Chapter VI

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"I still don't see what you're so annoyed about," said Martin. "I mean, all I asked was if Zoe could come along."

Stanley said nothing in response, instead fixedly staring ahead at the rain-soaked windshield. The van lurched and rattled down the muddy road, with only its headlights piercing the darkness. Occasionally the windshield wipers would swipe past, groaning pitiably against the glass.

Martin cast his cousin a glance, but immediately turned his attention back to the road. "We didn't have to go back tonight either. I mean, I didn't expect the rain."

"Maybe we should have checked the weather forecast on our stolen television," said Stanley, not without a touch of acid.

A little hurt by this, Martin snorted. "Why are you blaming me for that? I have no idea how the thing got there!" He made a turn to the right as the van bounced into the swampy ruins of Sedgewick Park. "And I know you wouldn't have taken it. It wasn't a very good TV either."

Stanley sighed. They had taken the TV back to motel and apologized – several times – for the mishap. It was embarrassing. By the time that had cleared up, it was already getting on toward evening, and Stanley insisted they go back to mansion as soon as possible. However, as they set out, storm clouds loomed in the sky, coal-gray and ominous, making for an early darkness. The first drops of rain had begun as they turned onto the forlorn stretch of road that led to Sedgewick Park.

"Martin, look," said Stanley at last, "I don't know what happened either, but the last couple days have been trying on my nerves, and I'd rather avoid as many complications as I can. That's why I wanted it to be just the two of us poking around."

"You calling Zoe a complication?" retorted Martin.

Stanley chuckled. "I'd just rather not have to deal with her and her, uh, enthusiasm at the moment. She can come and be a ghost freak once we've checked the place better."

Martin rarely looked really agitated, but his face was beginning to cave into it. "You're talking to a so-called 'ghost freak,' you realize."

A brief flash in the sky lit the landscape for a moment, revealing the muddy road, the ancient trees draped with Spanish Moss, and the moldering remains of the park's man-made elements. A distant thunderclap followed as once more the view was plunged into darkness. For a moment, Stanley looked up at the rearview mirror, but quickly averted his eyes, as if afraid he might see if his "imaginary friends" were behind him again.

Truth be told, he was mulling a lot of things over in his head, many of which he did not want to tell Martin. Part of his reasoning for not bringing Zoe with them was that he was beginning to suspect that something was up, and somehow both his cousin and the Goth were in on it. They both knew a lot more about the area than he did, and he had allowed Martin to cover everything by himself. He wasn't denying the possibility that this all might be an elaborate prank that his cousin had set up to try and shake the skeptic out of him. That was the only rational thing he could attribute to what was happening, so naturally his mind was starting to latch onto the idea, and he was becoming increasingly distrustful of Martin.

The van slowed, than stopped, the headlights washing over the brick-and-iron fence that surrounded the property. With the engines off, the patter of the rain on the vehicle's roof became much more pronounced. Thunder rumbled again, this time much closer.

"Well," said Martin, suddenly his usual chipper self, "here we go again. You might want to grab an umbrella or something." He clambered around his seat and into the back of the van, where he dodged a few piles of books and made for the metal ice chest. "I finally get to bust out the AA Kit!"

They were both surprised, upon stepping out into the downpour, that the front gates were unlocked. "Maybe the caretaker was expecting us again?" asked Stanley.

"Or he never locked up after us," added Martin. Both of them peered through the gate at the mansion. If it looked gloomy and mysterious in the moonlight and fog, it looked downright frightening in the rain. As if on cue, a bolt of lightning arced through the tumultuous skies behind the house, throwing the building into sharp relief for a moment.

The rain began beating down much harder, and both men covered their heads and dashed up the drive until they reach the manor's covered porch. Now in a relatively dry place, Stanley noted that Martin was wearing a weathered backpack that had antenna poking out of it. He was taking advantage of the shelter to fish a headset and microphone out of his pack. Catching Stanley confused expression, he grinned.

