Sabrina stretched as the small group exited the Parlor. "One room left, right?"
"Yes, it's to the right," Leota nodded, surprised that the girl had figured out where the room was.
"No, no, I meant, there's one room left, isn't there?"
"Well, yes, there's a room to our left, but that's the Trophy Room."
"That isn't what I meant," Sabrina gritted, willing herself not to throw Leota's crystal ball down the hallway like a bowling ball. "Is there one final room to be fixed on this floor?"
"Yes." Leota blinked.
"That's what I wanted to know in the first place!" Sabrina howled.
"Then why didn't you say so?" Leota sighed. "Instead, we wasted time talking."
Sabrina briefly considered bashing herself in the head with the Beacon, but dismissed it as too destructive to her weapon.
"To the right, then!" Leota happily declared. "Full speed ahead to the Portrait Gallery!"
"Good!" Salem said with unusual enthusiasm…well, unusual for him. "I'm in the mood for art, anyway."
That's it, Sabrina decided grimly. Thorne was right. We're all losing our minds. First Leota, then Salem…okay, maybe he lost his a while ago, but never mind… I'm next. I wonder what insanity's like. I hope you get cookies.
It was a slightly calmer Sabrina who deconstructed the barrier on the Gallery door a few minutes later, and stepped inside.
"Oooh…" Salem murmured. "Nice…"
The Portrait Gallery was a tall, almost circular chamber. Walkways had been added to the walls, to give it four stories, all connected by a central ladder. The room was more or less devoid of furniture, excepting a few chairs and easels pushed alongside the wall nearest to the door. True to its name, the Portrait Gallery's only feature was the numerous paintings it housed.
"No switch," Sabrina grumbled after a cursory once-over. "No energy trace, either."
"Let's just look around," Salem suggested. "Absorb some culture."
Sabrina rolled her eyes. She craned her neck, examining the myriad of paintings surrounding her, covering the walls nearly to the ceiling. "So many…" she murmured. "Wait. There are copies here."
Leota made a shrugging gesture. "This is the family gallery. Copies of paintings were distributed throughout the house, as well."
"So…if this is the 'family' gallery…then there must be paintings of the Graceys here," Sabrina decided logically. "Can you tell me about them?" she gestured to the nearest wall.
Leota smiled. "Head for the painting straight across from this door." Sabrina briefly wondered what the first painting would be.
"This," Leota said proudly as they approached, "is Ambrose Gracey."
Sabrina studied the painting critically. This man was the head of the Gracey family, and the most prestigious, it seemed. He could not have been a more striking contrast to his grandson.
He was thin and aristocratic, with a refined air, similar to his grandson. But the resemblance, Sabrina noted, stopped there. Ambrose had auburn hair neatly shaped to his head, and cool, distant azure eyes gazing genteelly out of focus. His face was thin and well formed, with a vague, dreamy expression.
Ambrose lacked the brooding energy and forcefulness of his dark grandson, yet there was a soothing relaxation that she liked in the man's countenance.
"So this is the famous grandfather," she murmured, careful to refrain from judgment. It's odd…when I think of the Ambrose Gracey who joined a secret society of witches, hid a magic artifact, and defied a cult of death-worshippers…I think of someone a little more heroic-looking. I guess you really can't trust appearances…
"Moving on," Leota chirped. "Can't spend all day before one portrait."
The Spirit Detective sighed, and moved on. Sabrina stared at the portrait of the young woman before her. "Wow," she murmured. "She's gorgeous."
"That's April Gracey," said Leota shortly, as if the portrait brought up unpleasant memories. "She was Ambrose's daughter and George's sister."
April had clearly been a beauty in her youth. Curling black locks were pulled into an ornate bun. Her eyes were very large and dark purple, framed by thick, dark lashes. Her nose was slender and Grecian; her skin smooth and white; her chin very delicately pointed; and her lips full and beautifully formed. The young woman was clad in a pink dress, with a lace mantle draped over her shoulders, and a black ribbon with a cameo fastened around her throat. It looked like she was seated at a writing desk, although her hands clasped a pair of pale yellow gloves, not a quill or paper.
"Yowza!" Salem shook himself. "She must have been quite the prize."
"And knew it," Leota replied, a little bitterly. "April was the biggest flirt this side of the Mississippi. Her beaux were planters, and sons of planters, and there seemed to be no limit to them. It was her favorite tale to recount the Sunday afternoon when she received seventeen gentlemen callers, and entertained them all on the Mansion porch."
"Wow. Like Scarlett O'Hara," Salem commented.
