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Chapter II

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A mansion. Of all things, his uncle had left him a mansion. What were the odds of that?

Just confirm what he had read, Stanley had carefully looked at the aged paper that come with the letter from Yale. It was, as he had begun to suspect, an aged title deed to the land. And according to its original issue to the owner, it was a revised document. The property had originally been purchased in 1816.

Most, if not all of the others gathered, had a hard time disguising their shock. Especially Martin. He almost toppled from his position on the couch when he'd heard the name of the place Stanley was inheriting. Whatever significance the place held for his cousin, it was lost on him. It was to their credit no one said anything, or even leapt up to rip the deed from his grasp, for that matter. And he held it very carefully too, because he was afraid it would crumble to dust in a matter of moments.

The reading ended well enough, though, even thought the rest of those gathered seemed a little on edge around him. It bothered Stanley. There was a lot to take in, and he was feeling increasingly tired and a little irate. And that darn suit collar was still digging into his neck.

He was quick, then, to say goodbye to everyone and step out onto the front porch. He hadn't realized how hot it had felt inside until he was back out in the marshy air. Wiping a bit of sweat from his brow, he exhaled sharply and adjusted the ever-irritating collar, listening to the chorus of frogs and other nocturnal creatures chirring and thrumming in the night. It was soothing.

Sighing again, Stanley began trudging down toward his car, pausing on the front drive to look back up at the house. There were a lot of muddled thoughts going through his head right now, but they cleared for just a moment as he stood there, just staring back at his great uncle's last residence. The fact that Yale was truly gone was beginning to settle on Stanley. A bunch of memories came flooding back, of when he was younger and not so caught up in his own affairs. He regretted not taking the time get to know the old man a little better, to have visited him at least a few times before he'd passed on. Now it was too late, and he'd been given something huge by someone he hadn't spoken to in years.

Why?

It then struck him how odd his uncle's parting gift him was; not the fact he'd been given an entire estate that was apparently tax-free (he'd read the letter a second time just to be sure he was seeing what he was seeing, and picked that detail up), but the final, little message. It sounded like encouragement, but for what? Maybe he meant dealing with his death, but Stanley hadn't gotten that impression.

Martin had been right, to a degree. Uncle Yale was full of surprises.

Shaking his head, Stanley turned back toward the dark outline of his car. He'd go home and sleep on it, and maybe figure out what to do with his new property in the morning.

"Hey Stan! Wait up!"

Stanley groaned, turning around to see Martin jogging down the driveway toward him. He looked like an enthusiastic little kid, the way he bobbed as he ran.

"Look Martin, I'm not in the mood right now," he said, and was about to turn back to the car when he caught the look on Martin's face. It was sheer awe.

"Stan!" he gasped. "Hold up a sec! Do you realize what a lucky son of a gun you are?"

Stanley, patience wearing thin, bobbed his head in response. "Yeah. I know. You're just bringing up what everyone was thinking back there. I respect your audacity, Martin, but really-"

"It's more than that!" Martin laughed as he clapped both hands on Stanley's shoulders. "I didn't want to say anything in there, but what you have on your hands could be a paranormal goldmine!"

That had caught him a little off guard. "Huh?" He shrugged Martin's hands off.

Martin shook his head. "Seriously, you've never heard of the Gracey mansion? Uncle Yale used to tell me stories about that place, back when-"

Now it was Stanley's turn to grab Martin's shoulders. "Hold on. Hold on….You've heard of the place? Uncle Yale told you about it?"

"Yeah! Why wouldn't I?" The bespectacled man looked mildly surprised. "It's a local hot-spot for those in my line of work! Uncle Yale told us stories about the place, remember? Back when we were kids? He said he used to live there!" Martin stepped back and gave Stanley a quizzical look. "Come on, you gotta remember those!"

The older of the two cousins shook his head. "I can't say I do, Martin," he replied, feeling a little pang of guilt. Why hadn't he tried harder to cherish those memories?

Martin was still unfazed. "Huh. That's weird. Anyway, he told me all sorts of things about that place. He said that while he was there, all sorts of strange stuff happened. Eerie kinda stuff."

Stanley had a sinking feeling. "Are you saying you think this place is haunted?"

In response, Martin grinned hugely. "That's what I'm hoping for. I mean, I've heard Yale's stories about it. And I know some people in the area that have seen some supernatural phenomena around the place, but I've never been to it myself. It's private property, after all. And I never knew Uncle Yale owned the place!"

A silence hung between them.

"Martin, I know that you're hinting at, but it's no good."

Martin's face fell. "Why not? You obviously got this place, and you're not doing anything with it yet. I've been dying (no pun intended) to get a look at the Gracey mansion for ages! Maybe I can find out if the stories are true or not!"

Stanley massaged the bridge of his nose. "They're just stories! Martin, I've been trying to spare your feelings, but you know I don't believe in ghosts! And besides, this is all too new, and I still don't know what I'm doing with the place yet!"

A frog croaked loudly in the distance while the two cousins stared at each other. Stanley was beginning to feel bad about his outburst. But Martin was being illogical. Ghosts simply did not exist.

Finally, Martin took the glasses off of his face and polished them on his shirt, his expression contemplating. "What if," he began, "we made some sort of deal?"

"A deal?" Stanley was tired, slightly irate, and wanted to go home. But he figured he owed Martin a chance to make an offer. Sighing, he folded his arms and leaned back against his car. "I'm listening."

The younger man brightened a little. "Yeah. I imagine you'll want to go and check this place out at some point for yourself, right? Well, here's what I'm thinking: you take me to scope the place with you, and I'll do all the research and provide transportation. You know, dig up some history, find out as much as I can about the mansion."

"I can drive there myself," Stanley countered, gesturing to his Honda.