"Part of my Apparition Apparatus Kit. I can record live radio feed through this baby, and it picks up infrasound as well, so I can conduct conversations."

Stanley just shrugged, lost. On any normal occasion, he might have jokingly asked if Martin interviewed any famously dead folk. But this was anything but normal, and it was making Stanley sick. For his own sake, though, he tried to shove his negative thoughts behind him. The situation they were in was amazingly cliché, after all: two lone travelers, about to take shelter in a haunted mansion on a dark and stormy night. Really, what could go wrong?

With that in mind, he tried the front door, and finding it unlocked (as they had left it), pushed it open and peered into the dark foyer. It was as gloomy and ancient as the night prior, save that there was a faint scent of mildew in the air. Probably to do with the rain, he thought.

Martin followed him inside, where the pair paused for a moment in the shadows. Stanley kept brushing aside cobwebs as he listened. The rain pattered relentlessly outside, and there was another far-off rumbling in the heavens. He could also hear a quiet whirring noise – Martin's backpack, doing whatever-it-was that it did. Martin was turning in a slow circle, his microphone held out to the room as if expecting some phantom member of a studio audience to appear and talk to him.

"It's not much," he said quietly, but I'm picking up something. Definitely something. Possibly a lot of somethings…Nothing's coming through very clear, though. I think we might want to go further into the house."

Stanley's gaze fell upon the double doors leading to the octagonal room, thankfully closed. Even just standing on the other side, he felt uneasy. There was just something wrong about it, that room.

It might have just been the storm outside, but Stanley thought he heard the distant, somber notes of…what? A pipe organ? "You've got to be kidding," he said aloud.

"What?" Martin responded.

Stanley shrugged, turning away from the doors. "Nothing. Can we possibly avoid that room tonight?"

Martin looked past Stanley and nodded. "Yeah. Sure." He turned to the set of double doors on the foyer's left wall. "Nothing in there but a dead end anyway." He stopped long enough to fish a couple of flashlights from his backpack and, handing one to Stanley, pushed the doors open. The ancient wood creaked as they swung slowly inward.

Lightning flashed beyond, revealing briefly the outline of a long and dusty hallway. Windows with moth-eaten curtains lined one wall, rain beating against the glass on the other side. On the opposite wall hung a series of paintings and portraits. Cobweb-draped chandeliers seemed to loom overhead.

Martin was the first in, his flashlight sweeping over the faded hall-length rug and the dark wood wainscoting. Stanley slowly, carefully, stepped in behind. He did not want to feel like he was walking on eggshells, but he was slightly leery he might trigger something. He felt like he was being set up, and his unease was beginning to take a step back in place of some agitation.

"Far out," Martin whispered, gazing at the paintings. Straightening, he reached back and adjusted something near the antenna on his backpack. Then he spoke into the mic. "Testing…Testing…Good. That's good…Hi, ghost fans! This is your on-the-spot reporter, currently tip-toeing through the halls of the eerie Gracey Mansion in New Orleans! This is a rare opportunity for you listeners of Ghoulish Ghosts and Graveyards, since this is the first time a documented paranormal investigation – and with luck, interview – has been conducted within these haunted walls!"

Stanley sighed and attempted to distract himself by taking a closer look at the portraits. These were top-quality oil paintings depicting various scenes. He followed each of them down the hall. The first was an exotic, Cleopatra-like woman sprawled lazily across a low sofa, an alluring smile on her face. Next was a dramatic scene of a knight on horseback, his steed rearing and the knight's sword held to the sky. The third painting gave Stanley pause – a portrait of a young man in a period suit, with wavy brown hair and inquisitive blue eyes. One might say he was strikingly handsome. At least that was what Stanley thought when he saw the painted figure.

"I couldn't have done any of this," Martin was saying, "without the help of my favorite cousin, Stanley Vine." A microphone was suddenly pushed into Stanley's face. "Care to say a few words, cuz?"