"So what happened to her?" Sabrina asked curiously. Despite my better judgment, these Graceys are interesting.
"She eventually became Mrs. Duncan J. Fitzhugh, and the mistress of an one-hundred-and-eighty-acre plantation." Leota grinned suddenly, as if remembering something pleasant. "She also eventually became an absolute hag by the time she was fifty. Edward was fond of her, but used to call her "Aunt December" when he was upset with her."
Salem chuckled at the joke, but Sabrina shook her head. "Pretty," she noted as she stopped to examine the next picture.
"I think I see a resemblance among the Gracey women—they're all really hot," Salem purred.
Leota made a face at him briefly before turning to examine the portrait with the others. She smiled. "I'd like you to meet Mary Abigail Boufont Gracey—Edward's mother."
Mary Gracey was a slender woman, clad in a pink-and-white gown with puffed sleeves, and carrying a matching sunshade. She stood in a small clearing, ringed by trees, with flowers almost everywhere. She smiled shyly for the painter, a gentle smile curving her pink lips. Her head was dipped slightly to one side, as if ducking her head out of shyness. Mary's reddish-brown hair was pulled back into a bun, with a few girlish curls framing her neck. She had large, clear turquoise eyes, and the reddest cheeks Sabrina had ever seen. Mary was the very picture of youth, vitality, and beauty.
"Mary's father painted this," Leota confided. "Mr. Boufont was actually an esteemed painter, and family portraits were his specialty. Apparently, Master George—that's Edward's father—went to him to see about having some family portraits done, when he saw this very picture of Mary. He fell immediately in love, even though he'd never seen her. And the rest…is history." Leota sighed. Despite her practical nature, the psychic did have a soft spot.
The painting next to Mary Gracey's was apparently that of her husband, George. Sabrina quietly appraised the picture, comparing it to that of Ambrose's and Edward's. It seemed none of the Gracey men were much like each other. George was dark like Edward, with glossy black hair, and a French-looking mustache. He sat in a chair before a picture window, clad in a brown suit. Like Mary, he, too, had an air of healthy liveliness. Sabrina had a feeling that George would rather have been strolling along the walkway pictured through the window than sitting next to it to be painted.
She remembered seeing pictures of George in the Game Room and the Trophy Room—holding up the prize catch, or displaying a trophy. The George in this picture, though, had all his hair, unlike the newer pictures showing his older, balding self.
So. Ambrose was the dreamy, wispy ship captain; George was the hearty, bluff outdoorsman; Edward was the Gothic scholar.
I'm guessing that while the Gracey women all have beauty in common, the Gracey men have, more or less, nothing in common.
Sabrina shrugged, and walked to the next picture. The teenage witch gasped in delight at the portrait before her. "Emily!" she cried.
Leota smiled and nodded, before gazing at the picture of beauty.
Here, Emily was a girl of sixteen: young, fresh, and exquisitely lovely. Flaxen curls waved luxuriously around a delicate, heart-shaped face. Liquid cerulean eyes shyly gazed at her audience under a fringe of thick, dark lashes. Her skin was like that of rose petals and cream, and Sabrina enviously wished to have a delicate nose like hers. Emily was clad in the same sapphire taffeta gown that she had worn in the Toy Room, a cameo choker around her throat.
"She was so young," Leota whispered hopelessly. "It doesn't seem right, somehow."
Salem stared at the picture of the young girl. Hope shone in every aspect of her face. And to have that stripped away in the blossom of her youth…Why did it seem doubly horrible, somehow?
…because she looks like Sabrina.
It snapped into his mind like a burst of glorious light; a strange epiphany. The girls did share the same coloring, but with subtle differences. Sabrina was paler than Emily, without the blush in her cheeks; her hair was straight and thick, not curly, and her eyes shone like jewels, instead of gleaming like a rippling pool. It wasn't just their coloring that was similar, though. The two girls had such promise…such life in their eyes…and it was all the warlock-turned-cat could do to pray that Sabrina would not be so cruelly stripped of her life as Emily had.
The picture next to Emily was of a boy who resembled a miniature George, sans the mustache. Leota explained that the boy was Daniel Gracey, who should have been the Gracey heir, but died at age fourteen.
A painting of Edward hung next to Daniel, so Sabrina was able to compare the two brothers. The two had much in common—dark coloring, thick brows, and the same jaw line—but Daniel seemed more delicate than Edward, somehow.
