Legal notice: I do not own The Haunted Mansion, and am in no way connected with the Walt Disney Company.
The sparkling image of the fairy-tale castle was reflected in the mirrored depths of the lagoon. She stood statue-still, hands on the black iron railing, staring down into the murky water. She was dressed as any other tourist, worn cloth tennis shoes on her feet, baggy shorts of too-new denim, and the standard, almost required, Mickey Mouse t-shirt. It was the same tee she had bought two years earlier. Her hair was held back in a messy braid, blond tendrils escaping and flying around her face. Her make-up had been washed away by rain and sweat and tears, her skin was splotchy. She had to go home tomorrow.
Suddenly, she felt a light, familiar touch in her arm. It was the same touch from two years before, open and tender, yet laden with hidden meanings. She turned around slowly. "You came back."
He looked exactly as he had two years before. Eyes and hair the color of midnight, skin as pale and lifeless as death itself. His smile, lopsided and painfully familiar, was one of flirtatious innocence. He was wearing a solemn black undertaker's suit, complete with shiny brass buttons and a starched white shirt. The colors complimented his chiseled features, if not his personality. He was comfortable with himself, yet had no idea how striking he was. But she did.
His midnight-shrouded eyes, wizard's eyes, bore into her sky blue ones. His eyes spoke volumes, whispering promises words and touches could never communicate. He and she had been together an eternity, yet had barely shared a dozen words. He continued to stare into her eyes, resting his wide forehead against her own. She swallowed and closed her eyes, almost afraid to see. It had been so long...she desperately wanted to measure up to the other blues, browns and greens he had stared into.
Fireworks suddenly exploded in the blue-black sky. Reds and yellows and purples rained down from the sky like confetti from God, decorating the night in fabulous color. He took her hand and med her around the lagoon, dark Florida midnight enveloping them. He slipped an arm around her waist, she rubbed her tear-stained cheek against his crisp white work shirt. His other arm came around her. She peered up at him. Fireworks exploded in his eyes. Children shouted with delight in the background.
Her hair had slipped from the braid and was hanging loose and curly down her back. It was no longer blond, but truly golden and he couldn't stop touching the warm, silky locks. She was now wearing a long, flowing gown, a dreamlike dress of pure white lace. The pavement was cool and smooth under her bare feet. The pungent smell of popcorn lingered on the breeze.
The last of the fireworks, a kaleidoscope of crimsons and sapphires and emeralds, spilled onto the black velvet sky, a colorful lid on the end of a perfect day. She could feel him disappearing in her arms. She tightened her hold on him, pulling him against her lithe body, willing him to stay with her this time. She couldn't live another two years without him. He couldn't breathe two seconds without her. She whispered his name over and over. She could see the veins in his hands. Bones were visible in his face.
He put his hand on the back of her neck, as he had two years before, letting his strength and energy flow through her. He said not a word. She screamed his name in a whisper. She felt his hart pound against her cheek. Her hair was wet with his tears.
Suddenly, her arms were wrapped around herself. Tears dotted her lashes. The wind began to howl, lightening replaced the glittering fireworks. The few remaining tourists raced for shelter in stores and restaurants and game rooms. She stood in the middle of the storm, welcoming the sudden violence. She could see through the raindrops. The heavens cried for her.
She was alone again. For the past two years, from the first moment she had stared into his black eyes to the last lingering touch on her bare neck, she had been alone without him. Pocahontas and John Smith strolled by, hand in hand. She was mahogany brown, he golden blond. She ran from the lagoon.
Mocking the raindrops, daring the lightening, she ran. She ran until she found herself staring up at an imposing Dutch manor house. A gothic cross was carved onto the brick, the windows glared down at her like the very eyes of Satan. Lightening flashed, illuminating the cool gray tombstones behind the mansion. This place was haunted.
She stood under the awning, watching in silent fascination as a pretty girl, whose long blond hair had slipped from a braid, ran laughing up the brick path to the mansion. The girl wore tight denim shorts, an obviously new Mickey Mouse t-shirt, and her cloth shoes were damp from the storm. She looked happy, alive, solid.