Stanley snorted and pushed the mic away. Martin gave him a hurt look, then immediately returned to his running commentary. "Anyhow, folks, with any luck more evidence of ghostly activity will come to light as we delve deeper into the mansion. Already my trusty Apparition Apparatus has picked up minor signs of a supernatural presence. Keep your fingers crossed, ghost-fans, and stay tuned!" That said, Martin flicked the switch near his antenna again and began shuffling down the hall with his mic held in front of him like divining rod. Small clouds of dust kicked up from his feet and danced in the beam of Stanley's flashlight.

Rolling his eyes, Stanley looked back at the painting as another flash of lightning outside lit the hall.

A bug-eyed skeleton in a rotting suit stared at him from the frame.

Stanley felt his heart shoot into his throat as he stumbled backward, nearly falling over. Unconsciously, as if he needed an excuse to avert his eyes, he turned his head toward Martin as more lightning threw outlines of the curtained windows across the floor. His cousin was at the end of that hall, investigating a pair of stern-faced marble busts set into wall alcoves. Blinking, Stanley looked back at the painting, hands shaking.

A handsome gentleman in a suit smiled; his blue eyes poignant in the gloom.

This was getting ridiculous. Stanley rubbed his eyes and looked again: there was no change to the portrait. It was a trick of the light. The atmosphere playing on his mind. Stanley gritted his teeth and glared defiantly at the portrait, as if daring it to prove him wrong. It did nothing of the sort.

This was all some elaborate joke. It had to be.

"Martin!" Stanley stalked past the remaining two paintings (a clipper ship under full sail in one; a woman in ancient Greek attire in the other) and marched to the end of the hall, where the busts seemed to glower at him. The hall curved to the right past the busts, and Stanley rounded the corner as thunder rumbled behind him. "Martin, that's it. We're going back to the van and- Oof!"

He had practically walked into Martin's back, and both of the cousins did an awkward stumbling dance to keep from falling. "Sorry," they both said in unison. Then, before Stanley could go back to making demands, he saw what Martin saw and lost his train of thought.

The hall seemed to have ended in some cavernous space, perhaps a sort of grand hall…Stanley couldn't tell. They could not see the any far walls or the ceiling overhead – the beams of their flashlights seemed to simply carry on into the dark as if they were pointing their lights into an empty night sky. The illumination did reveal several stanchions set into the carpeted floor, topped with candelabras; not too far into the gloom, grand staircases – one on the left and one on the right - leading up and away into the shadows. The bottom of each stair was flanked by carved wooden griffons, holding the end of the banisters stoically on their folded wings.

"Stan," Martin whispered in awe, as if afraid to disturb the dismal air of the room, "can you believe this?"

Stanley took a couple experimental steps forward, slowly pointing his flashlight around. "No way," he muttered. "This room is too big. I mean, this is a big place and all, but…" He trailed off. Here was something else that defied logic.

And he was getting really tired of it.

Martin, half-smirk in place, walked across the room until he stood in the area roughly between the two staircases. He pointed his light up one set, then the other. "I can't see where these go," he said. His voice somehow carried perfectly across the room. "Which one should we go up first?"

"Neither," replied Stanley, now looking up into the inky darkness where, as he pointed his light up, there should be a ceiling. Ornate lamps seemed to hang, suspended, in the space above; unlit and covered with the dusty handiwork of arachnids. He shuddered. "I want to go now. This has gone on long enough."

Martin scratched at his head under his headphones. "What do you mean?"

Before Stanley could answer, his flashlight died.

"Cripes!" he yelped, despite himself. The room was now plunged into complete black, and he shook his flashlight desperately. Something touched his shoulder, and he almost yelped again until he realized it was just one of the tall candelabras. Feeling closed in, even in the seemingly massive room, he hastily dug into his jacket pocket.

"Mine's done the same thing," he heard Martin say, though he did not sound near as upset by the sudden encroaching darkness. The whirring of Martin's AA kit seemed very loud very suddenly, and he heard Martin breath in sharply.