His skin was paler, softer-looking. For being a boy, he had remarkably thick eyelashes, Sabrina noted. Both Daniel and Emily had inherited their mother's striking blue eyes; although this added to Emily's fair coloring, it made Daniel's face look all the more remarkable. Both brothers were dressed in navy suits, although the styles differed greatly—at least by ten years or so.
"He looks so serious," Sabrina smiled, gesturing at Daniel. "He and Edward both."
"He was that kind of little boy," Leota murmured. "Daniel was very responsible and serious…it was part of what made Master George convinced that Daniel was better suited for the job as Gracey heir."
"What do you mean?" Sabrina asked, confused. "I thought that being born first guaranteed his position as the heir."
Leota shook her head. "I'm talking about after Daniel died." Her face grew more somber. "You must remember, Edward was a young child when Emily and Daniel died. Daniel had been groomed for his entire life for the position of taking over the family business. In essence, they had to 'start from scratch' with Edward. He was studious, and the family approved of that, but they felt he spent too much time studying and traveling and collecting rare things to take his position seriously." She paused for a moment, clearing her throat.
"Don't get me wrong; George Gracey loved all of his children, and Edward was no exception. But they began to argue over meaningless things, and one day, George started bellowing that Daniel would have made twice the heir Edward was." Leota paused. "I don't know if Edward ever forgave him, but he became more involved with work than he ever had been. At least, until he met Elizabeth…"
"Awww," Sabrina cooed. "How sweet."
"Next picture," grumbled Salem, who wasn't as fond of love stories as Sabrina.
The next painting dwarfed the others by being twice, no, thrice the size of a normal portrait. From the colors and the frame, Sabrina could tell it was the most recent.
"It's that ghost girl," Salem gasped. "The one with the cardiac problems."
Sabrina decided to forget the feline's less-than-polite comments as she studied the painting of Elizabeth.
"Edward had it painted as soon as the dress was obtained," Leota explained. "It was a wedding present of sorts."
Sabrina wondered how appropriate it was, since Elizabeth would have known what her present was beforehand. She studied the formal bridal portrait carefully.
Elizabeth stood proudly, one hand resting on the back of a plush chair set before her. The other hand cradled a bouquet of roses. Her stomach thudded sickeningly as the Detective realized that they were the same shade as her blood-red heart. Nausea swept over her briefly before she steadied herself.
Don't think about it, don't think about it…
The ivory silk and lace gown was the same as Sabrina had seen it last; the veil, however, had been pulled back over her head and trailed down her back. The dark curls were swept up into a bun, yet a few renegade strands wisped around her forehead. The bride's face radiated love and warmth, her eyes glowing with contentment. The cherry lips curved slightly in a smile, hiding a lover's secret.
"It's horrible," Sabrina murmured. "She was so happy. They were going to be married. They loved each other! And now they're both dead…"
Leota silently gazed at the picture, emotion flickering in her navy eyes.
Sabrina silently turned away, eyes catching upon one final picture on that level. "Is this…who I think it is?" Sabrina blinked slowly.
"It…could be…" Salem pondered.
Leota flushed slightly.
The picture before them was of a young woman, obviously painted a long time ago. Thick, wavy dark brown tresses spilled over her shoulders. Her olive-skinned face was very heart-shaped, like most of the women's portraits Sabrina had seen. Full crimson lips formed a slight pout as midnight-blue eyes looked up at the viewer sensuously through thick, dark lashes. So much hair cascaded around her that the viewer could barely discern her dark red blouse.
"Leota?" the teenage witch gaped.
Still blushing, the psychic nodded. The two living members stared at the portrait some more, uncharacteristically quiet.
Salem let out a low whistle. "Wow. You were pretty hot back in the day."
Sabrina grinned. "And fairly aware of it, from the expression on your face."
"Give me a break," Leota muttered, "that was over 140 years ago."
"But I thought only family members got their pictures put here," Salem continued. "Unless you're Gracey's second cousin twice removed or whatever, why did they put you in here?"
"I was a family friend," Leota reminded him. "I got my portrait painted as a gift."
Sabrina grinned. "Lucky you." She stepped back, examining the paintings on the levels above. "Are all these of family members?"
"Some. Not all," Leota noted noncommittally. "Take a look around. I have a feeling that the paintings are the key to finding the light switch."
On the second level, Sabrina found paintings of other family members; "Thurl" Gracey and his wife and son were grouped together. She examined the faces—stern, thin-faced Lucretia Gracey, the sheep-like face of Algie Gracey, and, of course, Thurl himself.
"He looks like Walt Disney." Sabrina blinked. "Weird."
She then passed a grouping of paintings that looked vaguely mythological—an Egyptian princess lying upon a divan and a beautiful Grecian maiden being prominent against them.
