's presence didn't seem to affect how much praise Mario got at all. Most people either completely ignored Luigi or gave Mario an irritating, sympathetic smile, as though Mario had been tasked with babysitting an infamously high-maintenance toddler. It wasn't that Luigi was never praised or thanked, but Mario was always struck by how Luigi's eyes lit up and how embarrassed he became whenever he received an expression of gratitude.
For Luigi, being praised was an unexpected joy. For Mario, it was routine. That was a contrast Mario didn't have it in him to see today.
The train began to slow as the cobblestone edge of the platform slid into view at the bottom of the window. Mario set his coffee cup down with a clink. The words "Blue Hill" could be read in peeling, cracked paint on a sign that swung on a pair of rusty chains. This was the stop. Mario began to slide toward the edge of the seat.
But, the hiss of the train's brakes didn't come. Instead of slowing to a stop, the train continued at its slow pace. Mario turned his head as Blue Hill's platform moved out of sight.
"Hey! What's the deal?" he exclaimed. With the stop safely behind it, the train was beginning to pick up speed again.
Mario ran forward and tapped on the shoulder of the Toad seated ahead of him. "Scusami,do you know why we're not stopping?"
"Huh?" The Toad blinked. "Um, they always skip that stop. There's nothing around here, so there's no need to stop. Where are you going?"
Mario had already walked away was now putting his hand on the door at the back of the car.
The door opened. A rush of cool air whirled through the compartment. The other passengers huddled down and shivered as they watched Mario climb onto the walkway in between the cars.
The thin path – well, it was more of a thick chain really - rattled and swayed under Mario's feet. The slats of the tracks rushed below in a striped blur. The effect was like the whirring blades of a buzz saw. Reaching a limb out idly would guarantee it to be ground away, shaved down in a flurry of sparks. Mario placed his hand on the chain at his shoulder that served as a handrail. Then the other hand. Then his foot was on it, balancing on the arch, and as the Toads watched, Mario vaulted himself over the chain and off the rails, rolling to a stop by the track.
The Toads gasped and ran in a pack toward the left-side windows. The closer to the back of the car, the denser the mushroom heads became.
"What is he, nuts?"
"What'd he do that for?"
"Is he trying to break his neck?"
Mario was already long out of sight by the time he picked himself up and began to move jauntily toward the tree line, but the Toads were already familiar enough with his ways to calm themselves down.
"Well, it is Mario. I'm sure he had a good reason for doing that."
"Yeah. He must have to do something important."
A thick, dark wood with the minted mountains looming above and the rumble of the train melting into the distant wind, that was all there was. It seemed true what he Toad had said, that there was nothing out here.
Worse, it was beginning to rain. Mario couldn't see the drops in the air, could he see the dark tears on his clothes, but he could feel cool, glittering beads gathering on his eyelashes and the bristles of his mustache. It was as though the drops were not falling but hovering the air, draping themselves over him as he brushed past like the strands of a spider web. By the time the trees were overhead, the rain had finished this magic trick and was beginning to fall in earnest.
Mario understood why this place was called "Blue Hill." The overcast sky had already cast the air in teal, and now the trees used their branches to block the low light cast by the screen above. Mario felt he had stepped into a cave, though the air was as fresh as ever, filled with the scent that plants give off in the rain. Many soaps and candles had tried and failed to get this scent.
In the field by the tracks, the grass had crunched under his shoes like grocery store lettuce, freshly wet from the mister. Now, with the trunks looming all around, there was hardly any grass at all. The forest floor was covered in a carpet of leaves and mud. Mario felt it clinging to the bottoms of his shoes, giving them a thick, soft second sole. The legs of his overalls clung wetly to his skin as the mud crept up them. Despite the cooling elements all around him, Mario felt the inside of his shirt become sticky with sweat. He was chilled outside and broiling inside.
A thick stream of water suddenly rushed over his shoulders as if poured from a bucket. Mario shivered and hurried away. As the trees grew thicker, so did the rain. Mario could hear it drumming thickly on the treetops, shearing the leaves, dancing on the surfaces of puddles. But, it did not fall evenly everywhere, forced as it was to move through the labyrinth of branches above. The result was there was some places where Mario felt almost dry and others where the water gushed in a fountain-like stream.
Still, for all his discomfort, there was something peaceful about this place. It seemed exactly the kind of place that he would've liked to explore as a child. Children are drawn to such desolation to scenes devoid of human presence. It made them feel like kings, like conquerors or even just the opposite, like lost explorers, like banished souls. Hunted prey. It was fun to be those things if you knew it was temporary.
Mario felt his toe collide with something solid. He looked down. It was a corner, raised just above the muddy floor and made of bricks. Mario stepped onto this plateau, studying it curiously. The rest of the square vanished under a coating of arboreal detritus, but Mario could feel the solid surface under his boots as he walked. It went on for much longer than it seemed at first glance. Mario swiped his foot across the mud and saw the pattern of the bricks emerge underneath. He was standing on a foundation, the foundation of a house. Four walls and a roof had once risen around this spot, but now they were gone.