The girl was with her parents and a friend. The girl laughed, making silly faces, causing weary tourists to smile and chuckle. A book stood at the mansion's imposing doors, a strange smile lingering on his lips. He wore a black tuxedo, complete with tails and bright buttons. He was staring at the girl, completely in character, but with open delight and interest. He had found his other half. He knew she must enter the mansion.
The laughing teenager came closer to him. He stuck his arm out in front of her, and she smiled, her peach-colored cheeks blushing prettily. He followed her inside the mansion. The girl out in the storm, her heart heavy, ran after the teenager, desperate to relive two years of memories. The boy trailed his fingers lightly, seductively, up the girl's bare neck. She stopped laughing. Her breath caught in her throat. Then, her friend materialized by her side, and the boy vanished in the mansion's ghostly darkness. The teenager stood staring into space, feeling as though a piece of her soul had been surgically removed. Her friend roughly took her by the elbow, and led her deeper into the mansion. They disappeared with the wind, becoming two additional phantoms in a haunted mansion.
Black. Everything was black. She was alone now. The memories of two years ago faded into nothingness, making her feel more alone than ever. Suddenly, the wind screamed, a sound known only in the very bowels of Hell, and the mansion's grand doors slammed behind her. She was imprisoned in a house of the night, a place where daylight was only a fantasy. Rain belted on the roof. The doors were bolted shut. She did not particularly want to leave. He was her. Or, at least his spirit was. And that was better than nothing.
She crept down the long, saturnine hallway. A wax candle was the only flickering light. She took the light from the scone, careful to hold the flame away from her body. The wax ran down the candle and burned her fingertips. She welcomed the burn. A cloud of ghostly white fog floated into the hall as a tall, wooden door slowly opened. The sound the door made as it opened was torturous, one of weeping or teen gnashing. Behind the door, a steep stairway led to foggy darkness. Clinging to the melting wax like a lifeline, she lifted her billowy white skirt and began climbing, step by creaky step. A mouse ran across her bare feet. Its whiskers tickled her toes.
There was not light at the end of the ascending staircase. The candle's flame was creeping closer and closer to her pale fingers. She had to find another light source before she was plunged into complete, sickening darkness. From deep within the mansion, she heard screams and sobs.
The staircase ended in a barren, circular room on the top floor of the mansion. A picture window, void of curtains or decoration, looked out over the moonlit graveyard. Rain continued to belt against the rood. A candle flickered in the middle of the room. She carefully removed the thin taper from the brass holder, then returned to the window. A damp, chilling wind tugged at the hem of her ice white ball gown.
The weathered shutter banged against the side of the house. Her hair tumbled over her bare shoulders. Her aquamarine eyes glowed. The sun-dyed hair and sky blue eyes were visible through the darkness. White satin slippers were on her feet. Satin gloves stretched from the tips of her fingers to the crook of her elbow.
"You came back." She turned slowly. It was so infrequent she heard him talk. Yet she knew his voice immediately.
"I never left," she returned softly. She did not rush to hold him as she had before. She hung back, suddenly shy. She could see the wall through him. He did not smile, only stared at her. Stared not at her naked shoulders or loose hair or narrow waist, but squarely in her colorful eyes. His clothes had not changed. The tuxedo's brass buttons, which had once gleamed in the moonlight, were now chipped and tarnished. Ashes were caked on his once-dark hair, his thick eyelashes, and his tuxedo. His formerly gleaming copper complexion was swallow and colorless. His skin was white to the point of yellowness.
Stone-faced, he extended his faint hand to her. She expected her flesh to glide right through his, but he surprised her by grasping her hand tightly. She glanced down at their intertwined fingers and thumbs, gasping. She could see her veins.
He led her out the door from which she had emerged. His hand was cool and surprisingly solid. As the darkness grew around them, their skin grew whiter and whiter. She was sure their bodies were glowing.
And suddenly they were in a room full of glowing people. Hundreds of shimmering, opaque dancers spun under a dozen candlelit chandeliers. Everyone and everything was white. There mere idea of color was a fantasy. Even those who had once been black or red were now ivory white. She reached behind herself and lifted one of her curls to her eyes. The formerly yellow locks were powder white.