"Picking up a lot of activity," he stated. "It's getting a lot clearer. I…"

Stanley tried to shut Martin out as, feeling some small tinge of relief, his hand closed over a packet of matches. He had anticipated something like this might happen, just in case of emergency, and had picked these up in the motel lobby earlier that day. He was very pleased with his foresight, and quickly struck a match. The small, bright glow gave him enough of a view to, in turn, attempt to light the ancient wicks on the candelabra besides him. A few tense moments passes, but the wick caught just before the little flame had burned the match down to Stanley's fingers.

"Holy cow." He could hear Martin fumbling in the dark. "It's getting way stronger! I'm starting to hear…"

The room was suddenly lit by candlelight as, without warning, all the candelabras in the room lit themselves. The lamps above flickered to life. The dusty darkness was broken, if only a little, by dozens of tiny, flickering flames.

Before Stanley even had a chance to react to such spookiness, he was caught off guard when an ominous sound reverberated through the air. It was a sound that made his hair stand on end and his skin prickle with goosebumps.

The sound resolved itself into a deep, disembodied voice.

And the voice said, "Welcome."

Martin cried out. Stanley, who could see him now in the candle glow, has pulled his head phones off his head and let them hang from his neck, hands rubbing his ears gingerly. His eyes behind his glasses were wide and shocked, and he looked up toward the ceiling that neither of them could see. Stanley was on the verge of bolting from the room, but something stopped him.

"Well, come in," said the voice, almost drolly.

It was Martin who spoke first. "Um…" He gulped, but seemed to regain some measure of composure. At least he wasn't shivering like Stanley suddenly was. "Hello?"

"Welcome, foolish mortals," the voice replied. There was a hint of a chuckle. "Welcome to the mansion."

Stanley's brain was working overtime, and being who he was and what he had conditioned himself to do, he jumped to the first obvious conclusion he could grasp.

"Alright, Martin," he said, clapping politely. "Knock it off. It's not funny."

Martin stared at Stanley, surprised. "What?"

"Hmm?" mused the voice.

"Seriously." Stanley's fear was becoming anger rapidly. "Not funny. You can stop now. Even I wouldn't use a cliché line like 'Welcome, foolish mortals.' Enough with this."

"Cliché?" The voice was amused. It chuckled darkly.

"And you!" Stanley pointed into the shadows, then shook his head and pointed elsewhere. The voice did not seem to come from a particular source. Stanley shrugged. "You, wherever you are. Who are you? One of Martin's paranormal buddies?"

"Stan…" Martin held his hands up, in a vain gesture to try and get his cousin to stop.

"I," boomed the voice, "am your host. Your…Ghost Host." Another dark chortle.

"Right," said Stanley slowly. "Ghost Host. Hilarious." Stanley stamped his foot. "But honestly. This is stupid, and I'm leaving." He began to turn to go.

"Oh, I didn't mean to frighten you prematurely." The "Ghost Host" sounded apologetic, in a way. "The real chills come later. And there's no turning back now."

The candles in the room flickered, and Stanley realized he could not longer see the way back to the hallway. Angrily, he spun around and faced Martin.

Martin was not paying him much attention. He had reached behind him and flicked the switch on his AA. Then he held his mic before him. "Um, hello again, ghost fans! I've just experienced a…A huge surge of paranormal activity. We are in the presence of a spirit calling himself the Ghost Host, and," – he held the mic into the air – "a most gracious host he is, too! Mr. Host, I'm a reporter for Ghoulish Ghosts and Graveyards, the country's leading online radio paranormal investigative experience. Would you mind if I asked a few questions?"

Stanley balked, feeling a small vein pulse in his forehead. Martin didn't give up, did he?

"Perhaps later," replied the disembodied host. "Now, as they say, look alive. We'll continue our little tour."

"A tour!" Martin grinned. "Um…Gosh, that would be great!"

"Very well. A carriage approaches."

From the rightmost staircase, something dark came swooping down, sending the candles sputtering. It was something smooth, round and black, like some monstrous beetle. The thing glided, with a rush of wind, straight toward Martin. The younger man yelled in fright as he was suddenly swept up into the thing, a sort of demonic clamshell. Then the black object had flown up the opposite staircase and out of sight.