Mario stepped off the foundation and continued his walk. More rubble appeared, littering the ground as the leaves and mushrooms did. Here was a lone stone, covered in lichen. Here was a chain rusted and half buried, whatever it may have once attached long gone. Mario spotted a strangely angular branch out of the corner of his eye and looked up to see a window frame dangling from the arm of a tree.
The princess had mentioned there was a town here, but Mario hadn't expected to see it in such a desolate state. How much time had passed between when the last miner packed his bags and now? How much time was needed for an entire forest to crumble a city into the soil? Perhaps the rain had helped, battering the roofs, turning the stone into sand, churning the roads to mud.
Furthermore, how much time was needed before even these leftover bits and pieces were gone? How long until the moss ate up the last brick and there was nothing left at all? Until there was no evidence anywhere that this town had ever existed?
Mario shivered. Surely Peach had never been out here herself. Mario seriously doubted that a house could still be standing in the midst of all this growth and rot. If he were lucky, maybe he'd be able to find the place where Azurewood Manor used to be. Or maybe he had already passed it. Maybe that window in the tree, that chain in the ground, was all that was left.
Mario was thinking such thoughts and wondering what he should do when he saw a cobblestone path curving through the trees.
The end of the path vanished under the mud and extended into the distance like a long, white snake emerging from its hole. It took less than a second for Mario's gaze to move up the path to the gap in the trees where the front of the house peered coyly through the misting rain. If not for the path highlighting it, Mario could have easily overlooked it. Mario ran up the path and stopped panting at the swinging gate. He lifted the dripping brim of his cap to read the bronze letters above: "Azurewood Manor."
Even without the sign, Mario would have had no doubt that this was the house. Its height could only be rivaled by the mountain rising behind it, and its wings on either side were as vast and all-encompassing as the wings of an actual bird. A fountain bubbling with rain water stood in the middle of the tangled front lawn. Vines crept over the white walls and clogged the overflowing storm drains surrounding the blue painted roof, which seemed to crackle with the force of the driving rain. The steps to the wide porch were flanked on either side by a pair of angel statues. One had been broken in half, and its head and clasped hands lay at odd angles at its skirt.
The rain was falling so hard here Mario wouldn't have been surprised to find the house already flooded. But, even if he had come across it on a brilliantly sunny day, Mario would have been given pause. Why was this one house standing when all the surrounding buildings had been washed away? It didn't even have the cover of the trees to protect it, the roof was higher than all the trees surrounding it. The house wasn't in good condition, to be sure. No homeowner would be happy with the vines crawling up the side and the statue in the fountain was so crumbled as to be unrecognizable. But, that Azurewood Manor was even recognizable as a house put it leagues above any other structure in this forest.
Mario was familiar with the ways of ghosts, and he knew there was a chance that the entire mansion was an illusion. So, he would have to be extra careful.
Mario pushed open the gate and ran rapidly up the path toward the front porch, slipping on the wet stones only once. He was hoping that the space under the eaves would be drier but wasn't expecting to feel no drops at all once he stepped into the shadow of the porch. The area around the front door was completely dry. Mario peeled off his cap and shook the rain water onto the wooden floor. This done, he grasped the ornate door handle and pushed.
The door gave easily, though Mario could have done without the loud creaking that announced every inch of the door's swing. Cringing, Mario stepped inside, placing his hand on the door to silence it. As dark as the forest had been, the interior of the house was darker still. All that he could really see from the gray light cast from the door was the gleam of a large staircase that rose up from the other side of the tasseled rug. Mario wished he had brought a flashlight. Perhaps a light source could be found inside.
Mario stepped away from the door, leaving it open. He decided to leave the staircase for later and moved along the front wall of the house, staying in the low light from the windows. Peach's missing man was somewhere in this house. Mario lifted his hand to his mouth to try calling for him, but he thought better of it. Hollering your way through a haunted house, loudly alerting every ghost to your exact location, didn't seem like the best strategy. Besides, he didn't know the man's name.
Why hadn't the princess mentioned it?
Mario felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck before he heard the sound that caused it. Some sounds are like that, so soft that you sense them more than hear them. Mario stopped and listened hard, willing the sound to emerge out of the drumbeat of the rain. Just as he thought he'd teased it out, it faded away shapeless into the background.
So, Mario tried not listening to it. Mario continued to walk, listening to the rain, and only then did the sound underlaying it reveal itself. It was ticking, like the ticking of a watch. Something, somewhere, was ticking.
Mario stopped again. The ticking faded out and Mario found himself unable to hold onto it again. Had the sound moved away? Perhaps that had been his man, but Mario was just as hapless as he would be if he'd never heard. He couldn't tell how far away the sound was or in what direction it had been coming from. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was definitely not alone. Was that thought reassuring?
