پایان بندی

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

THE NIGHT WATCHMAN believed it was nonsense, a case of overactive imaginations. For months now, visitors to the Haunted Mansion had reported feeling a strange chill as their ride vehicles—known as “doom buggies”—exited from the graveyard at the end. Even some Cast Members claimed to have felt it.

The night watchman didn’t believe any of it. It was a big building; it got drafty. That was all there was to it.

Fed up with the rumors, the night watchman had finally decided to see for himself. Tonight he had switched rotations with the man who usually checked on the Haunted Mansion. (The man had seemed oddly happy about the switch.)

The night watchman made his way through the building, following the track of the now-still doom buggies. In the glare of the utility lighting he’d seen all manner of supposedly terrifying creatures—ghouls, ghosts, demons, monsters, a murderous bloodstained bride. But the watchman’s coldly analytical eyes saw these things for what they were—clever stagecraft, nothing more.

He was in the graveyard, now, walking past a forest of tombstones, populated by a bizarre menagerie of animatronic spooks. The night watchman felt nothing, other than a sense of smug superiority. He could not for the life of him imagine how any rational person could be so weak-minded and easily influenced as to…

Then he felt it.

He was cold. Not the air around him; he was cold.

And there was something else—a feeling of dread, seeping into him…

Heart pounding, he walked quickly forward though the archway leading out of the graveyard. The building exit was just ahead. The watchman quickened his pace. He was afraid to look back, but he forced himself to. Behind him stood the empty archway. Above it, looking down, wings spread, was an animatronic raven. It did not move; the ride was not operating.

But the raven’s eyes were glowing red.

It’s a reflection, the watchman told himself, as he turned and hurried forward. A trick of the light.

He was almost running as he exited the building into the cool central Florida night. He stood still for a minute, sweating, catching his breath.

Perched on a tree limb high overhead, Peter watched the hurrying watchman.

“He looks scared,” he whispered.

Tink chimed softly. He should be scared.

“You can feel it?”

Yes. It’s stronger.

Peter stared at the Haunted Mansion. Tink nestled into his hair.

We have to go, she chimed. They were flying to Pittsburgh that night, not in a plane. They’d made the trip several times, and found that if they kept moving, they could just beat the sunrise.

“I know,” said Peter. He stood up on the branch. “But we’re going to have to keep an eye on this.”

It’s dangerous.

“Which is why we have to keep an eye on it.”

We could stay on the island and be safe.

“We could,” said Peter, stepping casually off the branch. “But where’s the fun in that?”