He led her out into the middle of the ballroom. Apparitions swirled around her, pale, yet lively, imitations of their former selves. Diamonds sparkled, silver glittered, tinsel gleamed. Mirrors lined one whole wall. Her pale lips tried to form his name, tried to ask him questions. How long can I stay? Do I have to go back? Can you go with me? Would you go with me? Her blood boiled in her veins, he skin was like ice. Her gown was of antique lace. His black tuxedo had faded to ivory.
A couple whirled through them. He was staring deep into her white eyes. He released her waist and traced her bloodless lips with his fingertips, touched the tiny, perfect pearl on her earlobe. He raised a hand to the bodice of her dress and began unfastening the tiny buttons. He pushed the modest dress down her body, revealing a more daring gown. Her breasts were shockingly exposed. He lowered his head and kissed the swell of one ivory mound. She moaned, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him closer. She threw her head back, allowing him further access. Finally, his lips traveled up her chest to her shoulder, up her throat, to the curve of her neck. Their lips did not meet.
The room began spinning around her. She nestled her head on his broad chest. It did not rise and fall under her. She no longer felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She felt like she was dancing with smoke, but could feel something solid and cool within her arms. He nuzzled his soft cheek against her hair. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were rock hard.
What colors had those fireworks been? She not lived in a world of silver and while, with no desire to return to color. The room span faster, out of control. She swayed in his arms. He placed both hands on the small of her back, leaning her away from him so he could search her eyes. His face was blurry. The phantoms continued to swirl around them. She couldn't breathe! Her throat began to close.
In one swift motion, he gathered her in his arms, carrying her out of the ballroom. He walked swiftly down a candlelit hallway to a large bedroom. In sharp contrast to the ballroom, everything here was deathly black. His undertaker's suit looked formal, yet suddenly formidable. She began to gasp.
He laid her upon the huge, four-poster bed, then sat down beside her. They did not touch. Her chest. What was wrong with her chest? She raised a fluttering hand to her chest, trying to stop the wild drumming. Sensing her discomfort, he peeled back the black nightgown she now wore. Her chest was pounding. Glancing down, she could literally see her heart pounding under the skin. She began to sweat. He still did not touch her. Then, there was a sharp, tearing pain. She screamed, her eyes rolling in their sockets.
Seconds later, her eyes reopened, white and colorless. He finally touched her.
He throat was clear. "Am I dead?" She asked.
He kissed her fingertips. His big dark eyes ran the length of her body. Suddenly, she realized she was completely naked. Without an ounce of self-consciousness, she let him eat her with his eyes. Then, she reached up and gently tugged at the sleeve of his tuxedo. He met her eyes and began struggling out of the coat. "Let me," she whispered.
She raised her arms, the only part of her body she had the energy to move. He leaned over her. Slowly, she pushed the black jacket off his broad, athletic shoulders. She took pleasure in removing the pristine white short, gasping as each new patch of skin was revealed to her. Finally, she shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and she ran her fingers over his chest. She pulled him closer, and kissed the snowy flesh. He groaned as her lips kissed and sucked each tender spot. He loosened his belt, shed his trousers, and lay beside her atop the covers. The music and laughter from the ballroom wafted into the room.
They didn't sleep that night. Sleep was no part of her world. It had left his years ago. She studied the richly paneled room. There were no windows. An imposing grandfather clock stood in one corner, chiming like thunder at the top of each hour. She felt eyes everywhere. He lay still beside her. A gloved hand materialized from under the bed. She did not want to follow the hand, did not want to leave her lover's side. She touched him. He felt cool and smooth, marble-like. The hand beckoned to her again. This time, she followed.
A shawl covered her shoulders, hoops bounced under her skirts. She was led back to the small, circular room at the top of the stairwell. The armless hand pointed out the window, down to the graveyard. Rain continued to thrash against the mansion. Once again, she could see through the raindrops. A fresh, open grave stood on the edge of the cemetery. Even from this height, she could see her name had been carved into the granite.
The breath rushed from her lungs. Suddenly, she was outside in the storm, standing at the edge of the grave. The tombstone seemed to both welcome and mock her. She walked to the headstone, running her fingertips across the inscription. Yes, that was her birthday. Date of death...today. She looked around the cool, gray world. Everything was so cold, so dark. Had all the colors been buried with her body? What color had those fireworks been?