A gust of wind rattled through a jagged hole in one of the windows and Mario got a glimpse of something white flurrying just out of sight. He jumped and whirled around to see a sheet of paper slowly settling on the carpet. Mario exhaled, a little embarrassed. He hadn't noticed the side table sitting along the opposite wall. The wind must have caught the paper and blown it off the table.
Mario picked the paper off the floor and flipped it open. It read:
Hello again, Dearest,
It's so droll to constantly be sending letters back and forth like this. I want to be right next to you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. A certain gentleman (who I will not name) has been trying all sorts of tired charms and confessions on me, so I want to try using those same lines on you. From my own mouth to your ear, I think I will find them much more agreeable.
It's so hard to keep on working during the day, doing this or that and pretending I don't notice you, that I'm not thinking of the feel of your skin next to mine. I want to be cuddling up in bed with you, running my fingers through your hair, tasting your sweet-
Flustered, Mario gingerly set the letter back on the table. He sighed. He hoped it wasn't his missing man that had left something like that out in the open.
Just then, another sound tugged gently at Mario's shoulder and he lifted his head, the letter forgotten. It wasn't ticking this time but music. Very light, very soft, but distinct. Mario leaned in the direction of the sound. It was coming from the direction of the front door. Mario retraced his steps, his ears strained. Sure enough, the notes became louder as he walked. He reached the front door and looked up. The notes were coming from upstairs, drifting down the steps as a long skirt would, rustling softly with each fall. Mario turned away from the rain spattering the doorway and climbed slowly up the steps.
The second floor landing came into view, and Mario stepped off the stairs, following the sound. It led him down the fall, coaxing him like a finger in the air. It was a music box, ringing its sweet little bells through the silent hallway. The sound was now clear enough that Mario could recognize the song. It was "Greensleeves," a song of rocking children to sleep, a song of gently falling snow. A song of sighing.
Mario moved past long-dead potted plants and paintings of landscapes, his steps barely a whisper on the carpeted floor. It was so dark he kept his hands outstretched, feeling the ghostly shapes and parchment walls around him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the shape of a door at the end of the hall. The music box's notes were seeping out through the cracks around that door. The song was like a scent wafting out, soft like perfume.
Mario pushed the door open. The door didn't creak.
He saw the music box immediately, as though the sound had tugged on puppet strings attached to his eyes. It was plain, wooden, and solid as a brick, a look hewn and masculine. It was hard to reconcile that sweet, pleading melody with this heavy shape. The only thing about its appearance that matched the song was the little silver key turning shyly in the back.
There was no one else here. Mario looked around as he stepped inside. Against his earlier judgment, he called out. "Hello? Is someone there?" Whoever had wounded up this music box must've just been here. But, they were not here now.
A single window cast the room into sharp relief. Now that he looked at it, the room was a mess. The table on which the music box sat seemed the only piece of furniture that hadn't been overturned. A vanity lay on its side with its mirror smashed and the drawers vomiting their contents over the floor. The curtains had been torn down and torn to ribbons, and the bed had gouge marks marring its frame. Where the wallpaper wasn't torn, the wall itself had been dented and smashed, and the toys. There were toys littering the floor everywhere he looked, and every single one was in pieces. A rocking horse lay on its side, its rockers split, a doll lay decapitated with sawdust pouring out of its neck, a teddy bear bled its white entrails onto the filthy floor. Mario stepped gingerly around the broken toys, disturbed. Who had done this?
Mario stepped up to the music box. The song now seemed to be one of mourning, a pitiful keening over the pain that still lay here in this room. Mario gripped the side of the music box in his gloved hand. Not really knowing why he was doing it, nor considering it the type of thing that was worth wondering about, he slid the music box towards himself and opened the lid.
It was empty. Inside was a velvet-lined compartment clearly meant for jewelry, but it stood hollow. Mario peered inside and saw a mirror attached to the underside of the lid. It was small, too small for anyone looking in to really see anything but their own eyes.
Mario saw his own blue eyes looking back at him.
The key in the back of the music box stopped. All was silent.
Suddenly, the room became much darker, as though a shade had been dropped. Mario looked toward the window and saw something dark splattered over its surface. He stared. When had that happened? Who had thrown ink over the window? And how? This window was on the second floor, and it was raining cats and dogs outside. Why wasn't the ink washing away?
Then Mario saw the light filtering through the ink. Though the substance appeared black, the light shining through was red. Mario coughed as the choking, rusty smell of blood reach his nostrils. He gasped, inhaling through his mouth to escape the smell, but that was even worst. Now he could taste it. His mouth, his head, his entire soul was full of the taste of blood.
As he watched, the blood dripped over the window sill and over the torn wallpaper. It puddled over the floor, knotting the carpet.
The blood was on the inside of the window.
