Dead Men Tell No Tales

By Abigail McKenna

“The wax man’s face is melting off!” Another one for the list of weird things that I say with surprising regularity.

“Melting how?” James Prothero asks.

I scowl at him over my shoulder. “How many ways can I mean melting?”

“Are we talking Wicked Witch of the West or Ark of the Covenant?”

“Ark of the Covenant!”

The melting pirate is programmed to rock back and forth and pretend to sing, but instead, the ghost inside is making him lurch forward. He snatches at me, but he’s bolted to the floor. That’s lucky, because as I dance out of his reach, I trip over a barrel and sprawl onto the floor. I’m definitely going to see the fleshy puddle of his face in my nightmares.

James is focused on putting out the fire. The real fire, anyway. There are fake ones still flickering merrily nearby; we are standing in a set designed to resemble a burning Caribbean port. Stuccoed panels of fake buildings are looking distinctly more singed than they did when we arrived, real smoke adding to the ambience.

An echoing moan fills the space—Leave.

Typically, we’d listen and let it be. But we’re not here for the ghost. We’re here for the magical three-foot long reptile that glows orange, has eight legs, and leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Capturing and relocating a salamander is pretty routine for us. Dealing with the ghost? That was a surprise.

“I’m supposed to be on vacation, Samantha. Not chasing salamanders and fighting poltergeists.” James moves closer, pointing a stream of white foam at the pirate. It reels back and stops moving; the poltergeist has released control of it.

“You’re not having fun?” I grin up at James, but he’s scowling again, his glasses sliding down his nose. “What? This isn’t my fault!”

Technically, that’s true. I fully intended to be in proper vacation mode during our Florida trip, but when Pirates of the Caribbean spontaneously combusted while the staff of Cartwright Explorations Ltd. was waiting in the queue, we weren’t just going to stand by.

Normal procedure would say don’t run into a burning building. Adventurer procedure says when the fire has supernatural qualities, you do what you have to.

With another eerie moan, a different pirate lunges at us, the pile of loot in its arms swinging down like a club. Still on the floor, I scuttle backwards.

James twists away and throws up his free hand in surrender. “Stop! We don’t want to fight you!” His linen shirt and khaki shorts still look as put-together as he did when we arrived this morning. I’m confident that I look like a sweaty lobster. Life is so unfair.

The room goes unnervingly still, like the ghost is deciding what to do next. James points a finger at me in a “don’t talk” gesture—which I wasn’t going to do, by the way—and speaks again. “My name is James Prothero, this is my associate, Sam Cartwright.” I wave, and he continues, using the proper terms of paranormal communication. “May I have the honor of knowing to whom I’m speaking?”

Another silence, and then a man’s voice, gruff with a thick Brooklyn accent, comes from the animatronic dog to my right. “Stop setting my ride on fire.”

James and I share a confused glance, then he speaks again. “We’re putting the fire out, not starting it.”

“Really?” The vague, smoky outline of a man in shorts and a t-shirt emerges from the dog and hovers over it.

“There’s a salamander in here.” I scramble to my feet, ignoring the look James sends me. “A magic one, not a normal one. That’s what’s setting the fires.”

“The lizard thing? I was wondering what that was.”

“Yeah. He’s not doing it on purpose, they combust when they get stressed.”

James clears his throat and focuses on the poltergeist, turning on the calm and charming smile he has when he’s not trying to annoy me. “Okay, here’s the thing. Salamanders are thriving in the Everglades right now, and this one probably hitched a ride here with some tourists. We’ll get it out of your hair and take it home. How’s that?”

The smoky outline blinks out for a silent moment, then reappears. “You don’t relocate ghosts too, do you?”

“Not typically.” I shrug. “If you’re not hurting anybody, we won’t bother you. Although I figured ghosts would prefer the Haunted Mansion.”

“That’s a stereotype.” The voice sounds mildly offended.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I’m just messing with you!” The smoky outline drifts forward and his hand passes through my shoulder, the feeling like cold water inside my skin, and it’s so weird that I barely repress a shudder. “It’s crowded over at the Mansion. Here, I get the whole place to myself. Aside from spooking a tourist or two, I’m usually pretty calm. Sorry I tried to murder you.”

“That’s okay. It happens.” I shoot him a thumbs-up.

“More often than I’d prefer,” James grumbles, setting the loose barrel I tripped over upright and filling it with fire extinguisher foam. Salamanders love the stuff, for reasons I don’t understand.

The lizard, now glowing a happier yellow, is perched on the head of the melted pirate, contentedly lapping up the foam there. With a little encouragement from James, it slinks into the barrel.

“Well, that’s settled,” James covers the barrel with a poncho from his backpack. “Nice to meet you, sir. We’ll be on our way.”

“Don’t scare the maintenance team too badly!” I grab my side of the barrel and we drag it between us, a spectral laugh following us as we trudge out of the ride.

My dad—our boss—meets us at the ride entrance, where he’s been calming park officials. Cast members swarm inside to assess the damage.

Dad starts to speak, but James cuts him off with a pointed finger and the faintest hint of a smile. “You Cartwrights owe me an actual Caribbean vacation.”

Dad grins. “Next summer?”

“Deal.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail McKenna has been dreaming about magic since she was small, so now she weaves it into stories that are full of hope and the love of life. She can usually be found rereading an old favorite book, watching a mystery show, or dreaming about how to get her characters out of predicaments she put them in.

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