"Martin!" Stanley wasn't sure how, but the idea that this was a hoax was swiftly replaced with the idea that he needed to find out what had happened to his cousin. Even if he was being made a fool of, Stanley had to get to the bottom of this.

And, like the Ghost Host had just said, there was no turning back now.

Legs pumping, Stanley ran up the staircase after the opaque "carriage" that had snatched Martin.

---

The first thing Stanley noticed, upon reaching the second floor and starting down another long corridor, was the wallpaper. It had eyes.

Or it looked like it did. Someone had an active imagination, but Stanley wasn't sure if it was whoever put the wallpaper here or himself, brain fired up with haunted happenings. The wallpaper patterns looked like devilish faces, sneering and leering at him. And though the eyes of the little imp-like faces weren't animated, it gave him the horrible feeling that he was constantly under surveillance.

Stanley slowed as he stepped into the corridor proper. This was an old house, and he would have to tread carefully to avoid hazards. Running wouldn't do any good if he injured himself. He decided to move with caution from here on in.

Thankfully, his flashlight had somehow regained some small vestige of life, although it was very weak. It was enough for him to travel the halls without bumping into things.

Somewhere, he thought he heard the groaning of a rusty hinge.

He jumped when a familiar voice said, "When hinges creak in doorless chambers."

Biting his lip, Stanley edged forward, rounding a bend and coming to a sort of hallway intersection. The hall continued forward, but to his right was another corridor. A suit of armor stood at attention against the wall nearby, a silent guardian.

Stanley peered down this hall, lined with doors. It seemed to run on and on into the darkness, offering no end. Halfway down this endless hall, something glittered in the gloom: a candelabra, drifting back and forth in midair.

"When strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls."

A shriek: it started somewhere distant, and then seemed to drift along the hall and rush past Stanley. The suit of armor clanked, and the mailed arm that held a lance shifted. Stanley took a step back, heart pounding. If Martin had gone down this hall, he wasn't going to follow. Quickly, he resumed his normal path.

"Whenever candle lights flicker where the air is deathly still…"

There was nothing subtle about what was going on, and that was why Stanley was becoming increasingly convinced that, when he reached the end of this, he would find Martin waiting for him with a satisfied smirk on his scruffy face. Good one, eh cuz? He could imagine Martin laughing, and Zoe coming out from some hiding place and joining in. We really got you good, didn't we?

Steeled by these thoughts, Stanley marched ahead, flashlight steady. When he found Martin, he would be sure to make it perfectly clear what all this meant to him.

There was weak light ahead, and the sound of rain hitting glass. A flash of lightning; Stanley's dying flashlight went over the demon wallpaper and dingy framed photographs that he could not pause to really look at.

"That is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight!"

Another bolt of lightning, and a cacophony of thunder shook the floorboards under Stanley's feet. He emerged from the hall into a dimly-lit conservatory, one wall and part of the ceiling paned glass and rain-slick. Gnarled tree branches tapped on the glass as the wind outside buffeted them. Stanley imagined, if it was brighter, he could look out onto the grounds and possibly see the van. But his attention was more focused on the premature funeral that had been set up in here.

Most of the tiled conservatory floor was occupied by a single wooden coffin, surrounded by drooping and dead potted plants and dry funeral wreaths.

"Oh no," Stanley stated, folding his arms. "I'm not going anywhere near that thing."

"Suit yourself," the Ghost Host whispered from close by. "But many a spirit has been dying to meet you."

The flashlight finally lost what little juice it had and went dim. The moment it did, something banged loudly on the closed coffin lid from the inside. Stanley hopped back in alarm, and would have bolted right away if he weren't still assured that this was all fake.

More lightning, more thunder. The coffin groaned, wood straining against wood. Scrabbling and a muffled voice issued from inside, but the specific words were lost.

"This one," said the Ghost Host with a laugh, "can hardly contain himself."