Mario's knee slammed into the table painfully as he backed away, stumbling over himself in his haste to reach the door. He pushed the door open, and the red light from the bedroom window spilled into the darkened hallway. Mario gagged. The smell was even worse out here, and in the light Mario could see the walls of the hallway absolutely slathered in blood. But the blood here was not thrown randomly over the walls, oh no. There were distinct points and loops. There were words. Actually, just one word, over and over:
MINE
Mario sprinted down the hall. He didn't know what he expected to happen. There was no time to even think about it. All he knew was that he needed to be out of that house.
He reached the stairs and vaulted himself down two steps at a time. The front door was just at the foot of the stairs. As soon as he was out, he could think of a plan. He reached the bottom and pushed himself so hard off the rug it rippled against the floor. Only darkness reached his eyes from the other side of the rug.
The front door was not there.
Mario threw himself against the blank wall where the front door used to be and banged against it desperately. "No! No! NO!" he shouted. He clawed at the wall, willing it not to be true. The door was just here! He'd left it open! Was he mistaken? No, impossible!
Mario ran down the side of the house to the nearest window. He kicked it in as hard as he could, but it didn't even budge. He frantically felt along the sides for a latch. There was none. He banged his shoulder into the glass again and again and stopped.
His thoughts were racing. He couldn't get out. He was stuck. Stuck with the blood, stuck with whoever had written those words. "Mine." Stuck with that greed.
No wonder the missing man had never come back. The same thing had probably happened to him. He had wandered in curiously and then the house simply locked him in.
Then: Luigi.
If Luigi came here, he would be trapped, too.
Mario slammed himself into the window again with renewed force. He had once seen a fish in a tank do this, bump furiously against the glass wall in front of it, trying to swim out into the air. He was just as trapped, just as furious, just as stupidly hopeless. Even if he banged and thrashed until his bones were all broken, the window would be just as solid. Even knowing that, Mario couldn't bring himself to stop. Luigi couldn't come here. Mario wouldn't let him. Mario had to find a way to escape before Luigi arrived or else…
Mario slid down the wall, clutching his throbbing shoulder. Luigi had faced so many horrors alone. How many times had Luigi been forced into the dark? Luigi had done well, he had proven himself a hero many times over, but there was nothing left he needed to prove. There was no reason for Luigi to face the dead again, and at the thought of Luigi being imprisoned here, Mario felt a rage so potent it caused him physical pain.
You've done enough, Bro. I'll get out of here on my own. You're going to be safe this time.
Mario lifted himself shakily to his feet. If the windows and doors weren't working, then dislocating his shoulder over them was a waste of time. Still holding his shoulder, Mario stepped away from the window and began to move deeper into the house.
Mario was not the type to mope and fret over a problem. His thoughts became sharp, businesslike.
So, what did he know so far?
One, the house was haunted. That was clear.
Two, the missing man had to still be here. Since leaving the house was impossible, Mario should run into him sooner or later.
Unless he's dead.
Stop that. Don't. He's alive, and I'm going to get him out of here, too. That is a fact.
Mario pulled himself into a room that looked like a parlor. Even in the low light, he could see the gleam of a grand piano, the lid open and upright, casting a black shadow against the low ceiling. Mario shrank back, his eyes locked onto that dark shape looming above him. In the dark, such a thing looked monstrous. He thought of Bowser bringing his gleaming claws down. He thought of the Elder Shroom Princess with her jagged teeth gnashing. He thought of Fawful fused with the Dark Star Core. "Forever disappearing…"
Get a grip. It's a piano.
Mario looked around the room. The piano was surrounded by ornate chairs and a sofa, all moth-eaten and smelling of mildew. Lining every wall were shoulder-high shelves stacked with books. A thick coating of dust feathered every surface. Clumps of dust rolled in front of Mario's feet with every step, and thick flakes of it drifted down like snow. Mario felt his chest tighten just looking into the room.
Mario pulled his cap down over his nose and mouth and walked further inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. He stumbled over to a side table next to the sofa, reached out a hand and yes! A lamp! Mario lifted it close to his eyes. It was an old-fashioned oil lamp with a glass bell, and the bottom was already stained black from years of use. Probably, a lamp like this wouldn't give much light. But, it was a start. Mario brushed his fingers over the table, sifting through the dust for a box of matches.
Something wooden clunked heavily behind him. Mario whirled around, his heart pounding. The lid over the keyboard, which had been closed, had suddenly flown open. A sprinkling of dust drifted over the glimmering keys. As Mario watched, the keys pressed down and jumped up in jerks, shaking off the dust that had fallen over them. The sound of "Greensleeves" filled the room.
Mario slowly rose to his feet, lamp in hand and his eyes fixed on the keyboard. He was debating whether it would be feasible to sneak out of the room when a shimmering form appeared next to the piano bench.