"Yeah, but it'll save gas, right? And I'll pay for it." Martin smiled.

Stanley felt the corners of his mouth arch a little. "Tempting…And this information you're going to dig up. Will it be feasible?"

Martin puffed out his chest a little. "Sure. As much as I can find. I'll try asking around-"

"Please don't use your 'usual haunts,' OK?"

Martin chuckled. "Fine, Mr. Skeptic. Most of the people I know are history buffs anyway, but I'll expand my sources." He stuck out a hand. "Well cuz, what do you say? Sound fair enough? It'll be like old times, you and I."

Stanley stared at the hand got a moment, thinking. Martin did make a good offer. It would give him a little less to think about, having him as a quasi (if somewhat occult-obsessed) tour guide. And it was a bit of a drive to New Orleans, so it would be easier to carpool. Then maybe he could get an idea what his uncle was thinking, giving him a manor house. Quite a lot to think about, to be sure. But maybe…

He shook Martin's hand. "Sure. It's a deal."

"Great!" Martin exclaimed, returning the shake with vigor. "You won't regret it, Stan! I promise! When do you wanna head down there?"

"Next free weekend I have," Stanley replied, "I'll let you know. Then we can arrange things."

Martin nodded, a huge grin on his face, "Right! Just let me know when!"

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"When" ended up being the following weekend. They were usually free anyway, but there was always the occasional call that came in for work during this time. After checking in with Martin, Stanley had called in a favor and had taken the weekend completely off, leaving one of his fellows on call should anything come up.

There were perks to being a manager, even in the service of state highways.

Stanley spent the week after the funeral deep in thought. He lived alone, so he had lots of time to ponder the mansion. He had read the deed over and over again, along with his uncle's final statement, almost out of habit. The surreal ness of the whole affair had dulled, but he still could not grasp it entirely. Stanley was tempted to do research of his own into the place, but decided against it. Martin was on the task anyway, and he didn't want to obsess over the mansion.

Yet his imagination lingered on the idea, and he found himself dwelling on the details in his mind. What would the place look like? Was it a ramshackle, weather-beaten old relic that would make Martin's ideal haunted house? As far as he knew, the place hadn't been owned and maintained since his great uncle had been a teenager. Sometime, when he slept, he dreamt of the mansion as a ghastly, dilapidated building, with rain beating against the rotting shutters and wind howling through gnarled trees. Always, an eerie light would be glowing from some distant attic window, yet when Stanley would wake, he could never remember the details. The house was always shadowy and insubstantial.

Friday morning rolled around, and right on time, so did Martin. Stanley was just finishing putting his bags by the front door when he heard the sputtering of an engine outside. Peering through his apartment window, he beheld (to his dismay) a worn, rattling VW van parked at the curb, painted in a faded shade of purple and sporting the same grinning gargoyle that Stanley had seen on Martin's cap emblazoned on the passenger side door. Martin was just climbing out, dressed much the same as he was at the funeral, save that he wore a different color shirt (still Hawaiian, but orange this time) and a different pair of shorts (still khaki).

Stanley stepped outside before Martin could knock, hesitating a bit at the door. They had half a state to cover before nightfall, and they were going in a hunk of junk. Just wonderful.

Martin waved to greet him as he stepped out into the clear, warm morning, lugging his bags behind him. "Hey Stan! Ready to go, eh?" Martin called. "Here, let me help you with those."

"Thanks," murmured Stanley, as his cousin jogged up and took his suitcase, then ran and opened the back of the van. All he really had was that and a sports bag with some essentials in it. Stanley liked to think he traveled light.

With as much bright energy as always, Martin whistled a tune as he slid the door to the van open and threw the bags in. Stanley caught a glimpse of the vehicle's inner contents, and marveled again at his cousin's bizarre hobbies.

"Martin."

"Yeah?" He turned back to look at Stanley, and then into the van. "Oh. All that?"

Stanley shook his head, a snort of laughter escaping him. "You're carrying a library around with you?"

Martin grinned. "You could say that. These are the all the books that Uncle Yale left me. I haven't gotten around to storing them yet, so I figured I might as well bring them along for some light reading."

Stanley opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. It might just be easier to go along with Martin's logic for the trip, if they were going to get anywhere. He simply took the time lock up and prepared himself for a long drive. "I call shotgun," he said.

As he climbed in the front passenger seat, he also noted how old the interior of the van was. The dashboard and half of the gauges were covered in a grimy layer of dust, and it smelled vaguely musty inside. Stanley sat down carefully, hearing a rusty groan as the seat shifted a little. He had a slight feeling of dread by this point, at least hygiene-wise.

The van shuddered as Martin slammed the side door, and as he moved around to climb in the drivers seat, Stanley turned his head to peer into the mountain of books piled in the back of the vehicle. A lot of the books seemed fairly old and many with an encyclopedic note. From what he could see, most of the titles were dealing with the supernatural. Just beyond the haphazard pile was a large metal ice chest, with several objects stacked on top. They looked like complicated and ancient photo equipment.

"Martin," he asked, his curiosity piqued, as Martin climbed into the drivers seat. "What's with all that stuff back there? You do photography along with your articles?"

Martin shook his head. "Not really. No, that's the stuff I take with me when I'm on a haunted site. Mostly odds and ends, you know. Ghost-detecting gear. I've got all sorts of things, mystical and scientific, for tracking down spooks." He smiled proudly as he turned the key and the van revved. "I call it the Apparition Apparatus Kit. Catchy title, huh?"

Stanley, despite himself, could not hide a smirk at the downright silliness. "Martin," he said, patting the driver on the shoulder, "you never told me you drove the Mystery Machine."

Martin laughed as the engine sputtered to life and they pulled away from the curb.