There was a splintering, rending crack as part of the lid gave. The coffin had been nailed shut, and now said nails were bent and twisted near the top of the coffin. Green light rolled like a fog out of the gap, and as the lid raised a little higher, Stanley saw a pair of boney hands gripping the coffin's lid, straining to push it open.

"Lemme outta here!" grunted a feeble voice. "Lemme outta here!"

Fake or not, Stanley did not want to hang around to see who exactly was on the other side of the coffin.

Caution forgotten, he bolted from the room and into yet another shadowy hallway. Stanley's eyes had adjusted a little to the dark, but that did not stop him from colliding with a door as the hallways turned suddenly. He fell to the floor, cringing. He hadn't hurt himself badly, but he imagined that he'd feel the bruises in the morning. Not to mention he was covered in dust and old cobwebs. Coughing, he dusted himself off as he carefully got to his feet.

This hall did have some light, for the ceiling lamps were lit. Here were doors, lots of doors, running the length of the corridor. Stanley guessed this might be a guest wing, or maybe the servants' quarters. Either way, he had run smack dab into a thick, nearly black oak door at the hall's first bend. It was an artistically interesting door, with a carved lion's face set in the middle.

As Stanley rose, he heard another crack and groan from behind him, and felt a rush of fear. Hurriedly, he reached for the doorknob. The door seemed to have other ideas, because it bulged forward unnaturally. A sighing, growling wheeze emanated from behind the door, and it returned to normal. Then it bulged again, emitting the same sound. It was like the door was alive, like it was breathing.

Stanley fled, and as he did, the other doors in the corridor reacted to his presence. Knocking and banging from behind the doors filled the air. As he passed them in a blur, doorknobs rattled and metal knockers clacked and clanged. Moaning, crying, thrashing; whatever was beyond the doors wanted to get out into the corridor badly.

And the Ghost Host was there, his voice filled with vile satisfaction. "Unfortunately, they all seem to have trouble getting through."

The noises were getting louder, the cacophony increasing with each door Stanley ran past. He covered his ears, trying to drown out the frightful sounds. He could not stop, or whatever was in those doors might find him.

But there was hope. He could see, at the end of the corridor, an open doorway. There was no light past it, but it was his only chance. He could run in and shut the door behind him. The pounding, knocking, and growls of things beyond closed doors would be shut out in this dismal hall, where they belonged.

With a burst of adrenaline, he ran through the doorframe, hastily felt a door in the dark, and slammed the door shut. Immediately, the noises ceased.

Stanley sighed with relief, his back against the door. He mopped sweat from his brow and panted. He did not need this. Any of this. Why couldn't Uncle Yale have left him something else? Why did…

"Stan?"

Stanley's nerves nearly shattered when he heard the voice close by. His head snapped up, and he was looking into Martin's concerned face, lit by a candle his cousin held.

"Stanley! Jeeze, I'm glad to see you! I was worried!" Martin looked intensely relieved. "Are you OK? You didn't get picked up by one of those clam-car things, did you?"

Stanley stared blankly at Martin. Then a moment later, he had charged his cousin and, grabbing him by the collar of his Hawaiian shirt, pushed him up against the wall.

"You," growled Stanley, eyes flashing, "have put me through enough! Stop it!"

Martin looked shocked. "What are you…?" He gasped as Stanley gave another hard shove.

"You know damn well!" cried Stanley. "This! All of this was a setup! This is all a horrible conspiracy you set up to freak me out! And the worst part is, its working! I have never questioned my sanity as much as I have in the last few days!" His face was inches away from Martin's. "How long have you had this planned, huh? Did you set this up with your little Goth friend after I got the place?"

"Stan…" Martin pleaded.

"Was Uncle Yale involved? Was he in on this even before he died? What do you people have against me?"