Mario froze in his tracks. The shape was of a woman still young and with bangs so long and thick her eyes were barely visible. Her head was cast down, and Mario couldn't tell if her eyes were on the piano bench, on the keyboard, or turned towards him. Her dress was long, not just in the skirt but in the neck. The skirt pulled down until it brushed the floor and hid her shoes from view, and the collar rose up her neck until it was almost at her jawline. Her hands, the only part of her skin visible except for the bottom half of her face, held her elbows, leaving her arms crossed over her stomach. Whether she was cold or trying to hold herself together, Mario couldn't tell.
She shone with a pale white light and Mario squinted and pulled his cap low over his eyes as he looked at her. The highest keys were visible through her dress and the legs of the piano through her skirt. She was like gossamer or maybe like moonlight, coloring everything around her but untouchable herself.
Mario hesitated, uncertain. He still wanted to leave, but the thought of turning his back to the woman made him nervous. Cautiously, he took a step towards her.
"Hello? Can you hear me?"
The woman didn't move. Mario thought he saw her eyes gleaming behind her bangs, but every part of her was gleaming.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Are you the one who locked me in here?"
The woman lifted her head slightly. Slowly, too slowly, she turned towards Mario. The movement was too slight and smooth to be natural. It was though she were a figurine being turned and posed by a collector's fingers.
"Why?" Mario asked. "What do you want?"
The woman's arms dug further into her stomach. Though he still couldn't see her eyes, Mario got the impression that she was looking at him. She opened her mouth.
And vomited onto the floor.
Mario jumped back, alarmed. Gray, shapeless slush gushed from her open mouth, spilling over her chin, streaking down the front of her dress, piling on the floor. She wretched and gagged sickly, her throat and mouth full of waste and acid. Shapes and lumps clung to the corners of her mouth, rapidly forming a wet crust. It came in waves, in bursts, and her body jerked violently with each new torrent as if it was her esophagus being pulled out of her throat inch by inch and not its burning contents. The room was filled with a stale, putrid smell that made the bile rise in Mario's own throat.
The woman raised her hands to her chin, and the vomit puddled into her hands, dripping through her fingers. "Help me," she croaked. Each word bubbled through the sludge in her mouth, and she doubled over, pouring herself out endlessly.
Mario took a fearful step toward her.
"How? What do you need?" he cried.
The woman raised her head. The movement parted her bangs, and Mario could make out one eye taking him in. As soon her gaze met his, that eye became livid. "No," she whispered, and a sickening squirt accompanied that word. "No! Get away!" She heaved and gagged again. The sound was agonizing.
Mario stepped back. "What?" The smell was making it hard to think. He clasped his hat back over his mouth, but that wasn't helping.
"Get away! Go away!" the words slurred thickly in her full mouth. She twisted her fingers in her hair, knotting them tightly to her temples. "GET AWAY!" she screeched.
Suddenly, the walls were pulsing. Where there had once been wood and dust was thick, viscous flesh, glistening red as it throbbed from every side. Gnarled blue and red veins thudded underneath the membrane that heaved in and out like the flank of a dying animal. Mario could feel the beat of a hard thudding against the inside of his skull, and each breath Mario pulled in strangled his throat and burned his chest. The smell was like a hand being shoved into his trachea. The floor throbbed underneath his feet. Mario lost his balance and was thrown to his hands and knees. Even through his glove he could feel the soft flesh pushing up against his skin, the slimy surface slipping against the cloth.
As Mario looked around, he saw that the walls, floor, and ceiling were not uniformly flesh. Embedded in the membrane were massive shapes that Mario realized were half-digested animal parts. An empty rib cage, each curved point still dripping blood, giant pigs feet, the hooves of one melting into the flesh encasing it, a tongue that flapped and curled, the veins from the walls running into its clustered, tumorous taste buds. Most grotesquely of all there was a fish, its head still intact, its wide yellowed eye fixed unblinkingly on Mario just as the woman's had been. Its silver scales were spread part and fused into the pulsating fleshy wall as it moved toward its tail. Its mouth gaped, popping its lips into a perfect O, as any fish would when dying on the dock.
"IT HURTS! IT HURTS! GET OUT!" the woman shrieked. Mario could feel flecks over the back of his neck. He longed for the rain.
He heard a sizzling sound. He looked down and saw his gloves were smoking. He hastily pushed himself to his feet. The soles of his shoes began to smoke. All around him, the furniture was sinking as its legs dissolved underneath it. The sofa tilted to one side as though it were a sinking ship and Mario's nostrils were filled with the scent of burning cloth. Mario ran past the piano, ignoring the lamp boiling down to slag beside him and threw himself through the door. In his haste, he didn't see the figure of the little girl sitting on the sinking piano bench, her fingers still at the keys.
As soon as Mario was through the door, he threw himself back against it, slamming it shut. He panted, gulping in the musty air greedily. Dust and mold was preferable to the bile on the other side. He listened closely, but the rhythmic pounding and the notes of the piano seemed to have stopped. All was silent again.