The hand was no longer with her. She was alone in the rainstorm, yet she wasn't wet. Her hair was fluffy, her bare feet weren't caked with grime and mud. The wind blew, yet her dress hung still and straight. She glanced down at her hand. She could see the ground through the skin.
She turned from the grace, torn between throwing herself into the hole or running in terror. She searched the sky for great explosions of color, strained her eyes for electrical lights and signs of life. Everything was dead. Had she made a mistake? For two years, she had thought of nothing but touching him again, and now...now she was cast in a great supernatural play with no curtain call to signal the ending. She was suddenly deathly cold. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, shuddering. It felt almost like...like someone was standing on her grave.
She had to get back to the house. Had to feel his solid flesh rub against hers, longed to feel something real. The wind was charged with electricity, tiny sparks snapping at her heels. She ran, ran, ran, but couldn't escape the graveyard. He was suddenly beside her. But instead of taking her hand, instead of waltzing her back into the house, he leaned over and kissed the nape of her neck.
And they were instantly back in the ballroom.
The candles flickered, bringing eerie shadows to vivid life. He had the familiar hungry look in his ebony eyes, yet she was frightened. He was walking slowly toward her, arms pinned to his sides, staring at her through haunted and solemn eyes. His jacket, once midnight dark, was gray and hung in rags on his body. His knees cracked when he walked.
This wasn't him! she thought in blind panic. This wasn't the boy she had flirted with two years before, not the man she had held under a canopy of colorful stars, not the date with whom she'd shared a ghostly waltz, nor the lover she had been so brazen with. She screamed his name in a whisper. His hair was turning white before her eyes. She could see the bones in his face and hands. Wrinkles formed around his eyes and mouth. He raised his arms and charged toward her. Stifling a scream, she backed up against the wall. A woman rushed through her and threw herself into the old ghost's arms. She was a familiar looking old woman, very pale with sparkling eyes and long, unruly hair escaping from a braid.
Terror rising in her throat, she fled the ballroom and raced down the hallway to the spacious bedroom. Inside, she found him still lying on the soft down bed. He smiled his special, knowing smile.
"You came back."
He was wearing his undertaker's uniform again. She, to her amazement, was wearing the baggy denim shorts and cloth tennis shoes from decades before. Her hair was tied back in a messy braid.
He rose from the bed, walking slowly toward her. His eyes her averted, but she sensed he was staring straight at her. He reached out for her, lightly grazing his fingertips across her nape. He took a step closer. Her body began to throb. She could not stared into his eyes, his mystical midnight eyes. "You came back."
"I never left." Her accent was back. He words came out thick and honey-coated. Her peach-colored cheeks blazed flaming crimson. He took her hand. Together, they ran down the hallway, descended the steep stairwell, hobbled across the cobblestone walkway. The rain had stopped, yet the night was damp and glittering. They did not speak.
They stopped by the lagoon. Stars lit up the dark sky, ghosts winking down at the world. He pulled her into his arms. He had the exotic looks of a Mediterranean pirate, the smile of a mischievous boy, the personality of teddy bears and cotton candy, and her soul.
She was the one who had turned her back on love. Yet, she had never been able to erase this extraordinary boy from her heart. She had ceased to live he moment he had first touched her two years earlier. She pressed to fingertips to the base of her neck. She felt a strong, steady pulse.
She had to go home tomorrow. The fireworks were over and tired tourists headed for hotels and resorts, bathtubs and midnight snacks. Children slept in their fathers' arms. Cups and popcorn kernels lay crushed along the street. The tiny rooftops winked their goodbyes.
She rested her forehead against his chest one final time, inhaling his special scent. Reluctantly, she pulled away, not daring to look into his dark eyes. They did not touch. She turned to walk away.
He made a sudden, desperate grab for her hand. "You'll come back?"
She sighed. The castle was reflected in the lagoon, the park was quiet. This was where her soul belonged. "I never left," she whispered. And then she was gone.
But that night, their spirits whirled and twirled, happy together, under the candlelit shade of a haunted mansion.