"Stan, please…"

"No! Don't give me anymore of your excuses! You lied to me and put me through this! And I'm not going to be made a fool of by you or anyone-"

Martin decked Stanley in the face. Not very hard, but a good enough right hook to make Stanley let go. The elder cousin stumbled back, clutching his jaw. Martin slumped into a sitting position on the floor, staring at his fist in shock. It took both a minute to regain their respective composures. Silence held for awhile, apart from the ticking of a grandfather clock that stood a little to the left of where Stanley had pinned Martin. The clock, like a lot of the mansion's décor, was strange and eerie. The clock face itself was held in the carved maw of a demon, and the pendulum that swung behind the dusty glass case looked like the demon's forked tongue.

Had they bothered to really study the clock, they would have noticed that it had thirteen hours on its face.

Stanley spoke first. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and he meant it. "I lost control." He felt his jaw, cringed, and smiled weakly. "I needed that."

"You did," replied Martin, not bitterly. "Fear will do that to a person. Believe me, this isn't the first time I've had to punch someone. Just, y'know, not family."

Stanley took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Alright, Martin. You win. You can summon all your friends out of the woodwork and admit you scared me. I was scared. I even believed in all that ghost junk for a second."

Martin quirked an eyebrow. "You still think that? Honestly, dear cousin, I have nothing to do with any of this. Scout's honor."

Stanley felt some of his anger coming back. "You were never a Scout."

Martin picked himself up and dusted himself off. Stanley noticed he wasn't wearing his backpack. "I'm trying to tell you," said Martin, calmly and slowly, "that none of this is my doing. We are in a genuinely, indisputably, one-hundred percent haunted mansion!" He waved his arms to exaggerate the effect. "If I was doing all this to frighten you, I would be a heinous person, and I would hate myself. My passion for the paranormal is based on getting facts, not causing fear."

Stanley grimaced. It had gotten a bit colder in the room, and he patted his arms. "You sure? Because even when we're not here, I've been seeing those three hitchhikers all over the place, and it's scaring the crap out of me. Tell me that isn't a figment of my imagination, huh?"

Martin had an odd expression on his face, something unreadable. "Well, what did these hitchhikers look like?"

"Are you going to act like Freud now?" retorted Stanley. "In this place?"

"I just wanna know, cuz."

Stanley sighed hugely. "Fine, fine. But you have to get this all the make sense to me afterward, alright? I'm still not convinced.

Martin nodded. "I was going to, before you tackled me. Tradeoff."

"Well," Stanley began, "one of 'em's real tall and skinny. He kinda looks like a skeleton, or maybe one of those Peruvian mummies or something. He's got these sunken-in eyes, but they're really big somehow. And he grins a lot. Oh. And he wears a bowler hat."

"Uh huh," said Martin.

"Then there's one that's kinda overweight, and he's got this wide face that gets real big when he smiles. He's got this big top hat and he carries around a carpetbag."

"Uh huh."

"Yeah. And then there's the third one, the little shaggy dwarf with the ball and chain…Oh, this is stupid, Martin!" Stanley stamped his foot. "Why do you want know? So you can admit that that was your doing as well?"

Martin shook his head. He was smiling. "No. 'Cause I want to prove to you ghosts exist."

"We've gone over this before," said Stanley evenly. "And not matter how much hexing, hoaxing and psychological stuff you pull on me, it doesn't change the fact that ghosts don't exist!"

"Oh?" replied Martin. "Try telling that to your three friends behind you."

Stanley almost scoffed. He almost said, "Nice try, but I'm not turning around." But at that moment, he saw his dingy reflection in the glass of the grandfather clock, and there was a spectral green-blue glow behind him. And so he turned.

And came face to face with three hitchhiking ghosts.

---

Hoo boy! Took me long enough to post this. My original intention was to have this up and posted by August 9th (the day the Disneyland Mansion opened its doors 40 years ago), but the website seemed to be having problems and such that day. So...blah. Even so, here it is! I will try to be more prompt with the next chapter!

Thanks again to my readers for their feedback! I'm pleased that you thought I did Zoe well, AW. ^^ I'll try to have the next chapter done by September, but we'll see how that goes with my college scheduale.