Mario hugged his arms, shivering. He'd dealt with ghosts before, but he had never seen anything like that. To be suddenly tossed into a stomach, to see and hear a spirit in such agony…
Mario stepped away from the door. Even if he could no longer hear anything, he wanted to put as much distance between himself and that door as possible. As he walked, he tried to steer his thoughts back on track. Need a light, need a weapon, but his mind wouldn't obey. That gaping fish kept appearing in his head, chasing away all other thoughts, its mouth open in a silent scream, its eye gleaming amidst the pulsating flesh, that thudding heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Wait. He was hearing it now. It wasn't just haunting him or echoing around in his head, he could actually hear it. He whirled behind him. The door was still closed, but that heartbeat was definitely there. In fact, it was getting louder. It was moving toward him, each contraction echoing along the walls. He felt as though it were a mouth moving through the house, blindly seeking him out to engulf him.
Mario looked around wildly. Where was it coming from? It couldn't be the parlor. The door was closed. There was nothing in the hall, and yet it was moving closer. He could hear it in the walls, it could feel it vibrating under his feet. And as he stood riveted to the spot, he could hear something else. He thought at first it was retching again, the ghost woman gagging and choking on her own bile, but it wasn't that. An icy feeling crept all down his spine as he realized it was laughter. Something was laughing. He couldn't bring himself to say somebody;it didn't sound like it could possibly have come from any sentient being. It sounded twisted, hollow. There was no joy nor sorrow but a kind of writhing delight. Sadism without true pleasure, mirth without a mind. It was pure, animalistic sound. Not even King Boo's laugh had ever chilled him so.
Survival instinct finally kicked in and Mario ran. He still couldn't tell where the sound was coming from, but he couldn't wait for it to find him. He sprinted toward the nearest door and furiously twisted the knob. It was locked. Mario threw himself to the next and pushed the door with such force he tumbled to the floor. He looked up from the carpet and saw a small bedroom.
He heard the laughter again. It was so close, he thought he could feel the mouth that uttered it on the back of his neck. He shuddered and kicked the door shut behind him. He floundered into the room, feeling as though he were drowning in that heartbeat, and pushed himself toward a wardrobe that stood on the other side of the bed. Without hesitating, Mario clambered into the wardrobe and shut the door.
The sleeves of coats and small hard buttons brushed against Mario's face as he crouched inside the wardrobe, willing the swaying clothes to be still, willing everything to be still, including his own heart and lungs. He wanted to stop the ticking on the vein in his neck, stop the sweat beading from his forehead, stop the expansion of his chest as he breathed. He felt sure the house could hear all of it. Then it occurred to him whatever was out there probably wanted to stop everything of his, too.
Inside the wardrobe, it made no difference whether his eyes were open or closed. The same blackness was behind and in front of his eyelids. The heartbeat was all around, pushing in on him from every side. It seemed that the darkness itself was pulsing, though it seemed more desolate than ever. Can a heart beat and not live?
Mario heard the door creak open. He didn't know he was capable of being this quiet. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was wheezing, maybe he was crying or even screaming and the heartbeat was simply drowning him out. Would he be able to tell the difference?
He listened again for the laughter, but he didn't hear it. Just the heartbeat in the dark, as though he were back in the womb.
Suddenly, the heartbeat stopped. There was only silence. Mario found that he wasn't screaming or crying or even making any sound. Nothing was.
Mario waited a moment, his eyes moving across the blackness on every side. Was it gone? Mario felt a coat sleeve brush his face, and a shiver ran all the way up to the roots of his hair. He felt the woolen stitching scratching his cheek, knew it was just a coat sleeve, but for a moment it had felt just like a hand. Hands were draped all around him, their fingers falling over his face, and he did not want to be touched, he didn't want to be crowded, he didn't want all these figures pushing against him, feeling him. Coveting him.
Each second that dragged by was more tortuous than the last. He couldn't stand the uncertainty any longer. Was it his own shivering marking the coats move? The wardrobe was spinning, rotating slowly on its axis. He was sure of it. He felt nauseous.
He would check. The wardrobe doors were silent. He would open the door just a crack and see if the room was clear. It was better than sitting here, losing his mind over nothing.
Mario slowly reach a hand through the hanging fabric around him and found the wardrobe door, already beginning to give under his gentle touch. He moved his hand forward, and a blue slit appeared in the solid black in front of him. Mario leaned forward, feeling the light on his eye.
A white skirt and a billowing mane of black hair passed before the crack in the door. That was all Mario could take in before the room was suddenly blocked by a woman's face. Her brown eyes gleamed with pleasure. She giggled. "Found you," she whispered.
Nobody who is alive heard the noises from the wardrobe.
Nobody heard the thudding, slapping and screaming as the wardrobe shuddered. The soles of workman's shoes, closed fists, open hands, the back of a skull, purple elbows all flailed ferally against the walls and floor. Perhaps someone could see a the heel of those shoes kicking out against the doors, making them swing in and out with each wild motion, but there was nobody there, so nobody saw that. Those actions, the clawing, scraping, banging, and yes, the screaming, were all attempts to escape made by someone who knew escape was impossible. They were the motions of a caged animal who knows it is being led to its doom. The pounding against the locked door of a house on fire. The convulsions of a drowning man who can't find the surface just before the first gulp. Fear is what begins resistance, and it is also the last form of resistance left.