There were other rows of family pictures, some of landscapes, and some from history or mythology. The rows began to blur together in Sabrina's head.
She wearily climbed down the ladder and sat on the bottom step. "I don't get it," she moaned. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"
"Don't ask me," Salem muttered, "I'm just the cat." He curled up on the floor, staring in the direction opposite the black-robed girl.
His ears immediately pricked up. "Sabrina…" he hissed.
She pulled her head up. "Eh?"
"You're going to want to look at this."
The Spirit Detective slowly turned around to find what Salem was staring at. She choked.
Ambrose Gracey's portrait was beginning to age.
The girl and cat stood fascinated, Leota giving muffled cries to see what was going on. She found herself taking a few steps closer as years slowly passed by in the painting. "Like The Picture of Dorian Gray," she breathed.
Ambrose's skin tightened and shriveled, the vivid blue of his eyes fading. His gray suit slowly became tattered and worn. Sabrina choked again, feeling a light wave of nausea sweep over her.
There was a sudden flash of lightning, and a heart-attack-inducing clap of thunder. In the brilliant flare of light, Ambrose Gracey's portrait had withered into a bug-eyed skeleton. Sabrina gripped her torso tightly, feeling bile begin to rise in her throat.
Oh God, oh God…
She turned, fleeing for the stairs. Her feet scrambled against the metal steps uselessly, before pulling herself up.
Please don't let this be happening…
Salem was yowling behind her, and Leota uttering small cries of terror. Paying no heed, Sabrina frantically pulled herself onto the second level. "God…oh, God…" she panted, praying that this was safer.
With the next brilliant thunderclap, the beautiful Grecian maiden became a stone-faced Medusa, snaky hair writhing and twisting. The Egyptian princess transformed into Bast herself, a cat-goddess, with burning amber eyes and a heavy jeweled collar.
Sabrina began running, trying to somehow escape the burning eyes of the portraits following her.
A cutter ship on a placid sea became embroiled in a roaring maelstrom. The knight seated on a magnificent black stallion in the painting next to it became a skeleton astride a horse of decaying muscle and gristle, clasping a rusted sword.
Faces twisted, eyes glared, mouths leered. It was as if the very paintings had come to life.
"STOP IT!" Sabrina screamed, frantically shooting Charge Shots at the faces closest to her.
The Charge Shots smacked into the nearby painting of the skeletal knight. Sabrina stared, her mouth open in a little round 'o' of surprise. The jolts of energy slowly flowed throughout the painting, reversing it to the previous image.
"That was easy," Salem remarked.
Sabrina looked from the painting to the Beacon and back, a devious look slowly stretching across her face. With a whoop, she sprinted off, firing blasts of Soul Energy at the paintings.
"I will never understand that girl," the cat muttered, slinking down the staircase.
Sabrina's cheers and yells resounded in the room, as she darted back and forth, curing the paintings. Leota's admonitions for her to calm down and act like a normal person could also be heard quite clearly.
Salem, in the meantime, sat ten feet or so away from the painting of Ambrose Gracey. The portrait still depicted a skeleton dressed in a tattered early 19th century morning suit. Salem shuddered slightly as he considered the fact that the skeleton's eyes seemed to be intact…and watching the black cat.
Shouldn't they be rotted away, in that stage of decay? Ah, well. Moving on…
Muttering about the disturbing qualities of portraits, the cat stretched, and began trotting around to look at the other portraits. He stopped, bewildered, taking in all of the Gracey family portraits.
Every member was depicted in a rather…disturbing…fashion.
April had shriveled into a craggy, sour-faced hag; her dress had faded and wrinkled. She scowled at her audience, unlike the demure smile of her younger, more beautiful, self.
George, in his portrait next to his sister, had slumped across his desk. A gaping wound gleamed wetly amidst his thinning hair. A shotgun lay against his leg, still smoking, the accoutrements of a gun cleaning kit spread across the desk. Curiously, a hatchet lay discarded on the floor; the shadows covered much of the detail, leaving the viewer unable to discern if it was covered in blood or not...
Mary stood under a dark, stormy sky; night had fallen, and rain was pounding the small clearing persistently. A cruel, jagged bolt of lightning streaked down from the heavens, headed for Mary's delicate pink-clad form. Yellow and red eyes gleamed from the dark bushes in the surrounding woods.
Emily and Daniel were death-pale, emaciated, and hollow-cheeked, with deep rings of purple around their eyes. Dressed in faded linen, both looked sickly and nearly dead. Emily's flaxen curls hung limply around her face; the blush in her cheeks and rose of her lips had wanly faded. Daniel's coal-black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his startling blue eyes bloodshot.