Anybody who'd heard it would've said that the screaming was the worst part. It was simultaneously high-pitched and guttural. You could taste the blood from the raw throat just listening to it. But of course, nobody heard it, so nobody said that.
Once he finally went silent, it was a relief to nobody. The only evidence that remained of his struggle were those shoes pushing out the wardrobe doors. But nobody ever found that.
Somewhere, held in a warm hand was a shining, gold watch. It sat, round and warmed by a palm, ticking precisely. It was a watch that was never a second off, each position of its hands, each click of its gears, each tick was exactly right. Whatever time it said was the exact time it was.
A hand reached up to the dial on this watch and begin to wind it backwards. The ticking hand halted and swept cleanly across the watch's face.
The door gave easily, though Mario could have done without the loud creaking that announced every inch of the door's swing. Cringing, Mario stepped inside, placing his hand on the door to silence it. As dark as the forest had been, the interior of the house was darker still. All that he could really see from the gray light cast from the door was the gleam of a large staircase that rose up from the other side of the tasseled rug. Mario wished he had brought a flashlight. Perhaps a light source could be found inside…
I'm sorry. I reckon if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have done it.
We were goofing around like we always do when we stopped outside that old house in the woods. The mud clung to the legs of our trousers and chilled the hairs on our legs, and we all knew it was too late to still be out, but I didn't want to go home yet. I knew Mother would be cross about the mud, and she'd make me stand outside while she spattered me down with the hose, and I didn't want to deal with that. Not yet.
So we caught our breath outside the house, the mist pasting our hair to our scalps, and looked up at that huge, gloomy house, the one everybody's grandfather probably used to live in and showed us at some hazy point in a black and white photograph, filtered through the smudges and fuzz that made people look white and washed out as chalk, but this house had much more allure because it was real and covered with green and black.
We'd only found the house a few days ago. Before that, we'd never found anything out here more interesting than a button. But we'd always liked to scare each other with stories of monsters in the woods, even though we'd had the rotten luck to have never seen anything more fearsome than a squirrel, and the house looming through the trees like a monument was like Christmas. We'd all wanted to go inside, run across the empty rooms, gather the treasures the crooks hiding out in there hoarded away, peer out at the guzzling woods through the cracked windows, giggling as we imagined the faces our parents were making as they grumbled about us never coming home on time, not realizing that we now had a house that was only ours.
But we hadn't yet. It seemed like that was for a special occasion.
As we peered up at it, I told you what my cousin told me about the witch who used to live there, the one who liked to gobble up little kids. She'd lure in these dirty ragamuffins off the street with promises of warm baths and full stomachs and then stuff them into an oven and roast them until they were shiny with glaze. Which isn't exactly how my cousin told it. Instead of "shoved in an oven," he'd said she "swallowed them whole," but I'd embellished it because the oven thing seemed scarier to me. The image of some wiry old woman with fat legs kicking out of her dislocated jaw like an owl or snake with a vole always seemed more gross than scary to me, but anyone who hears about kids getting shoved in an oven naturally gets an image of bleeding tearful faces, begging to go home to mommy and daddy as gnarled, clawed hands muscle them in, the way your mother shoves in a tray of cookies with one mechanical motion, the bottom of the tray scraping on the grill. You get the screaming, the crying, the head bobbing out of the closing door, the yawning red heat, the bangs on the inside that gradually stop, and the smell. Can't forget about the smell. Fat popping under the honey.
I didn't say any of this, of course. It was all implied. What I did say was that she ate everything except the hair, because hair isn't edible, and the teeth, because there was nothing you could suck off them.
I could tell you loved it. You laughed and said there was no way that could happen, that I made it up.
I insisted that I hadn't, and one of the other guys pushed your arm and said you were scared.
Not me, you said. No way. I ain't afraid of kid's stuff like that.
And then I said if you were so sure it wasn't true, go inside and see for yourself.
The other guys immediately latched onto the idea. Go on! Go on! You refused, so we called you a chicken, a baby, a pussy willow, a girl, all the worst names and words we could think of. We all shunted you forward as you laughed, our fingers curling into your muddy coat, and finally you threw us off with a wind of your arm and said fine.
You promised you'd look and that if you could find it, you'd bring back the jar where the witch keeps all her teeth. But you seriously doubted it.
So you ran up to the house and looked back at us on the porch. Maybe you were nervous or hesitant or maybe you just wanted to make sure we were still watching, I don't know, I can't ask you now, and then the door closed behind you.
We waited for a long time. The rain kept coming, seeping through the threads in our clothes, making us shiver like abandoned pups. The grey sky above turned purple as the sun slinked low somewhere behind the clouds. And there was still no you.
Is he okay in there? Someone else asked it. I didn't want to say it out loud. Stories of witches and bundles of hair tipped in glaze suddenly retreated in the cold reality of your absence. We imagined returning to your folks, fessing up to what we'd put you up to, long searches by lantern as our parents called your name.
Say, maybe somebody else should go in and check on him.
They nominated me, even though I really didn't want to. The house was no longer something fun like the house of a witch and seemed more like a dark hole that you'd fall into and never return.
No taunting or name calling followed me as I walked up the crumbling path. Only mute staring.
I found you in the library. It smelled like mold and the kind of mustiness that sticks in your throat like peanut butter. I'd heard a funny kind of creaking sound, so I followed it in here and saw you before I saw the rope, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
The other end of the rope was tied around one of the arms of the chandelier. Everything about you seemed pulled down except the part of your neck just under your chin. Your face, your tongue, your arms, the point of your boots, all pointing down like they were being pulled by puppet strings. There was a tall pile of books by you, two lying on the floor nearby, and I supposed that's how you must have done it. Climbed up top and then kicked the books away.
I couldn't think of any reason why you would do this. Just a while ago you'd been laughing and insisting you weren't a baby, you weren't scared, and now here you were. Your neck was twisted like a branch, and I could only see the bottom half of your irises. I guess I must have gone kind of stupid because I started wondering where you'd even gotten a rope and how you'd learned to tie the knot because I certainly didn't know how. I made a note to ask you how you'd done it.
The point of your feet moved over the cover of the books, back and forth, and it also occurred to me that there was no breeze in here, no windows for the wind outside to whisper through, and that that movement of the swinging rope was all that was left of you, like a last echo. Your struggles had stopped, but the momentum of whatever you'd done, kicked your legs, clawed with your arms, heaved out each shallowing breath, had reverberated throughout that rope, and now it was moving, even though you were not.
I'd never seen a dead person before, and I reached above my head and squeezed your hand to see what it felt like. It felt cold and stiff and entirely too soft, like you were made of shoe leather. I kept squeezing your icy fingers against my palm, just kind of kneading them, thinking the whole time, this can't be you, this can't be you, but of course it wasn't. You were long gone.
I piled up more books to stand on and grabbed your stiff and mud-caked legs to lift you out, and by the time I succeeded my arms had scrabbled all over you like a spider's legs. I had felt your bones, distinct now under the cold blood that didn't pulse, that just lay there like pudding, and for the first time I marveled at the phenomenon that is death. How it takes a thing that was once warm and moving and with you and turns into a cold prop, an object to be kicked around spun between your fingers and left somewhere and forgotten.
I looked at the pile of you in my lap and thought how everything that kept you alive, your blood, your organs, your fat, was all still there underneath the skin, everything still there just not moving anymore. You were like a model, an anatomical drawing, bisected and labeled so clinical words could go with the beautiful watercolor layers. Epidermis, dermis, hypodermis, vein, artery, capillary, hair follicle, swear gland, lymph node, spongy bone, compact bone, bone marrow.
I knew I should have dragged you out, I knew I should have gotten you out of there, but I couldn't stop. You were so still, like marble, and I just kept touching and touching and feeling and grabbing and twisting and the skin wouldn't turn red and I remembered the crying when I'd poked my sister in the eye and I couldn't remember what it felt like so I pushed my thumbs into the jelly of your eye and it was so soft until it broke and squished and seeped under my nails and I dug those nails into the skin of your chest until it broke but it didn't bleed it just leaked and puddled and congealed like pudding thick and black because it didn't tick anymore the pulse didn't tick there was nothing of you but layers and I knew I should stop but I was buried up to my elbows in the glory of you and I couldn't stop I'm sorry I can't stop I'm sorry please forgive me please forgive me Please forgive me Please forgive PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE PLEASE FORGIVE
Author's Note:
Happy Halloween, you nutty kids.
A few years ago, I submitted a fan fic for Halloween (it actually ended up being posted on November 1, but whatever), so I decided I'd do that again!
Cool story. Aren't you glad I told it to you?
I've never actually played (Mario) The Music Box because I can't get the font to work. That's a pretty shitty reason. Nonetheless, I wanted to take a crack at rewriting the story because there's a lot of stuff I want to see done with this setting and these characters that wasn't done in the official work. What else is fan fic for, right?
Actually, it was the announcement of Luigi's Mansion 3 that motivated me to submit the first chapter of this thing. Please note that this story takes place before Luigi's Mansion 3, so the current Poltergust model, at the time of the story, is 5000.
I fully apologize to my friend who has emetophobia and thus will never be able to read this story. Or at least, not certain scenes. But what kind of horror story isn't traumatic to anybody?
Outside of a Conjuring movie, of course. Badum-tsssh.
Please leave reviews. I love them. Eat lots of sugar this year, you freaks.