Elizabeth's veil had been pulled over her face, of which nothing could be seen, save two glowing spots that could have been her eyes. Bony, decayed hands clutched a faded, dead bouquet of roses that had once been deep red. Her glowing heart could be seen under the snow-white fabric of the gown…that, over said heart, was torn, trails of blood oozing down from the gash.
Leota's portrait seemed to be more or less the same—yet her dark, sultry eyes seemed to burn with a strange, latent fire. Her abundant hair seemed to cover her torso, along with the blood liberally oozing from her neck…
Edward Gracey stared at the viewer with dark, haunted eyes, despair etched on every facet of his face.
Salem stared at the picture as Sabrina came thumping down the steps.
Edward had a rope tied around his neck.
"Hey, Salem, I…" Sabrina trailed off at the sight of the Gracey portraits. "Oh, my God." Her eyes widened, as she stepped closer to Elizabeth's portrait. Her hand reached out, hovering above the woman's chest wound, as if to see if the blood was real.
"How did this happen?" she whispered hoarsely. What is all this? Oh, God, oh God…
"Here," Leota explained quietly, "You can see how some of the Gracey family members died…or looked, upon their death."
Sabrina was making choking sounds, drawn to the morbid sight of the sickly Daniel and Emily. "This is horrible," she whispered.
"They died of scarlet fever," Leota said, barely above a whisper. "They just wasted away, getting sicker and sicker…"
Sabrina pressed her eyes shut, trying not to think of the delicate girl laying frail and ill on a deathbed. Emily…
She turned around and desperately began flinging Soul Energy at the portraits. I want to make all this hurt and grief disappear…I want everything evil to be destroyed… As the portraits reversed, Sabrina collapsed onto the ground, pulling her knees to her chest. Why? Why is there so much hatred and evil here? Why did these people suffer? It isn't fair!
Salem paused as Sabrina made snuffling sounds, as if she was holding back a deluge of tears.
"It's horrible," she murmured. "It's all so horrible…"
We have to get her out of here, Salem realized. The sooner, the better.
As Sabrina slowly pushed herself off the ground and began searching for the hidden spirits, the cat began to pad along.
This place isn't healthy for her. She isn't safe here. It's starting to get to me, he reluctantly admitted in his thoughts, but it's already gotten to her. We need to go home.
The cat paused as he watched Sabrina slowly and feebly make her way to the door, slowly, a scrap of a Death Certificate clutched in her hand.
We've got to get out of here. Before Sabrina loses her mind…
For those of you who are familiar with the portraits in the Haunted Mansion, here's a brief summary of who's who:
Mary Gracey is the girl with a parasol in the Stretching Room. George Gracey is Melanie Ravenswood's beau in the Phantom Manor Stretching Room (the painting showing a picnic). Ambrose Gracey is the portrait of the Ghost Host in the lobby (the one that slowly decays). April Gracey is the changing portrait of the pretty girl into the old hag. Elizabeth's portrait is based on the formal bridal portrait of Melanie in Phantom Manor's Portrait Gallery.
The Gracey family tree is a little confusing, but here's the basics: the Gracey family is from England. Ambrose Gracey left for America to establish his own branch of the family there (so there were still Graceys living in England). Ambrose married and had several children: George, Theodore, and April. George married Mary Boufont (the sister of Madame Tangerine, remember?) and had Emily, Daniel, and Edward. George was the eldest son, so ownership of the Manor fell to him and his children. Theodore married Lucretia and had Algernon. Lots of other relatives tossed in the mix as well, but we unfortunately don't have the time to do a genealogy of the Gracey family. Alas.
That crazy little panic sequence is derived from Disneyland's Portrait Corridor, which is not included in the Disney World version. In the Disneyland version, guests walk down a corridor filled with paintings that "change" when a bolt of lightning flashes outside the window.
April is partially based on the character Amanda Wingfield from the Tennessee Williams play The Glass Menagerie.
Um…this is yet another room with a modified challenge. The game brought you into a huge room with levels of paintings that were all, more or less, "repeats" (multiple copies of paintings). They were all "changing paintings"; some were in their "cursed" state, and others were in their "cured" state. Basically, you went around activating the bad ones, usually jumping through the paintings. I thought it was pretty boring.
Next chapter: Sabrina may have been called a "space cadet" every now and then, but she never thought she'd be one! When a generator explodes, the gang finds themselves hurled into a tricky challenge…